Mrs. Thomas nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear about your breakup, Jessica. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she ground out. “I’m sure you’re happy. You never liked him anyway.”
Gasping, Mrs. Thomas leaned back in her seat. “Jessica, I’m not sure where you got that impression. I love Christopher like one of my own. And obviously I feel that way and more about you.” Her posture and voice softened as she continued. “Do you really think I’d be happy to hear you broke up with your childhood sweetheart?” She shook her head slowly. “Of course not, Jessica. Of course not. I’m sure you’re going through a lot right now. Oh gosh, I can only imagine.”
Genuine sadness knocked on the door, and Jessica’s temptation to answer it hadn’t been stronger in days. Maybe that was all this was. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t a big deal and she was blowing it out of proportion to avoid thinking about Chris. After all, Mrs. Thomas didn’t seem concerned.
No, that was weird. Why wasn’t Mrs. Thomas concerned? “And did you hear the other stuff I just said? The guys you sent me almost brought down my business. No offense, Mrs. Thomas, but what the hell?”
Jessica had expected the question to rattle her teacher, to put her on the defensive, but the woman’s expression gave no indication of remorse or self-doubt. She brought her coffee cup to her mouth and blew on the steaming contents. “I’m curious, how did they manage to cause so much damage for so long without you, their supervisor, knowing?”
The answer came to Jessica in a flash and stung her like only an accusation one knows to be true can. “I trusted them to do their jobs.”
“And did you check in on them along the way?” Mrs. Thomas asked. “Or did you hire new people, train them, and then hope they did everything correctly right off?”
“You said they were good. I trusted your opinion.”
“They are good, Jessica. But they’re not perfect. And sometimes people who are good for a long time stop being good. Or sometimes they think they’re doing things correctly, but they’re not. That’s why it’s the job of the boss to have regular check-ins and oversee the work. Dwayne left the freezer open. It’s unfortunate, of course, but I’m sure you’ve made mistakes equal to that. I know I have. And Kumal exercised poor taste in his website design. How much guidance did you give him on what you were looking for? If he didn’t have much to go on, or you only explained it to him once, it’s not his fault he missed the mark. You know men are traditionally poor communicators.”
Jessica felt like a thick rubber band was stretched around her chest. “And Sampson just mixed up the credit union’s account number with his personal bank account number?” she said, petulantly.
Mrs. Thomas frowned. “Of course not. The man stole from you! I don’t deny it. He was always honest when he worked for my husband, but people can change at any time. Who knows what could have been going on in his personal life to make him justify such a thing? And if you weren’t checking in with him, building a rapport, you can’t even begin to guess. There could have been warning signs you missed. Perhaps his child needed a kidney transplant he couldn’t afford.”
“Or maybe he’s just a crook,” Jessica said.
“Oh, I doubt it’s that simple. It almost never is. And like I said, he never stole from my husband, and he worked for him for years.” She ventured a small sip then took a longer one. “Being a boss isn’t simple, Jessica. Trust me, I know. It’s tempting to hand off responsibility to others and never check in, but that’s not how to become a successful boss. You must stay involved, if for no other reason than to avoid things like this happening. Sure, checking in might not have prevented Sampson from stealing or Kumal from building an inappropriate website, but it would have stemmed the damage much sooner, and your business might not have taken quite the hit it has.”
Jessica’s insides felt like lead. “You’re saying it’s my fault?”
“If you want to put it in such unpleasant and oversimplified terms, yes, you do bear a large portion of the responsibility for the situation in which you now find yourself. And trust me, it’s not easy for me to be this honest with you. I would rather tell you what you want to hear and comfort you, and if you were younger, I might do just that. But you’re an adult now and a business owner, and I’m a major investor in that business. My responsibility to you has changed.
“You’ve said you want to be financially independent, and I want that too. Not that I don’t enjoy investing in a business that I believe in, but I have other things I could spend my money on as retirement fast approaches. However, I don’t see any other way around it.” She sighed and grabbed her purse where it hung on the back of the chair, and pulled out her wallet. “How much do you need to get out of this fresh hell?”
“What?”
Mrs. Thomas pulled out her checkbook and placed it flat on the table, licking a fingertip before flipping to the next blank check. “How much do I need to make this out for?”
“What? No! I don’t want to take more money from you.”
“I don’t think you have a choice, Jessica. Not unless you want to downgrade to a food truck again.”
Were those her only two options? Take more money from Mrs. Thomas or downgrade to another food truck? That couldn’t be right.
Find a third path.
“I have another opportunity I’m looking into right now,” she lied. “So thanks, but no.”
The expression flashed across Mrs. Thomas’s face in a blink, and no sooner had Jessica glimpsed the contempt than she doubted she’d seen anything at all. “Good, good,” said Mrs. Thomas, tucking her checkbook and wallet back into her purse. “Like I said, I have other things I could spend my money on. But the offer still stands if that opportunity falls through.” She smiled and stood. “Could I get a to-go cup?”
“Yeah, of course.” Jessica jumped up and did as Mrs. Thomas asked, and once the woman had left with little more than a forced smile, Jessica felt the rubber band around her chest snap. She inhaled deeply and had to brace herself on a nearby chair as her head spun and her vision blurred.
What had just happened? She replayed the conversation in her head from the start, or as much of it as she could remember. Was Mrs. Thomas angry with her now? Was it really her fault that everything had gone so poorly with the new hires? That part made more sense than she liked to admit. Maybe it was her fault. Things usually were.
Naiveté strikes again, you idiot. Why couldn’t she just instinctively know how to do things? She should have read a freaking book about managing people. Instead, she’d just assumed she knew the basics. Why would she know the basics?
It’s not like you had any extra time to read while you were getting the business started.
No, stop making excuses. I could have taken the bus to work and read on the way. I could have spent five minutes less in the shower every day and used that time to read a book. I was just lazy and stupid, that’s all.
The refill camper finally stood from his table, and the movement caught her eye. He mumbled something in a weak, airy voice that could have just as easily been “I’ll see you” as “I’ll eat you” and almost crashed into the glass door when his watery eyes stayed on Jessica a moment too long. The second the door shut behind him, Jessica hurried after, turned the deadbolt, and flipped the sign.
She’d screwed up everything. This was her fault. All of it.
But that didn’t fix the problem at hand, which was that she needed money, and fast, and if she wouldn’t take a loan from Mrs. Thomas or a financial gift from anyone else, the only way she could do that was by generating more business.
YOU KNOW HOW TO DO THAT.
For fuck’s sake. You’re right. I do.
IT WON’T BE EASY, BUT IT COULD BE FUN.
So says you. You’re not the one that has to do it.
THAT’S WHAT I MEANT. FUN FOR ME. TO WATCH.
Is there another way?
WE HAVE ALREADY COVERED THIS. THERE ARE ALWAYS OTHER WAYS.
Let me rephrase. Are there any other legal ways?
OH, NO. THERE IS NO OTHER LEGAL WAY THAT WILL DELIVER THE OUTCOME YOU DESIRE.
Do I still have that get-out-of-jail-free card?
YES, BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO USE IT YET.
Jessica leaned against the door, staring at the landscape of her labor. “Okay,” she said, “I guess it’s time to go full-on celebrity.”
Chapter Sixteen
While Jessica hadn’t held incredibly high hopes for the focus group, she had expected it to be slightly less mind-numbing. The nature of the event lent itself to boredom, but it was mostly the company that put Jessica on the verge of standing from her chair, walking out the door, across the hall, and into her condo, where she would proceed to scream into a pillow until she fell asleep.
The main issue was that Jesus’s idea of who society’s most heartless were needed some serious updating.
“Thanks so much, Gretchen,” Jesus said, waving to the last of the bank tellers as they filed out of Jeremy Archer’s condo, which was decorated exactly how one might expect it to be: not at all. The furniture they’d sat on during the feedback session was a well-worn hodgepodge that left Jessica wondering if Jeremy had simply robbed a Goodwill. The walls were bare except a few black cords sticking out from behind his mounted 60” flatscreen—the only sign in the entire place indicating that Jeremy had some money and wasn’t simply an illegal squatter.
Jessica followed behind the last of the money changers, and Jesus caught her arm, stopping her from leaving just yet.
“What do you think?” he asked, grinning.
“You already know what I think. You’ve been asking me about it for the last hour and a half.”
“True. You think the slogan will work?”
Jessica hesitated for a moment, then said, “No. I don’t think ‘Keep Austin Friendly to the Homeless’ is going to catch on.”
He sighed. “I won’t rub it in your face when you’re wrong.”
“Oh thanks, Jesus.”
He beamed warmly. “You’re welcome, sister.”
“Why are you working so hard at this anyway? Is it just boredom? I know you’re you and all, but you already gave this a shot two-thousand years ago, and it clearly didn’t work. And now you’re trying it in an age when the world finds Hobo Wars videos too dull for their taste? Not to discourage you, but why in the hell do you bother?” She was hoping his reason might apply to relevant things in her own life.
Jesus nodded along. “I’m here to help you accomplish your mission, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“While helping the homeless is admirable, I don’t see how it helps me with the bakery.”
Jesus wrinkled his nose uncomfortably. “You still think your mission is the bakery.” He sucked in air sharply as if he’d pricked his finger on a thorn. “Wow. That’s … We’ve talked about this multiple times. Your mission is to bring peace to the United States.”
“Hard pass on that.”
“Not an option.”
“Of course it’s an option. I can do whatever I want. It’s called free will. Maybe Dad fucked up when he gave us that, but add that to the list of things he fucked up. Has he ever told you about Australia?”
Jesus nodded. “Many times. And of course you have the option to ignore your destiny. Everyone has that option. I don’t mean it’s not an option literally. You seem to think you aren’t part of the country you live in, which I could understand if you lived in, say, the Middle East where it’s common for people to disagree on what country they’re presently in. But there’s no doubt you’re in the United States. You also seem to be under the impression that if something terrible happens in this country, you’ll be exempt from it and can therefore ignore it. We can all only hope to be so privileged as to ignore the unpleasantness happening around us, but that is only possible until the unpleasantness knocks on your door. Then it will be you looking around at the unaffected, wondering when they’ll come to your aid.
“To answer your question, I’m here to help you, but, as usual, I’ve been provided very little useful information on how I’m supposed to do that, and without any formative years spent in this strange new world to shape my understanding of how things work, you could say I’m floundering a bit. So, I’m focusing on what I could tell was a blind spot of yours. And it happened to coincide with the little bit of experience I’ve had in the modern age. I’ve been on the inside reaching out for help. Now, but for the grace of Dad, I’ve made it out, and I don’t plan on forgetting what it was like before. I’m covering for you where your empathy fails, and I have faith that it will bear fruit when the time comes for you to make your stand.”
“Make my stand?”
“Yes.”
That seemed like a bold assertion, especially considering Jessica was anti-stands, with the exception of her firm position against taking a stand. “How do you even know that day will come? Can you see the future?”
“No, but everyone must take a stand sometime, and I’ve learned enough about you to know that day will come. And, assuming no one tries to crucify me before then—that’s not still a thing, right?” Jessica shook her head. “Good. Assuming no one tries to crucify me, I’ll be standing behind you.”
“Just you and your Salvation Army of hobos. How comforting.”
“You must remember why you’re here, Jessica. If the bakery brings you joy, then you should continue it, but instead of using it as a means to gain wealth, use it as a platform to spread your message.”
“First off, I don’t have a message. Also, and I don’t think this has changed much in the last couple millennia, wealth is a platform to spread whatever you want—charity, propaganda, small pox—so don’t knock it.”
Jesus sighed and glared up at the ceiling. “I am trying to explain it in simple terms!”
Jessica’s eyes darted upward, and once she was sure there wasn’t a security camera there, which was not out of the realm of possibility, she glared accusingly at her half-brother. “Is our father feeding you these lines?”
“No,” Jesus said guiltily.
“But he is speaking with you privately.”
Jesus mumbled, “More like speaking at me.”
“God, I know you aren’t busy in Asia and can hear me,” she announced. “If you want me to bring peace to the US or whatever, you’re welcome to drop me a hint at any time as to how in the hell to start.”
She waited, hoping for a response, but none came.
Not to her, at least.
Jesus said, “He says he’ll give you a hint.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he says … that doesn’t make sense, Father. Fine, fine.” He cringed apologetically as he said, “He says the hint is: your mother.”
“Ooh …” She clenched her fists and tapped into her shallow well of restraint to keep from punching the messenger. “I finally ask for his help and he responds with a poorly executed yo mama joke? For shit’s sake!”
“Yeah,” Jesus said. “Sorry. He says he’s feeling sassy today.”
“That’s never a good sign.”
Jesus’s eyes went wide and he shook his head stiffly, like a hostage trying to convey an intricate message without detection from his captor.
A few minutes later, once Jessica was back in her condo, had tossed her key and bag onto the coffee table and poured herself a glass of water from the refrigerator filter, wishing she could afford beer, she thought back to what Jesus had said. She should probably listen to him. After all, he was Jesus, right? He … had done some stuff.
Man, I should probably read up on it.
Chris had once derided Jesus for losing his swagger, which implied, of course, that Jesus once had real swagger. What had happened to him?
Scratch that. She knew what had happened to him. He’d been betrayed, whipped, nailed to a cross, and dried in the sun. Then the poor guy wasn’t even allowed to stay dead. Yeah, that would take the swagger out of anyone, she supposed.
; Did she share the same fate as her brother? Dr. Bell had done a good job of snapping her out of it when it came to her fear of an early death, so the anxious thoughts regarding that were infrequent at most, but all this talk of “taking a stand” was dredging it back up. Putting herself out there seemed like asking to be crucified if such an indirect request existed. Sure, the odds of anyone seriously doing it were slim, but figuratively, it was incredibly possible. She saw modern crucifixions on a daily basis and had been subjected to mild forms of it herself, thanks to Eugene Thornton. Nowadays, the torture could drag out for much longer than three days and the perpetrators were much crueler because they didn’t kill the victim. All the shame, none of the relief.
Would she be risking the same outcome when she stepped into the spotlight, playing on her celebrity to increase the revenue for the bakery?
The fear crept in, but for once, with the bakery and so much more on the line, the risk of hiding was greater than that of stepping forward.
Chapter Seventeen
Jessica knew the night out was intended as an opportunity for her to relax, stop thinking about work, and enjoy a meal that wasn’t ninety percent carbohydrates.
But just because the opportunity was dangling in front of her didn’t mean she had the first clue how to seize it.
The carbohydrate part was easy; she was the heaviest she’d ever been from constant stress-eating before, during, and after work—she’d even caught herself sleep-eating a stale oatmeal raisin cookie in her kitchen a few nights back, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she brought one of those home. Although she’d be the first to admit the new weight left her well shy of what anyone would consider overweight. The problem, of course, was that the weight didn’t go where she wanted it to. It went to her middle and her upper arms, not her butt and boobs, and accentuated her high waist, leaving her resembling her mother much more than she felt comfortable with.
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