Shock lights her freckled features. Did she expect to wear it?
Lawrence pops his head in. “Bird’s waiting.”
I point at her. “Go. Figure it out with Lawrence.” I point at Lawrence. “The costume bit?” I draw a finger across my neck.
“Come on, then,” Lawrence says.
She gives me a bewildered look and scurries out after Lawrence, shutting the door softly behind her.
I grab my coat and head out the other way, getting Brandon on the phone as I take the stairs to the roof two at a time.
“What the hell is this emotional intelligence training? Are you aware of this so-called training program they’ve concocted for me?” I bark.
“Um…” I hear keys clicking in the background. “An associate from Bexley Partners was stipulated. You had the ten o’clock intro session today. Everything okay? I mean, as okay as it can be, considering…”
“Considering that they’re wasting my time in the most outrageous way they could dream up? Somebody’s screwing around here, because I don’t know what that training was…”
“Was it not emotional intelligence training?” he asks. “It seems like a pretty flexible descriptor but…”
“I can’t imagine what just happened is what anybody would have in mind.”
“Really,” he says. “The agreement was fairly ironclad, but it did stipulate emotional intelligence training, and if we can prove that the training doesn’t rise to that level, then maybe there’s wiggle room to get a different executive coach. We can’t get you out of it, but if you’re feeling a personality issue and we can maybe make them send somebody else—”
“Wait! No, no, I was just curious.” I stop at the door. I can hear my chopper on the other side. “Did Corman’s people suggest this firm?”
“I don’t know. I can find out. Do you want me to look into lodging a complaint?”
“No, no, wait.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. What am I doing? Why did I call him? “Don’t do anything. Better the devil you know.”
“Depends on the devil,” he says.
6
Noelle
* * *
I follow Lawrence up to the desk, heart thundering. I’m waiting for him to realize I’m not Stella and throw me out.
But it seems like I get to give him another lesson tomorrow. They all seem to be expecting it. I could actually make him watch more of Jada’s film.
I told my friends that if he watched enough of it, if he got to know the people in the building, maybe he’d have a change of heart. I still believe it—I don’t care what anybody says.
And more than that, I think there is kindness in him; I really do. I thought it from the first moment with us squatting on the floor, that strange moment where the hardness went out of his eyes and he tucked my phone into the correct pocket. Even my roommate, Francine, wouldn’t think to do that.
It was…sweet. The gesture of one person truly seeing another.
“Everything okay?” Lawrence asks, heading around to the other side of the desk.
“Yeah,” I say.
He hits a few keys. “You want your lanyard to say Stella?”
Gulp. A lanyard? With a fake name? That feels…so official. But if there’s a chance I can show him more of the movie tomorrow, I have to take it.
I straighten up. “Have the lanyard say Elle,” I say. “E-L-L-E.” I choose that because it rhymes with Noelle. It seems like it would be easier to answer to. And it feels less like lying.
He holds up his phone. “Smile.”
“What?”
He snaps a picture, takes a look, and laughs. His face softens when he laughs. I like his impish smile. “We better try that again. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I give him a polite smile and he takes a new picture. He seems happy with that one. He’s doing phone things now and bustling around.
“What’s the picture for?” I ask.
“Your lanyard. Security credentials.” He bustles at the other end.
This is absurd—they actually think I’m his coach! Maybe I could do just one more session. Or maybe two. I bite back a smile when I picture the amazement on my friends’ faces when I tell them I not only got into Malcolm’s office, but I made him watch the video. And that I’m doing it again tomorrow. They’ll die.
“How’s the room?” Lawrence asks.
“The room?”
“You didn’t check in yet?”
“Uh, no,” I say.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Six hours it took me to get here this morning,” I hear myself say, echoing Stella’s words.
“Ouch. You leave your bags with security?”
What bags? I make a non-committal sound.
He comes back waving a card in the air. “Gotta let it cool down.” He puts a lanyard on the desk. “Clip those together.” He returns to his screen. “Not that you’ll need ID with the San Fran traveling team, but it’s unlikely we’ll be there the entire four weeks. I’m going, too.” He smiles up at me. I smile back. Something dings and he looks back down. “Hold on a sec.” He types something into his computer and then walks to the other end of the desk area.
San Fran? As in San Francisco?
What am I doing? I can’t go to San Francisco with them.
But then I remember the way Malcolm imitated a bulldozer, pushing things across his desk toward me. Like it was funny to him. And I picture my friends all waiting back at the building, counting on me.
And I imagine how it would feel to stand there across 45th, outside the little Korean market, watching the wrecking ball smash into the side of our beloved home. Watching a bulldozer pile up the rubble. How could I forgive myself, knowing I had the chance to find some humanity in him, to change his mind, and I didn’t take it?
And I do have more vacation days. Lots.
Can I pull it off?
But I already know I’m going to do it. My pulse races. It’s so outrageous.
“So, about tomorrow,” I say.
“We’ll send the car at two,” Lawrence says. “We’ll call when it’s on the way and you can go down to the lobby. And you heard his thing about no more postal costumes.”
“Downstairs?”
“Not this lobby, the Four Seasons? Why would we make you come all the way back here?” He looks up, dubious about me, now. “It’s all in your packet. We take off at around four.”
Then a bad thought strikes me. “Wait, my plane ticket…” The plane ticket would say Stella’s name. No way will they let me on without a driver’s license with a name that matches.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I…brought my license and…the airport.”
“It’s a company jet,” he says. “You don’t need a ticket on a private jet. We know who you are, right?”
“Oh, right,” I say. “Right.”
“Have you even looked at the packet? The itinerary?”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He sighs. “You need to read it. And you need to be out there, ready and on time.” He holds up Stella’s card. “Is this the best number to reach you at?”
“No,” I say. “Let me give you my personal phone.”
He slaps down the card. I cross out Stella’s number and write mine over it and hand it back.
“Don’t be late,” he says.
I assure him that I won’t, and grab the next elevator, punching the lobby button. The elevator stops at the second floor.
Janice gets on.
Gulp.
She nods at me. I nod back. We both turn to look at the closed door in front of us. I wait for her to say something but…nothing.
Apparently the only person in the world who recognizes me in my uniform is Malcolm, for whatever strange reason.
I pull out my phone and look up the nearest Four Seasons. I’m going to have to check in there if I don’t want to raise suspicions. Will they need my driver’s license? I’ve stayed at plenty of road
side motels, but never a hotel.
As luck would have it, there’s a Four Seasons two blocks away. That has to be the place.
My feet take me there. A smiling doorman opens the door for me. I fish out my last few one-dollar bills.
He gives me a confused look.
“Right,” I say. I’m in uniform. He thinks I’m on the job.
The Four Seasons lobby is incredible—luxuriously hushed in contrast to the cacophony outside, and there’s a fountain and posh rugs and chandeliers—a regular palace.
I go up to the desk.
The woman tilts her head. “Our ten o’clock was already here.”
“Oh, no, I’m not here for the mail. I’m Stella Myers.” Inwardly I cringe, hating to outright lie like that, especially when I have the uniform on. I show her the badge and lanyard that Lawrence created for me.
“Oh, you’re in one of the Blackberg suites.” She hands over a packet with two keycards, and runs through the things like complimentary coffee in the lobby from six to ten. She points me toward the elevators.
Minutes later, I’m flopped sideways on the cloud-like bed in my new hotel room. Just beyond is a picture-postcard view of New York.
I roll over and begin to study the packet that the lobby clerk gave to me, but it just tells about the hotel; I’m pretty sure it’s not the packet that Lawrence was talking about.
Obviously I won’t be able to function without that packet, but how am I going to get it? I could try to get in contact with Stella, but I can’t imagine she’d be very happy about what I’m doing. Which maybe means I shouldn’t be doing it?
I grab my phone and call Francine. Francine always knows what to do.
“Galpal!” she squeals. “How did it go? Where are you?”
“Well, Francine, I’m in my room at the Four Seasons,” I say.
“What are you doing at the Four Seasons?”
“Funny story…” I tell her about the case of mistaken identity, and showing Malcolm the video, and tomorrow’s travel plans, which apparently involve me.
“Oh my god, Noelle. What?!”
“I know. What am I even thinking? I can’t fly to San Francisco with these strangers! I mean, what if they call the Bexley office? I need to get out of here.”
“Wait, hold on, let’s think this through. Why would they call the Bexley office?” she asks.
“I don’t know! I’m just a letter carrier. I don’t know the world of executive emotional intelligence coaching.”
“Just don’t do anything yet.” Voices in the background. I can hear Francine talking to somebody. “…thought she was his executive coach and she went with it!” There’s laughter. The story is repeated. “No way! Noelle?” Murmuring voices. Knocking. The story is told again. More surprise.
“Excuuuuuuse?” That would be Jada. I can hear Tabitha’s laughter. And then Lizzie’s.
I stand at the window.
“Look, sit tight,” Francine says. “We’re coming over.”
“I feel like a hunted fugitive already,” I say.
“We’re gonna think it through,” Francine assures me. “Together.”
7
Noelle
* * *
Jada is flopped on my cloud-like bed with Antonio. Her bright blond hair is a perfect contrast to his rich dark curls, and her sparkly boots are on the quilt.
“Don’t mess up the bed,” I say.
“This is your room, you’re supposed to mess up the bed,” Jada says.
Antonio agrees. He swigs water from a plastic bottle.
“Antonio, where did you get that?” I ask. “You didn’t take that off of the dresser, did you?”
“Noelle, those are complimentary,” Lizzie says from the chair by the window. “It’s fine. It would be weird if you didn’t drink water or sit on the bed.”
“I guess,” I say.
“You are so cute.” Francine pushes her red glasses higher on her nose. Her silky black hair is still in her ballerina bun. “You are such a Girl Scout.”
I cringe.
“It’s what I love about you!” she adds.
I snort, feeling my face redden. I lean back against the dresser, wringing my hands. “Seriously, how long can I pull this off? The Bexley people might be figuring it all out right now, as we speak,” I say. “And then they call Blackberg? Or Stella? How will Stella feel about all this? Probably not a hundred percent. Oh my god, what am I doing?”
“Don’t worry, Stella sounds like a serious screwup,” Lizzie says. “Trust me, I’m a boss. It’s hard to get good help. They’re not going to expect her to call right in. And do you think she’ll answer if the office calls? You think Stella wants to talk to the bosses that she hates? Probably not.”
“Probably not,” I echo.
We’re waiting for Willow to arrive. Willow is going to try to hack into Bexley Partners’ intranet and get the packet. Our little caper is moving really fast.
Lizzie comes over and grabs my hands. “Breathe,” she says. “You did so amazing in there. And we would never want you to do something you don’t want to do.”
“I do want to do it,” I say. “I really meant it when I said it—if he saw enough of the footage, it would change his heart. Nobody could watch that and not have a change of heart—I really believe that. And I do have way more than four weeks of vacation time stored up. My boss is on me to take it. I’ll lose it if I don’t use it. I just don’t know…”
My friends stay silent. They would never push me into something that I’m uncomfortable with.
“I really do want to do it,” I repeat. “But the whole plane ride and everything—I honestly don’t think I’m capable of pulling this off. I feel like any one of you all could do better. Or Mia or Tabitha—one of those two could totally pull it off.”
“Don’t even.” Francine says. “Seriously? Dude! Yesterday none of us could even get in talk to him. We’d all given up. And what did you do? You went and maneuvered yourself into a position to force Malcolm Blackberg to watch twenty freaking hours of us talking about our building.” Francine jabs a finger at me. “You did that—not one of us, you. You see yourself as such a shrinking violet, always following the rules and never taking too much, but deep down, you’re a fighter. You just don’t know it.”
“Twenty hours. I barely pulled off twenty freaking minutes. I felt like they were going to figure me out at any moment. I’m a terrible liar. And he already thinks the training we did is bizarre.” It’s not just that. It’s him, too—the overwhelming handsomeness of him, his scathingly sexy accent, his gaze, hard and sparkling at the same time, suffused with intelligence.
“It sounds like he thinks it’s part of a plot to punish him,” Lizzie says, her glossy light brown hair shining in the afternoon light.
“Well, true,” I say.
“So he’s made a story for himself about why the training makes sense,” Lizzie says. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“They throw me in jail?” I say.
“Doubtful,” Lizzie says. “They’d kick you out and we’d buy you a plane ticket home. Don’t forget, I worked in PR—trust me: nobody wants that news story. Think of it—a girl trying to save her home gets mistaken for the corporate coach and goes with it. And they fall for it? They would look like total idiots. Imagine if you last a few days—they would be a laughingstock, and it would bring negative publicity to their project. No guarantees, but I don’t see you pressing license plates in Leavenworth. And worst case, if they did bring charges, who would convict you? You’re alone in the world. You found this family. Trying to save your building.”
“Agree,” Jada says.
“You’re probably right,” I say. “But I could lose my post office job—there’s that. We are held to a certain code. I can’t go around on my off hours being scammy.”
Everybody’s silent. They know how much I love my job with the USPS.
But then I’m thinking, for the umpteenth time, about how I backed off of the fight
with my mom’s insurance company too easily. I so regret not fighting to the end. And this is my family now—these neighbors of mine at 341 West 45th are the most important part of my life, though I might not ever confess that out loud to them. Because, pathetic much?
“However,” I continue, holding up one lone finger in the air, “you know my favorite motto—through rain or sleet or snow...”
Lizzie claps.
Francine rubs my shoulders like I’m a prizefighter. “You got this.”
Antonio pumps his fist in the air. “Forza!” he says.
I turn to Jada. “How many hours of that damn footage do you have? And don’t forget, you have to edit me out.”
“Will do!” she squeaks.
Lizzie gets a text. “Willow’s here. Willow to the rescue!” She grabs a key card and heads out to get her. Willow Drummond is the sister of Lizzie’s famous chemist husband, Theo Drummond, aka Lizzie’s sister-in-law. Willow runs her own technology firm.
A few moments later, Willow is setting up on the beautiful cherrywood desk in my room. Her thick, dark hair is in a fun bob, and her T-shirt says “I paused my game to be here,” which is probably true. She’s given us all jobs; I’m plugging in cords, Antonio is adjusting her mobile hotspot, and Francine is opening one of the water bottles.
“No spilling,” I say.
Francine rolls her eyes.
Willow sits, and suddenly her fingers are going like lightning over her keyboard as she tries to hack into Bexley Partners.
“Oh my god, I can barely watch,” I say
“Nobody’ll know,” Willow says. “Sheesh, they have the ultimate small-potatoes system.” She lectures us on using shitty passwords while she does her thing. Every now and then she goes, “Puh-lease,” and then, “You can’t make it just a little harder for people like me? You wanna get hacked? Yes, yes, little droogies, I think you wanna get hacked.”
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