The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “Yeah, but that’s not all. Hi, Tammi,” Stacy said to the older woman moving toward them. Dylan and Stacy had gone to this salon since high school, back when Stacy had thought that sparkly acrylic claws were the height of nail fashion. The trend had never caught on.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look so adult in your work clothes,” Tammi said, giving Dylan’s shoulders a squeeze. Despite being about half Dylan’s height, Tammi ran the staff at Richie Nails with an iron grip. Not even her husband disobeyed a Tammi order. If she told Dylan to sit in a chair, she did it without question. Even Neale listened to her. “We haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “It’s been forever. I have been swamped with work in Texas.” Not a lie, but Dylan felt guilty all the same. Giving Stacy a hug, Tammi tossed a glance at one of her manicurists, who began filling a basin without batting an eyelash.

  “I said the same thing,” Stacy said, throwing Dylan a reassuring smile. At least Stacy understood that life with Nicolas was demanding and having Jared for a boss was nearly the same as having a second boyfriend. Albeit one she liked a lot less.

  “You girls take your shoes off and go over there. I’ll grab your colors.” Dylan almost protested but stopped herself. Tammi had begun selecting their colors after Stacy made a particularly questionable nail-art choice. At the time, she’d been irate and convinced that the two of them were out to destroy her business reputation. Dylan helped broker a color-selection compromise, which saved Tammi’s reputation and Stacy’s fashion sense. She remained proud of her solution to this day. In many ways, Tammi choosing colors was Dylan’s first corporate-productivity project.

  Setting their shoes aside, they settled into their pedicure chairs with a couple of gossip magazines each, Dylan turned back to Stacy. “You were saying about work?”

  “Oh yeah. So I got a raise. But you know Dr. Marshall teaches dentistry at UW, right?” Dylan hadn’t known that Stacy’s boss taught in the dentistry program, but she nodded anyway. “He suggested I apply for a master’s in dental hygiene. And I think I’m gonna do it.”

  “Look at you. First a raise. Now graduate school.” Dylan bounced in her chair, causing her manicurist to tsk. She put her foot back in the basin with a mumbled apology.

  “I know most people think it’s silly that I even got a bachelor’s degree. But there are some real upsides—”

  “Stace, stop. It isn’t silly at all. It’s awesome.” Dylan sighed. By most people, Stacy meant her family. In high school, she had entered a city college program to complete her associate’s degree at the same time as her high school diploma, then started working right away. There was good money in the Castello family business, and her family didn’t see why she wanted to go to a university if she “only wanted to clean teeth,” as Mrs. Castello put it. Instead, Stacy had put herself through night school, working at Dr. Marshall’s clinic during the day.

  “I’m not getting above myself or anything. It isn’t curing cancer. Although we can help identify it. But you know what I mean.” It was Stacy’s turn to fidget and earn a nasty look from her manicurist, who was steadily trying to remove the stubborn remnants of her bubble-gum-pink polish. “A lot of times, we are people’s first line of care. And Dr. Marshall said that with a master’s, I could teach other hygienists someday.”

  Stacy stopped to catch a breath, and Dylan seized the opportunity to halt her self-sabotage. It felt like physical pain to watch her friend buy into someone else’s vision of her. “Don’t say what you do isn’t important. It is. Think about how many little ones sit down in your chair, afraid, and leave happy and healthy.”

  “You should’ve seen the one I had today. I get a sick joy out of calming those kids down.”

  “Exactly. Which tells me you are on the right path, and I’m exceptionally proud of you. You put yourself through college with this. I didn’t even have a real job in college, unless you count beer consumption. In which case, I was paid very well.” Dylan smiled.

  “Well . . .” Stacy paused, chewing on her words for a moment. “I’m glad you are proud of me, because I wanted to ask you a favor. I need a character reference. It’s a short letter. You can say—”

  “Done. I’d write a novel if it meant you getting into graduate school.”

  “Really? At first I thought I should ask Sandra at work, but then I found out you were in town. And you have known me way longer. It seemed like a sign. Does that sound bananas?”

  “Yes, but I like your brand of bananas,” Dylan said, watching the smile on her friend’s face spread.

  “Okay, girls,” Tammi interrupted and handed a color directly to Stacy’s manicurist without flourish. “Stacy—for you, a new shade of pink. Something softer than your usual, but I think you’ll like it.”

  Pushing up one sleeve, she shook out her semiblonde extensions and fixed a hard look on Dylan before producing an electric-yellow bottle. “You work too much. Learn to have a little fun.”

  “Oh no, Tammi. I haven’t changed that much.” Dylan twisted the corners of her mouth southward but tried to keep her tone light. Technocore was in the business of running over business owners, not her.

  “You need to be bolder too.” Tammi turned to the technician and added, “Give her a smile,” then walked away without another word.

  Dylan grimaced. In Tammi’s kingdom, there was no dissent. And this is why God invented nail polish remover, she thought.

  Dylan was in the habit of checking her email before she got out of bed. This was a ritual for her and Nicolas, and half the time it left one or both of them in a foul mood. Listening to the sound of Milo running in his sleep, she briefly entertained the notion of giving up the phone ritual. It wasn’t like Nicolas was here to see her brush her teeth before touching base with the company. A small sense of dread filled her stomach as she rolled toward the edge of the bed to grab her phone from the side table, where its alarm was cracking out a generic, upbeat “wake-up” tune.

  A flurry of emails from Jared requesting time to “dialogue” greeted her. But still no email from Tim announcing next steps to the staff. It had been a week, and given Jared’s I’m-in-charge-so-get-back-to-me-ASAP voice mail, Dylan wasn’t sure she could wait much longer for Tim to act if she wanted to stay employed. By the time she finished putting on her eyeliner, her nerves were so on edge she skipped breakfast to get to the office quickly, hoping to put an end to the tension building in her neck and shoulders.

  The drive over was torture. If she hadn’t spotted Tim’s Tesla parked in the very first stall, Dylan thought she would have been relieved to see her temporary office. Sliding into her desk chair, she noticed the blinking red light on her phone, indicating that Jared had left at least two voice mails. She picked up the phone, sucking in a deep breath and her stomach at the same time, as if the act alone would keep the sinking feeling from kicking in.

  “Hey, Dylan?” Brandt’s voice accompanied a timid knock on the door.

  “Hi, Brandt. What can I do for you?” she chirped, overjoyed to have her ill-fated phone call interrupted.

  “It’s just . . . um . . . I think Tim tried to make some of your changes . . .”

  “That’s great.”

  “Well . . . maybe. Do you want to see?” Brandt started fidgeting in a way that made Dylan think he was one uncomfortable question away from biting his nails.

  “All right. Lead the way.”

  Brandt’s face twitched into what was supposed to be a smile but looked painfully like a grimace. She saw why as soon as she entered the break room. A Costco flat of off-brand diet pop sat on one of the countertops with a tabloid-size sheet of paper taped to it. Inching closer, Dylan reread the words she was actively trying to pray away.

  It has come to my attention that you all would be happier if you had quick access to caffeine. Have a pop on me!

  Benevolent Leader (Tim)

  In bright-red pen, someone had scratched out the ben in benevolent and turned it into malevolent. Another person had scribble
d, Where’s the coffee cart? And These aren’t even cold! Right next to several other people who’d shared similar, less politely phrased sentiments.

  “Malevolent is a little dramatic.” Throwing a sidelong glance at Brandt hovering in the kitchen doorway, Dylan snatched the paper from the top of the flat and tucked it under her arm.

  “I don’t get it. We said bring the coffee cart back to a central space.” Brandt whispered his concern, even though anyone within hearing distance was likely to agree.

  “I’m going to guess he thought this was an acceptable substitute until he could figure out how to get a cart for every floor,” Dylan lied, rotating her hand in a big circular motion, as if the action would somehow make the lie more probable. The look behind Brandt’s glasses suggested he was not buying it any more than she was. “Are these on every floor?”

  Dylan knew the answer before Brandt nodded.

  “Hell,” she said, doing her best to keep her curse words to a moderate volume. “Brandt, I need a favor. Can you take these signs out of the kitchens?”

  “No problem.”

  “Don’t throw them out. Shred them, or someone will fish it out of the recycling and keep being snarky.”

  “Got it.” Brandt stuffed his hands into the pockets of his fleece and took off.

  “And, Brandt,” Dylan called into the hallway, forcing him to draw up short, “if there is space, would you please put these in the fridge?”

  Brandt nodded and sped toward the cubicle jungle. There were two staff kitchens per floor. Dylan was lucky most people got in late. A half hour more, and this would have been a bad-office meme in twenty seconds flat.

  Shaking her hair over her shoulder, she trotted back to her office. As she reached for a sticky note to remind herself to show Tim how people felt about his handiwork, the red light on her phone caught her eye.

  “Seriously, man. Hold your horses.” Dylan slouched. Sighing heavily, she accepted that her morning was quickly moving from unpleasant to downright bad. Skipping all three of Jared’s voice mails, Dylan picked up the phone and allowed herself one more eye roll before dialing the number she wished she didn’t have memorized.

  “Dylan. I left you a series of messages. Did you get them?”

  Dylan rested her elbow on her desk, drawing in a deep breath. “I did. Seattle has a hands-free law, so I couldn’t call you back in the car.”

  “That is awful.”

  “Well, there is some truth to—”

  “Anyway, I’m following up on my voice mail from last week. You do understand that you are not to move into the next phase of the project without clearance from me. Especially when the work product from that phase will be seen by Technocore’s board or Kaplan’s leadership. Am I clear?”

  Dylan managed to smother the urge to point out that she’d said as much in each of her emails to him this week and that nearly every phase of her job was intended to produce something someone important would see. If Technocore improved its performance, then people would know about it with or without her saying a word. That was literally the whole point of her being here. But she’d been to this particular Jared rodeo before. It was useless to point out the logic holes in his statement. Better for her to do whatever the phone equivalent of smile and nod was. In this case, she said, “Crystal clear.”

  “Good. Then I have something else I want to cover with you. I have a phone meeting with the upper-level guys today, and they are going to want an update on Technocore. Have you made any progress at all? Should I be concerned?”

  Dylan gritted her teeth and sat up. “As I mentioned in my daily report, time on Tim’s calendar is difficult to come by; however—”

  “You need to manage up with him. You can’t expect him to be onboard with the changes because he hired Kaplan.”

  Dylan had a hard time hearing Jared’s words over the sound of her molars grinding. Managing up had to be one of the worst phrases in the world. Any consultant worth their salt should have banished it from their vocabulary years ago. It was patronizing to the person receiving the advice and made the manager who supposedly needed guidance sound clueless. Which wasn’t totally off in Tim’s case, but still.

  Tuning back in, she caught the last bit of Jared’s rant. “Tim doesn’t know what is going on.”

  “It is interesting you say that; before we got on the subject of managing up, I was going to mention some of the steps he has taken at my suggestion.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It was difficult to get time on his calendar but well worth the wait. He . . .” Dylan’s eyes ran roughshod around her office, looking for a lifeline to throw herself. Landing on the tabloid-size note on her desk, she shrugged. “He is delivering thoughtful handwritten notes to key employees, along with beverages.” Using her shoulder to hug the phone to her ear, Dylan reached up to massage her temples. She prayed the “thoughtful handwritten notes” hadn’t made their way to the internet yet. Otherwise, Charlie would be in her office with a cardboard box for her things in the next five minutes.

  “Good step in the right direction. What’s your timeline for the other changes?”

  “We are still working on that. I’m trying to take it in manageable chunks with Tim.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you need a concrete timeline. Empower yourself.”

  “I feel pretty empowered working with Tim to get things done on Technocore’s timeline.” The silence on the other end felt like a long-distance stare-down with Jared. She imagined his face turning the same shade as his favorite salmon-colored sweater.

  “Good.” Jared’s tone suggested her response was anything but good. Dylan decided to go for the W, as Nicolas would call it.

  “I think a good source of information for your meeting would be my daily progress reports. Feel free to ask me any questions as you read through them.”

  Dylan used this long pause to begin mentally identifying her savings accounts and their balances in case she needed them at five o’clock.

  “Could you forward them to me so I don’t have to search my inbox?”

  “Of course.” Dylan hoped he could hear the screw you in her client-is-always-right smile. “Since I have you here, I wanted to check and see when you might arrive in Seattle. We are almost three weeks into the project, and since I need your approval to move forward, I just thought some sense of your timeline might be helpful.”

  Jared coughed into the phone. “We’ll have to connect on that another time. Right now, I need to head to the conference room for the partners meeting.”

  “No problem.” Dylan didn’t bother to point out that earlier he’d said that he needed the information for a call. No need to push the issue with him. “Good luck with your meeting.”

  She waited for the call to be disconnected before slumping back into her chair and throwing her elbow over her eyes to think through her options. She didn’t want to get fired from Kaplan. Usually, she liked her job, and consulting was a small world. She would have a hard time getting hired somewhere else.

  She could quit. The thought made Dylan queasy. She had worked hard to stay on the junior-partner track. The idea that someone who thought empower yourself was an acceptable phrase could destroy her career was too much. She didn’t want to start over somewhere new.

  A rumble in her stomach made Dylan aware that the nausea-and-headache combo she felt might not be entirely Jared induced. Slowly standing up, she decided to grab a store-brand diet pop for caffeine’s sake and pulled an emergency granola bar from her desk drawer. The cubicle jungle was starting to come alive as she reached the staff kitchen and plucked an only slightly cold pop from the shelf. Dylan waited until she was on the damp patio before allowing herself the satisfying hiss-click of a freshly opened can of not-Coke. Crunching into her granola bar, she attempted to button her coat with the free fingers of her granola bar hand.

  Finally accepting that her buttons were not a priority, she polished off the rest of the granola bar in four big bites and began plan
ning Nicolas’s visit. Stacy might have been wrong about his picky eating, but she was right about his absence. It was a little weird. His visit would be a good chance for him to get to know her less obvious past. Dylan secretly suspected that most people thought she made up stories about her childhood. But she wasn’t that lucky. Or creative.

  After taking a final sip, Dylan dropped her empty can into the recycling bin and decided she was ready to think about Technocore again. She reached for the cold metal door handle in time to startle Deep, who was pushing on the other side.

  “God, girl. Do you enjoy scaring me?” Deep said, clutching her collarbone and walking backward into the office.

  “Maybe a little. What’s up?”

  “Just thought I’d get some air.” Catching the look on Dylan’s face, Deep added, “Fine. After I saw the picture, I thought you’d need moral support.”

  “What picture?”

  “You haven’t seen it yet?” Deep said, her eyes shifting around the office, as if willing someone else to come by and show Dylan “the picture.” “You were out there so long I thought—”

  “Deep, show me the picture.”

  “I hate doing this. I thought I was going to bring comfort, not be the grim reaper of consulting photos,” she said, her neon-orange nails tapping lightly on her phone screen. As she waited, Dylan wondered how Deep could pull off that color when she herself could barely wear sparkly yellow on her toes. Then Deep handed her the phone.

  “Oh.”

  It was all Dylan could manage while staring at a photo of the knockoff pops with Tim’s gracious note. The caption read: A love note to my office from our CEO. Presented without comment. Which would have been true, except for the delightful hashtags #TechnoTool and #GunderpantsStrikesAgain. The person had been thoughtful enough to tag the location of the photo, in case any of the 173 people who had already liked it were unclear on where this individual worked.

  “Guess Brandt wasn’t fast enough to get all of the notes,” Dylan said, blowing air past her bottom lip. Looking back down at the photo, she paused, incredulous. “You liked this?”