“Everybody freeze!”
“Don’t shoot!” I push to the front of the group. “I’m Mr. Kristoff’s daughter. We all work here, but accidentally got locked in.”
Trish steps up next to me. “I’m Mr. Mantoni’s daughter. He’s the one who brought us down here to work in the file room. Go ahead and check with him, but let us out of here first.”
The guard steps closer and sweeps her flashlight over us. She must decide we’re harmless, because her next words are what we’ve been waiting for.
“All right. Grab your stuff and let’s go upstairs.”
In the blink of an eye, we grab cell phones and all the Pixy Stix, for some reason, and rush up the stairs. We emerge into the main lobby, blinking like newborn kittens.
Mr. Mantoni joins us, summoned by the security guard. He looks even more stressed than usual. He apologizes to us for “the incident.” He didn’t realize he’d locked the door behind him, and he assumed we’d all left at five o’clock, in spite of his threats. He said he was preoccupied by a “pressing issue” and didn’t think to come check on us.
Everyone laughs and chatters like we just came off a roller coaster. Everything’s back to normal, yet everything has shifted. I step away from the group and pretend to read a text as I compose myself. I breathe in and out, counting to twenty to calm my nerves. I glance up at the laughing group and wonder what my place is with them.
Or if I even have a place.
Fifteen
The weekend passes like I’m trapped in a jar of molasses, or caught in a dream where I’m trying to outrun someone, but can’t find my footing. The person I’m trying to outrun is myself.
This morning at church we listened to the story of Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus, how he fell to the ground as a blinding light surrounded him and he heard the voice of God. As corny as it sounds, I feel like something similar happened during my time in the basement with the interns. I didn’t hear the voice of God, but the experience changed how I perceive everyone, including myself.
Now, standing at the sink washing the breakfast dishes, I’m weighed down with the responsibility of casting not one but two votes for the scholarship. I’ve no idea how to choose since I want everyone to win. Also, I’m certain that my ridiculous “true confession” made me sound whiny and privileged, both of which are true. I doubt anyone will even talk to me tomorrow.
On top of all that, last night I checked Carlos’s Facebook page—because I’m an idiot, obviously—and struck gold. He was tagged in a new photo by Rose Rubio, his sister, I realized by checking her page. It’s a fantastic shot taken at a park. Carlos holds a soccer ball in the crook of his arm, wearing a soccer uniform like the other guys in the photo. But on him, the uniform makes him look like the real deal, like one of those unbelievably fast and athletic guys on the European teams my dad watches every summer during the World Cup.
“Carlos does it again,” his sister Rose said in the post. “Goooallll!!”
As perfect as the photo was, it also packed a sucker punch because although he held a soccer ball in one arm, his other arm was draped over the shoulders of a pretty girl who smiled up at him like she knew him very, very well.
I’d closed my browser and vowed to never check his page again.
“Want me to dry?” Dad asks, sidling up to the counter.
Surprised by his offer, I give him a grateful smile and hand over a towel. Usually he holes up in his home office on Sunday afternoons. He’s been solicitous this weekend, asking me how I’m doing at least half a dozen times. He apologized profusely for the basement incident and promised to talk to the interns about it tomorrow.
“Why are you washing dishes instead of just loading the dishwasher?” he asks as he dries the omelet pan.
“It’s a Zen thing. Helps me process stuff.” All of my friends hate dish duty, but I love it. Weird, I know.
“Wax on, wax off,” he jokes, and I flick soapy water at him. His old movie references are never-ending.
Mom enters the kitchen, laden with a stack of handmade clothes. She’s participating in a fashion show in Fort Collins this afternoon, focused on trendy and organic items, made from hemp and other organic fibers. Wealthy granola women love my mom’s line of clothes. Dad sets down the pan and hurries to take them from her. I flash on Carlos, how he’s always the guy holding the door open or helping people jumpstart their car.
“Good luck, Mom,” I say. “Break a leg. Sell a bunch of stuff.”
Mom hugs me from behind since my hands are occupied. She tugs one of my curls like I’m five. “You and your dad stay out of trouble today, okay?”
“We’ll try.” When I was young that phrase was our cue to watch movies and eat junk food together, but we haven’t done that in ages.
Through the kitchen window, I watch my parents after Dad loads up his SUV with Mom’s garment bags and plastic tubs. Dad pulls Mom into a hug and she beams up at him like, I don’t know, it’s their first date or something. It’s sort of weird. And sort of adorable. When he bends down to kiss her, I turn away because it feels like I’m spying. And I refuse to do that, even on people I love. Especially them.
Also, since when did Vader turn up the PDA? Has he always been this way and I’ve been oblivious, like I was with the interns and their struggles? Like I was with Emergent, which I always assumed was a corporate monster, crushing people like an elephant? How much of my resentment is built on false assumptions, or cluelessness?
After Mom drives away, Dad resumes his drying job. “Yoda I am, dry dishes I will.”
“Dad, please. Give it up.” I laugh, which is a relief because I’m desperate to shake myself out of my funk. “How was the game on Friday? Did the Rockies win?” I don’t follow baseball, much to my dad’s disappointment.
“Eight to three. I took some of the staff with me to thank them for putting in so many extra hours lately.”
“Oh yeah? Who’d you take?”
“The social media crew. Brian had a great time. He’s as obsessed with baseball as I am.
“Brian’s cool.”
Dad nods. “Great guy.” He side-eyes me. “But way too old for you.”
Heat floods my body. “Dad! God. Of course he is. Don’t be gross.”
He grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I just…worry about you.”
“Then maybe I should work somewhere else. Away from tempting older men.” I waggle my eyebrows and he snaps the dishtowel at me. I’m only half kidding. Part of me wants to quit so I don’t have to face the interns again.
“You’re working where I can keep tabs on you. It’s bad enough I have to worry about your sister living on her own and meeting God knows who.”
“Apparently she had a date with Thor and it went well.”
“What?” Confusion clouds Dad’s eyes.
“Chris Hemsworth. She says he looks awesome without his shirt.”
Dad looks ready to freak, so I squeeze his arm with a soapy hand. “Kidding, Vader. Take a chill pill.”
“You girls are going to send me to an early grave.” He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Dad. Don’t even joke about that.” A rush of affection for him washes over me and I blurt out an idea. “The Force Awakens?”
He rubs his chin like this is a difficult decision. “Maybe. Do I get popcorn with M&M’s?”
“Ewok’s honor.” I hold up three fingers. “Last one to the TV is a rotten tauntaun.”
And for the next couple of hours, it’s just me and my dad basking in the glow of our shared dorky obsession, gorging on junk food, not worrying about what tomorrow will bring.
Sixteen
On Monday morning, I hang out in Ms. Romero’s office until the last possible second, then rush upstairs, entering the sky box at exactly eight-thirty. Everyone glances up at my entrance, but to my surprise, no one shoots me eye daggers. They smile. All of them, even Trish. A thin layer of my anxiety slips away.
“Good thing you got here befor
e my dad,” she jokes when I sit down. “Rule number two.”
Everyone laughs, and my shoulders relax. Maybe I was right about everything shifting Friday night. I guess sharing hard truths can create unexpected bonds between people.
Movement in the doorway grabs our attention. It’s Dad and Mr. Mantoni, both wearing solemn expressions. Mr. Mantoni carries a stack of folders.
“Good morning,” says my dad. “Let’s everyone move to the table so we can chat.”
We do as he says, though I hang back, waiting for everyone else to sit. I’m not the only one. Carlos joins me.
“How was your weekend?” His voice is low and quiet, for my ears only.
“Fine.” I bite my lip and stare out the windows to the mountains. What if I look at him and he reads my thoughts and discovers I spied on his Facebook page? And that I can’t stop fantasizing about kissing him.
Dad glances at us. “Come on over, you two.” His gaze narrows slightly, tracking Carlos’s progress. I hope he’s not morphing into protect-my-daughter-from-all-males mode.
I take a seat and Carlos sits next to me. Unnerved, I grab a stray paper clip from the table and twist it into an unrecognizable shape.
“What did that paper clip ever do to you?” Carlos whispers. I hear the laughter in his voice, but I still refuse to make eye contact.
Fortunately, my dad starts the meeting, leading with an apology like he promised.
“First, I want to apologize for what happened Friday night. It’s inexcusable and won’t happen again. We’re having an alarm put in that will ring upstairs if anyone ever gets trapped down there again.”
Mr. Mantoni reddens, from embarrassment or frustration, I can’t tell which. I sneak a glance at Trish, who watches them intently, arms folded across her chest.
“However, you made good headway on the files, according to what Ms. Romero tells me, so thanks for that.” Dad grins. “And apparently I’m not the only one who likes Pixy Stix.”
Everyone laughs, and I wonder how many empty sugar straws we left behind.
“So.” Dad leans back in his chair and loosens his tie slightly. “Time for your individual assignments.” He glances at the Manicotti, who nods and picks up the top folder from his stack.
Mr. Mantoni’s gaze settles on Ashley. “As you requested, Ms. Goodsen, you’ve been assigned to work on the art gallery project.”
Ashley’s face lights up as Mr. Mantoni tells her the name of the staff person who will mentor her. I’m thrilled for her, especially since I know it’s her dream to work in the art world, in spite of her mom’s lack of encouragement.
The Manicotti slides the next folder to Elijah. “You’re working with a couple of our finance team members who are setting up funding for two minority-owned businesses, as you requested. They’re up here, too, so you have a short commute.” He tilts his head toward the far corner of the office and grins like this is hilarious.
Elijah nods, eyes shining. “This is perfect. Thank you.”
I grin at him across the table, and he shoots me a thumbs-up.
Mr. Mantoni turns his attention to Carlos, who sits up straighter. “Carlos, you’re working with the local restaurant chain, as you requested. They’re looking to expand regionally and you’ll be in on the early planning stages this summer.”
I finally sneak a peek at Carlos in time to see a dimple flash. I wonder if he wanted that project so he could help Encantado expand. I’d bet my summer paycheck he did. I love that he’s using his internship to help his family.
Mr. Mantoni slides a folder toward Jason. “Jason, we were able to place you on the Cal Stockwell project. You may even have a chance to meet him. But no sampling the wares.” Mr. Mantoni wags a warning finger in Jason’s direction.
Jason lights up at the mention of the recently-retired basketball player and his new venture, a microbrewery called Stockwell Suds. Maybe working with another jock will help him realize football isn’t his only career choice. I Googled CTE over the weekend and was shocked at the stats.
Mr. Mantoni rubs a hand over his shiny head as he focuses on his daughter. “Patricia. We’ve assigned you to assist with some pro bono fundraising work we’re doing for a couple of nonprofits.”
When he slides her folder over, I see apprehension in his eyes as he waits for her response. She doesn’t say anything as she opens the folder and scans the contents. Then she looks up and actually beams at her dad.
“Thanks, Dad. This is awesome.”
Mr. Mantoni looks as relieved as I feel.
Dad stands up. “Good luck, everyone,” he says. “We hope you’re pleased with your assignments and we look forward to your final projects.” Dad gestures to me. “Don’t forget that Laurel’s here to assist you however you need.”
For the first time, I don’t feel embarrassed by my role. Instead, I want to help them—all of them—so that by the end of the summer they each have fantastic projects to present.
Once the dads are gone, the interns chatter excitedly about their projects. Carlos and Jason lean toward each other, voices pitched low, but I don’t sense their usual animosity. Ashley, Trish, and Elijah huddle together, gesturing animatedly.
As I take in the new and improved atmosphere in our corner of the office, I make a decision. Before I can chicken out, I stand up and rush out of the sky box, hoping to catch up to my dad and Mr. Mantoni. I hurry down the stairs, waving as I run past Miss Emmaline, who shakes her head, lips pursed. I’ll wow her with a new joke later.
My dad and the Manicotti have disappeared. I glance in the conference room windows as I head for my dad’s office, but the room is empty.
Ms. Romero greets me with a smile when I enter her outer office.
“How are you, hon? Recovered from your experience Friday night?”
“Yeah. It was weird but it all worked out okay.”
She nods and purses her lips. “Well, no one was more surprised than me. I’m so sorry I didn’t know you were all trapped down there.” She spins her chair around and grabs a box from the credenza behind her. “Here.”
I step closer to her desk, recognizing the logo from the gourmet bakery where I purchased Carlos’s donuts.
“These are for you and the interns. They can’t make up for what happened, but it’s something. Take them upstairs with you, okay?”
“Sure, but I need to talk to my dad first. Is he available?
She sets the box on her desk and frowns. “He’s with Mr. Mantoni. I don’t think they’re interruptible.”
“Perfect. I need to talk to both of them. It’s important.” I give her a pleading look.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think—”
I cross the office and knock on my dad’s closed office door. Ms. Romero’s mouth rounds in surprise. I shrug an apology just as my dad yanks open the door, scowling. He stops short when he sees me.
“Laurel? What is it? Is something wrong?”
I peek around him and spot the Manicotti sitting in one of the guest chairs. Excellent.
Gathering my courage, I push past my dad, who stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“This won’t take long,” I say. “But I have to talk to both of you.” I sit down next to Mr. Mantoni, ignoring his glare as I wait for my dad to take his seat.
As I study the cluster of framed family photos hanging on the wall, all of them showcasing our happy family, my stomach lurches. I replay what Jason told us about his dad’s drinking, and Ashley’s mom’s low expectations of her daughter. And Elijah, putting on a brave face in spite of his circumstances.
“What’s going on, Laurel?” Dad sits down and leans his elbows on his desk, bouncing his fingertips against each other.
I clear my throat and straighten my spine. Be Qa’hr, I tell myself.
“After my experience Friday night,” I begin, side-eyeing Mr. Mantoni, “I’ve decided I can’t possibly vote twice on the scholarship.”
“Why not?” Dad asks, fingertips still tapping out a rhythmic pattern. He’s
in Vader mode, eyes narrowed and flinty, but I’m not intimidated. After all, this is the same guy who dried dishes for me yesterday. And fought me for the last M&M’s in our popcorn bowl.
“So Friday night was weird.” I dare to make a judgy face at the Manicotti, who grunts and lowers his bald head. “But it was also very…revealing. I learned a lot about the interns and why they’re here. I bet I know more than if I read their application essays, which you won’t let me do anyway.”
My dad opens his mouth to say something, but I put up my hand.
“They all deserve that scholarship. No way am I picking just one of them.” I can do a Vader death stare, too.
Dad heaves a sigh and leans back in his chair, gripping the armrests. Mr. Mantoni shifts next to me, muttering under his breath.
“You’re the one who wanted to work here,” Dad reminds me.
“I know. And I still do. But I don’t want to judge my friends.” As soon as I say the “f” word, I lose focus. Are we friends? Maybe if I work with them for the rest of the summer, and we don’t have more drama, maybe by then we’ll be friends. Even Trish. Or more than friends, a tiny voice whispers in my mind when I picture Carlos.
I blink, snapping myself back to the present.
“You’re in a position we aren’t,” Dad insists. “You can observe daily behavior and decisions. How they interact with each other, and you.”
My attention pivots to Mr. Mantoni. “What about Trish? Have her do it.”
He shakes his head. “She can’t. She’s interning, too. She’s one of them.”
“But she’s not competing for the money, so she’s not really one of them.”
My dad and the Manicotti share a mysterious look.
“I hate feeling like a spy. Is this what people mean by corporate espionage?”
Mr. Mantoni snorts and my dad chuckles. “Not exactly. Look, kiddo, this scholarship is a big deal. We want the most deserving intern to win.”
Frustrated, I stand up. “That’s the problem. They all deserve it.” Then I spin on my heels and storm out of the office, slamming the door behind me.
Spies, Lies, and Allies Page 18
