Car Pool (16 page)

She’d fallen in lust enough times to tell herself

that what she felt was normal. It was just like when she had fallen for Lois… sure it was. And look where that got you. Anthea let the stab of self-disgust and hurt distract her from the butterflies in her stomach that meant nothing but trouble. Butterflies … no, it was probably just a remnant of last night’s supper. A bit of undigested potato, perhaps.

She glanced over at Shay and it seemed that Shay wouldn’t meet her eyes. Great. Your libido gets out of hand and you’ll be driving to work alone very soon. It was just as well that Shay wouldn’t look at her. Shay’s eyes sparkled like a distant galaxy… Anthea reined her thoughts up sharply. No, the fluttering in her stomach was definitely not butterflies, she told herself again.

When they arrived at the parking lot, Shay hurried toward the shuttle stop without a backward glance. Anthea started to slam her car door then realized Shay had left her lunch bag. She swooped it off the floor board and called after Shay.

Shay looked back, then down at what Anthea was carrying as if she couldn’t believe that Anthea had her lunch. Anthea saw Shay’s shuttle come around the corner, so she ran full tilt toward Shay, hoping Shay would still make it.

Oxygen deprivation made her giddy. “Do you like barbecued steak?” Anthea’s words came out in a gasp as she handed over the brown paper bag.

“Yes. Why?” Shay looked back toward the approaching shuttle.

“I love to barbecue but it’s such a fuss to do it for just one. Would you like to celebrate your first Friday night off? The start of our three-day

weekend? Independence Day and all that? You can see some fireworks from the deck.” It didn’t come out precisely the way she had practiced it in front of the mirror.

“I’d love to,” Shay said. She looked a little startled.

She said yes, Anthea thought. Oh, my God. “What else do you like to eat?”

Shay’s mouth hung open for a split second before she answered in a strange voice, “Just about anything. I have to run now.”

Shay dropped limply into her chair, praying that no one had noticed her slipping in a few minutes late. “I barely made my shuttle,” she gasped to Harold, who was already bent over his keyboard.

“Scott was just here. He left that mess on your desk.”

“Damn.”

“I told him you were in the bathroom.”

“Thank you, sweet prince.”

“Think nothing of it. Thanks to you, I’m in love.” Harold leaned back in his chair and smiled at her.

Shay couldn’t help herself. “So am I,” she said, with chagrin.

“He’s mine,” Harold said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Don’t be disgusting. I wasn’t talking about him.”

“I see. Well, I did wonder.”

“You don’t think she could tell, do you?” That Anthea knew how strongly Shay felt was Shay’s worst fear.

“You were not being very clear,” Harold said. “You just hung on her every word.”

“Oh.”

“You could try being a little more direct, you know.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m her type.”

“Type? Like S/M? Leather?”

“Not everything is about what you do in bed,” Shay said haughtily while parts below her waist called her a liar.

“Why not?” Harold shook his head. “If it doesn’t work there, it’s not going to work anywhere else.”

“If it won’t work anywhere else, what’s the point of it working in bed?”

Harold stared at her. “You women are so strange.” He lowered his voice. “What on earth is wrong with good sex?”

“Nothing, except if the sex is good then it seems like getting married is a logical next step and then you hate each other and break up.”

Harold whispered, with a half smile, “Do you know what the majority of the Sentinel’s women’s ads are for? Therapy. Now I know why.”

“Chauvinist,” she hissed.

Harold smiled angelically. “Why do you think she thinks you’re not her type?”

“She’s rich. She’s white. She’s in the closet. She believes in personal emancipation, obviously, but hasn’t thought about the rest of the world.”

“So teach her.”

“I don’t think a relationship should be based on someone having to change for it to work. And she’s … not someone to play with. I think she’s been hurt a lot.”

“Well, the lady struck me as a survivor. Maybe she has got money and no idea how easy her skin has made life. But you like her so what else matters in the end?”

“Nothing, I guess. We’re having dinner on Friday.”

“She invited you?” Shay nodded. “Well then, there you are.” Harold broke off to answer his phone.

Shay gave herself another moment to savor the fact that she was actually having dinner with Anthea. An official date at Anthea’s dream of a house. Barbecuing on that wonderful deck. Then she opened her eyes and looked at what Scott had left. With a sigh, she picked up the thick stack of papers.

Harold hung up the phone and leaned across the cubicle to whisper in Shay’s ear, “I hope she fucks your brains out.”

Shay gasped and dropped the stack of papers. “Crude, crude and cruder!” Harold just laughed and went back to work.

The papers were a mess, and it had nothing to do with dropping them on the floor. They had been her first draft of the report about the last series of well tests, including the lab data that showed well B-B-146 was approaching the hazardous range for xylene. Her report pointed this out and proposed a schedule of more frequent testing to prepare for remediation, if necessary.

Scott had butchered it. The pages were covered with edits. It would take her all day to transcribe them for the word processors. She sighed, wanting to throw it in the wastebasket. But she was more sure than ever that the lab data was right, so she wasn’t going to let it go and assume that the data had

been a mistake just because the report would be easier to write.

She worked through lunch again, munching her peanut butter and jelly sandwich in near despair. The edits were blatantly attempting to confuse the issues, converting the succinct style she had learned from her father to an obtuse bureaucratic mess that employed double negatives and lots of unclear antecedents. Whole paragraphs were constructed of a single sentence with clause after clause of obfuscation. And then, to top it off, he’d eliminated the entire section she’d written on remediating the xylene area and removed all mention of the latest well sample. It still showed up in the summary table in Appendix F, but that was it. The longer she worked on it, the angrier she became.

She was not going to let the matter drop. She was not going to give it up. And if they fired her she’d take her copy and the results to the Regional Water Quality Board herself. And she’d go to the media and borrow money from Anthea to live. And then she’d sue.

She took a break, and when she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror she smiled at the mulish expression on her face and the way her jaw was jutting forward. Then she realized she looked exactly like her father did when he was preparing for a run-in with management. No, she was not going to let it go.

She took the report over to word processing just before they closed up shop at four o’clock. She apologized to the supervisor for the mess and tried to hint that it was important. The supervisor, a harried black woman who always looked tired, sighed

when she saw the amount of work and said they’d do their best. As usual, they would call when it was ready.

The report wasn’t ready until Wednesday afternoon. Shay couldn’t really blame them for taking so long — it had been a lot of work. The finished documents were put in racks and Shay searched for hers. Report: First Quarter Sampling. That was it. Shay picked it up and headed back to her desk.

Halfway there, she realized it wasn’t her report. It was based on the data she was using and it had whole paragraphs from her original draft, but the pages were coded with a different document identification number and the job sheet, now that she looked closely, had been filled out by Scott.

She didn’t think twice. She went back to the word processing trailer and slipped into the copier room. She duplicated Scott’s entire document, then put it back in the word processing rack, mumbling something about having taken the wrong one. She found her version, then duplicated her marked-up draft and the new copy. Then she went back to her desk. Harold wasn’t in their cube so Shay sat very still and tried to decide what to do.

Well, Scott had said Shay was to write the report her way. She supposed that didn’t preclude Scott from writing his own report, and true, she had not spoken with him about her draft. But the changes he’d made had been deliberately reducing emphasis on the increasing xylene level. She didn’t have a choice — she would have to read Scott’s version

through and figure out how they differed in substance. Then she would decide what to do.

She certainly couldn’t do the analysis here. She would have to take it home and work on it after she left the pizza parlor tonight. She strained the worn brown paper of her lunch bag to the limit by curling the copies she had made into it.

Anthea was a little worried that Shay hadn’t mentioned their dinner plans all week, but then Shay had looked distracted and exhausted. She could call Shay. There was no reason not to. She thought about it for a few more minutes and then slowly picked up the handset. She dialed Shay’s extension, which she had memorized, but never used before, and then Shay answered. Her voice failed her.

“Anyone there?” Shay sounded distracted.

“Hi, it’s me. Anthea.”

“Oh hi.”

“Uh, I just wanted to remind you about tomorrow night.”

“I haven’t forgotten. Can I bring anything?”

Anthea was flooded with relief. Shay had seemed so distant, and this morning she’d looked as if she hadn’t slept at all. “No, no. I have everything. Unless you’d like to drink something.”

“Iced tea will suit me just fine, especially if this gorgeous weather holds.”

“I’ll make up a pitcher, then.” She thought she heard Harold’s voice… something about Shay remembering to bring her brains. Shay said something in a sharp tone and the line went dead.

Her intercom rang while she still held the handset. “Anthea Rossignole,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as distracted as she felt.

Adrian’s voice came over the line. “I hope you get lucky.”

Anthea hung up on him.

Shay fumbled with the buttons on her best blouse, a gift from her father several years ago. She wanted to look nice and the emerald jacquard silk helped. Her hair needed to be cut — it was getting too long for any amount of gel to make it stand up. Her ancient heritage included hair that wouldn’t curl no matter what she did to it. It looked like she was wearing a flat tire around her head. She peered closer. Wrinkles. Oh, definitely. Right in the corners of her eyes. Terrific. Take a job in the private sector, she thought, and you age overnight.

Two hours of sleep two nights running hadn’t helped her appearance. Harold had noticed her lack of energy and offered advice on ways to boost her energy and stamina — along with more lewd comments. Men, she thought. It’s a wonder any woman found them tolerable as more than friends.

She tried another dose of freezing spray and coughed as she sucked some into her lungs. Oh well, it couldn’t be any worse than what they breathed on the refinery. Sure, it passed the air quality standards, but one of Shay’s teachers had given her a good rule of thumb: if your nose doesn’t like the smell of it, you shouldn’t be breathing it in. Every

day there was some new aroma that her nose didn’t like.

Well, she wouldn’t be breathing it in for long. Not when she confronted Scott about the report. He’d fire her, she was sure of it. But tonight — tonight she got to relax. Her first Friday night date in years and the start of a three-day weekend.

Her body was prickling with anticipation. Of what, she couldn’t say. She didn’t know what to expect. Anthea was unlike any woman she’d known before. Misha, for example. Misha had been in a taiko troupe, with the chiseled body of a goddess. She could still remember the way the drums made her heart race, especially watching Misha play the large ones, drums that took the whole body to strike. It distracted her for a moment, and then she compared Misha to Anthea. Anthea was not the athletic type. Anthea was really closeted. But that didn’t change the fact that Shay wanted to be with her.

She took one last sighing look at herself in the mirror. She was too thin. Her collar bone was practically sticking out. She hadn’t been eating enough protein or getting enough sleep. But she’d put the last payments to the hospital and funeral home in the mail this morning. It seemed like a sign that the very same day she had her first real date with Anthea.

Anthea sat down across the patio table from Shay and raised her glass. “To your more restful

future,” she said. She tinked her glass against Shay’s, and then sipped her cider. She wanted to look cool and calm. Then she dribbled cider down the front of her shirt and onto her new jeans.

She’d been fine until Shay had sat down and a sudden breeze had caught Shay’s thin blouse. The fabric billowed, outlining the small breasts and nipples that tightened in the cooling air. The form-fitting 501s left no doubt about how far it was from knee to… important areas, or how much supple softness Shay’s thighs might offer.

“I can’t get over how beautiful the view is,” Shay said. She got up and went to the railing.

Anthea swallowed a huge lump in her throat. Her mouth was dry, then she was practically drooling. Shay bent slightly, the jeans pulled tight, emphasizing the trim, lean body of a runner. Oh, God, Anthea thought. She probably thinks I’m fat. She felt every drop of blood in her body drain to one place which pulsed so hard she thought she would die. What a way to go.

“The fireworks will be down thataways at the Coliseum,” Anthea said, pointing. “And some at the Port of Oakland. We might see some at the Embarcadero.”

Shay turned toward her and her silk-covered arm brushed against the back of Anthea’s hand. Anthea felt a jolt and her goblet of sparkling cider went flying over the deck railing. The muffled sound of glass breaking floated up to them.