Your Big Break (13 page)

“Ever since we moved to Massachusetts?” I swallow hard, trying to squelch the sour taste rising up my throat.

“Screw that! I bet this stretches back to New Orleans. Remember how Dad was always claiming to work late? I bet he was hitting up all those nudie bars on Bourbon Street.”

A disturbing image pops into my mind: I see my father, cruising down Bourbon Street with a beer in one hand, Mardi Gras beads in the other. Every time a pert young girl passes by, he tosses them out in exchange for a little T&A action. It's like he's smack-dab in the middle of a
Girls Gone Wild
video. I sink back against my pillow, feeling the horror of it wash over me.

“Dani? Dani?”

I get the feeling Sean's been calling my name for a while. “Yeah?”

“You haven't even heard the worst part!”

I snuggle down against the mattress, praying it will swallow me whole. “It gets worse?”

“Much.”

I don't know how much more I can handle. “I'd better go, Sean. I've got an early day tomorrow—”

“But I haven't even told you about the pictures!”

“Pictures?”

“I'm e-mailing them to you as we speak.”

“What?” I shriek. “No! I don't want to see any pictures.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! I'm absolutely positive. I have no interest in looking at photos of nude girls, thank you very much,” I say indignantly.
What's wrong with Sean? Why the hell would he think I'd want to look at porn?

“There's no nudes. Don't you want to see what Gretchen looks like?” Sean prods.

“I've already seen her, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. What am I thinking? Okay, I won't send you any photos. But I was pretty surprised when I saw her. Gretchen's an okay-looking woman.”

“She has a big butt,” I snap.

“Some men are into big butts.” He launches into a quick verse of the Sir Mix-a-Lot song, “Baby Got Back.” When I don't laugh, he adds, “I'm sorry, Dani. I'm trying to lighten the mood. This is all really depressing. I feel sick to my stomach right now. Imagine how Mom will feel when she finds out.”

“Have you told her anything?” I ask.

“No. I'm going to dig through the rest of Dad's files, see what else I can find out. Once we've got all the available evidence, then we'll go to Mom.”

“If you say so.” I'm shaking. Part of me wants to stop right here, forget about what I already know.

“You have work tomorrow,” Sean says. “I'll let you go to bed.”

There's no way in hell I'll fall back asleep. But I'm grateful to get off the phone nonetheless. I'm too numb to listen to him anymore. As soon as we hang up, I feel desperately alone. I take a few deep breaths and, with shaking legs, climb out of bed.

I stare around my bedroom, trying to figure out what to do. My head is spinning; my heart is beating rapidly in my chest. So many things in my room remind me of my parents: the desk they bought me as high-school graduation present; the afghan throw my mother made me; the pair of amethyst earrings my parents gave me last Christmas.

My eyes travel to the photo album sitting on my bookshelf. It contains pictures of our family trip to France six years ago. Mom and Dad took me there as a college graduation present. I was twenty-two at the time. Most people that age would have dreaded a vacation with their parents, but I loved it. My father always worked such long hours that, growing up, I cherished every moment I got to spend with him. I never grew out of it. My brother was in the middle of finals, so he couldn't go. But Mom, Dad, and I had an amazing time.

I walk across the room and pull the photo album off the shelf. I flip through it, studying the various pictures:
Mom and Dad outside the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre. Me and Dad in front of the Eiffel Tower. Me, Mom, and Dad taking a cruise along the Seine. Dad in the gardens of Versailles. Dad sipping wine in a Parisian café. Dad admiring the
Mona Lisa,
which had turned out to be disappointingly minuscule in person.

The more I page through the album, the more I realize something. Dad—excuse me,
Father
—is in virtually every picture. Suddenly, this makes me furious. I never realized he was such a camera hog! Rather than snap a few shots of me and Mom for posterity, he insisted that his ugly mug be in every frame. Even back then, he was a selfish bastard.

My rage grows as I continue flipping through the album, finding page after page of his smug, irritating face.
Father strolling along the Champs-Elysees. Father trying on a beret in a tacky tourist shop. Father eating a croissant on our hotel balcony.

It's bad enough the man has ruined my family. I'm not going to let him ruin my memories of Paris, too!

I dash over to my desk and grab a pair of scissors out of the top drawer. I start pulling the offending photos out of the album and dropping them in a pile on the bed. Once I've removed all the Father-tainted shots, I begin the arduous task of cutting him out while still salvaging the rest of the picture. It's tricky, but I manage. I slice the Eiffel Tower photo straight in half, keeping myself and tossing out the lying, cheating bastard. I crop Father out of the
Mona Lisa
photo—no sense letting him ruin good art. I remove him from the Champs-Elysees, the gardens of Versailles, the Arc de Triomphe.

I even tackle the croissant picture, cutting it down until all that's left is an unidentifiable hand holding a pastry.

When I'm finished, I slip the cropped pictures in the album and then lie back on my bed and admire my work. My photo book now contains a bizarre, scattered tour of France. To an outsider, it might appear as though these choppy prints were doctored by a psychopath. But I know better.

I toss Father's remains in the trash, feeling deeply satisfied.

14

Trey's Tips

“‘Regretfully, I must tender my resignation,'” I read aloud.

“Are you quitting?” Amanda asks, coming into my office.

I jump. I didn't realize anyone was listening, and I'd prefer privacy.

“No, this is for a client.”

“I thought Trey was in charge of job resignations?”

“Trey's in Wisconsin,” I say for the thousandth time.
Why is it that no one but me seems to remember he's out?
“I'm handling his overflow.” When I was a kid and having a bad day, my mother would say, “You can't crawl under your bed and hide when you have a problem.” Today, I am truly wishing that I could crawl under my desk to hide. But I can't. I have to sit at it and pretend to be a normal person. I have to pretend that I never spoke to Sean, never cut up those pictures. I have to pretend that I didn't stay up until 4:00 a.m. last night, watching TV and trying not to cry.

“Dani, this letter you're writing sucks.”

I have to pretend I don't want to strangle Amanda.

“It's a rough draft.” I continue reading: “‘I have greatly enjoyed being in your employ these last three months. I feel my time at Morgan Keegan has allowed me to grow both personally and professionally.'”

Amanda grabs my spare chair and starts pulling it around my desk.

“Aren't you supposed to be in class right now?” I ask, giving her a pointed look. I'm on a tight deadline. It's 9:30 a.m., and this letter of resignation has to be signed, sealed, and delivered to the client within an hour.

“Nope. Summer term doesn't start for another two weeks.”

“Shouldn't you be working on our website?”

She shakes her head. “Craig's got to approve the template I designed before I can move forward.”

“Then don't you have some other work to do?”
Why won't she take the hint?

“I've got nothing to do,” she says, sitting down beside me, “so Craig wants me to shadow you for the day. He says it will be a great learning experience.”

Just what I need. “Fine,” I say with a tight smile. I get back to the letter. “‘However, at this stage in my career, I feel I need to refocus my efforts on obtaining an advanced business degree—' ”

“Why are you reading it out loud?”

“To get a sense of the flow.”

“I think it's too formal.”

“I'm—I mean
he's
—resigning from a job. It's supposed to be formal.”

“You can be professional without being formal,” Amanda argues.

“Let's look at Trey's notes,” I say firmly, searching through the papers on my desk. “He left instructions on job resignations.”

“What makes Trey the be-all-end-all expert?”

“He used to work for a job placement firm,” I tell her. “He rewrote people's résumés and cover letters, and coached them on interviewing skills. It's ironic. Trey spent three years helping people land jobs. Now he's helping people quit them.”

Amanda shrugs. “It's a natural progression.”

“I've written letters of resignation before,” I assure her. “The problem with this guy is he only worked at Morgan Keegan for three months. Now he's bailing out to attend night school part-time. How do you spin that?”

“Just tell the truth.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some Tootsie Rolls. “Want some?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks. It's not that simple. Our client doesn't want to burn bridges. If the MBA program doesn't work out, he might reapply for his old job.”

She unwraps a Tootsie Roll and pops it into her mouth.

“Aha!” I exclaim, locating Trey's notes in the stack. “Now we're in business!”

“Or out of it,” she cracks, “if you want to get technical.”

I scan the page, which is a list of bulleted points.

 
“What does it say?” Amanda asks, leaning over. I can smell the chocolate on her breath.

I hand her the piece of paper. “Third person?” I wonder aloud. “Is Trey kidding?”

Amanda laughs. “It'd sound bizarre, like people who talk about themselves in the third person. ‘Amanda hates her job. Amanda is quitting. Amanda's boss is a pain in the ass!'”

“What?!” Craig screams, bursting through the door.

Sometimes I think he hangs around outside my office all day.

“Craig, I didn't mean it like that!” Her face is beet-red, and she looks to me for help.

“We're working on a job resignation letter for a client,” I explain.

Craig's relief is visible.

“According to Trey, we're supposed to write it in the third person,” I continue.

Craig nods, “That's basic business writing one-oh-one. You don't use
I
. But you don't have to stick to third person proper.” He starts out the door, then stops. “Dani, I'm counting on you to give Amanda the tour of duty today.”

“Will do,” I promise.

Craig leaves, and I go back through the letter and clean it up, taking out some of the more emotionally charged phrases and cutting I's.

 
I work diligently, addressing the three-months-on-the-job issue as best I can by placing emphasis on the importance of education. When I'm finished, I read the letter out loud. Amanda and I both agree that it does sound better. I print it out.

“Let's go,” I say, rising from my desk. I place a copy of the resignation letter in a manila folder. “We've got a busy day ahead of us.”

“Where are we going?” Amanda asks, hoisting herself up.

“To drop this off at Morgan Keegan,” I say. “After that, I'm taking you to meet the biggest womanizer in all of Boston.”

“The biggest womanizer in Boston?” She eats another Tootsie Roll. “Who's that?”

“His name's Evan Hirschbaum, and he's Your Big Break's number-one client.”

“Number-one client, eh?” She raises an eyebrow. “This should be fun.”

“Fun?” I repeat with a laugh. “Try baptism by fire.”

 
 
“I thought I was going to meet a world-famous womanizer,” Amanda gripes, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

“You are. But first I'm going to introduce you to an ex-girlfriend of his.”

It's just past 11:30 a.m., and we're standing on the doorstep of Sophie Kennison's apartment building in Cambridge. “I live a few blocks from here,” I muse, ringing the buzzer. “I didn't realize we were neighbors.”

Amanda sighs. “I hope this doesn't take long. I'm hungry.”

“You ate all those Tootsie Rolls,” I point out.

“They're not
lunch
.” She groans. “I need something more substantial.”

I push the buzzer again. A weary voice calls, “Hello?”

“Sophie?”