Yeah, I know.

This morning, Kidman asked me if I wanted a raise. Stupid me, I said yes.

“Elderly men shouldn’t be allowed to grab their junk in public,” I say without sharing the context.

Annabeth laughs. “What?”

“Kidman,” I answer. It’s the only answer I need.

“I’ve got that all figured out,” she says and tosses me a pen.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

“Just don’t say anything to get yourself in trouble,” she says vaguely. “So, what are you gonna do about your roommate problem?”

“We’re back on that? Seriously, I don’t even know what happened. For all I know, the phone call could have been his mother saying she’d broken a hip or something.”

“Nah,” Annabeth says. “It sounds to me like he was off his game as soon as he saw you and that friend of yours macking on the couch. You know what you gotta do?”

“Annabeth, I swear if you utter that phrase one more time, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

“Easy there, girl,” Annabeth says, spitting her cigarette out of her mouth in the process. “I was just gonna say that you should just talk to the man and see what he has to say. If you and him aren’t gonna talk, you’re just gonna end up going past each other, wasting all the hours of your lives wondering what the other one is thinking.”

She has a point, but I’m not quite ready to admit it.

“I really thought you would have heard something back on one of your applications by now,” I tell her. “You’ve got the grades and the pedigree. I wonder what’s holding it up.”

The glare on her face seems pretty out of context, but maybe I’ve overstepped again. I have a tendency to do that when I’m trying to lead a conversation away from something I want to avoid.

“We should probably get back in,” Annabeth says, leaving her half-smoked cigarette smoldering on the ground.

We make our way back inside and don’t say a word to each other on the way. When we’re back to our floor, we just part ways, and I’m starting to think I can’t do anything right.

“Tyler!”

I swear to all that is holy that if this geezer makes one stupid comment, I’m going to lose it.

“Yeah?”

Well, he’s not grabbing himself, so we’re off to a good start.

“Did you put this on my desk?” he asks.

“Did I put what on your desk?”

“This!” he shouts and holds up a file.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “What’s in it?”

“In my office!” he shouts.

Anymore, it’s not all that common for anyone working on this floor to even bother looking up when Kidman starts screaming at me. This time, though, I’m not the only one that can tell this rant is going to be different.

I’m not even in his office before he’s telling me to close the door.

I follow instructions and try to prepare myself for what’s about to happen.

“Do you know what’s in this?” he asks.

“It’s a folder,” I answer. “I don’t know—”

“Did you put this on my desk?”

“Sir, I honestly don’t know which folder that is. I’ve put a few folders on your desk today, but without knowing what’s in that one, I really couldn’t tell—”

“Do you think you’re funny?” he asks. “I get that I’m not the easiest person to work for, but this is so far over the line you’re in another country.”

“Sir?”

He slams the folder on his desk.

“You know, I’d expect this from that friend of yours, but coming from you—this is really too much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.

“You mean to tell me that you’re not the one who printed off a copy of my bank statement, put it in a file and set it on my desk?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

He takes a breath.

“You really didn’t know what was in this, did you?” he asks, starting to cool down a little.

“No sir, I didn’t. Why would someone—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You can go.”

“Sir?”

“I said go!” he shouts. “I’m not going to tell you again!”

So I go.

With the door closed behind me, I try not to look at all the faces looking at me. Although I’m technically off the hook, this office is great at one thing and it has nothing to do with finance.

As I make my way toward Atkinson’s office, as I have absolutely nothing else to do right now, and I’d really like to take my mind off of everything, I can hear the not-so-hushed voices.

“Yeah, he just came in screaming. I think she’s going to get fired.”

“Look at her—no, not now, she’s looking over here. She looks like she just got fired.”

Somewhere around the eighth utterance of the word “fired,” I’ve had enough.

“Oh, will you all just shut up?!” I shout. “Every time someone leaves the room, you’re all pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick as if your lives are such a pretty picture!”

“Leila?”

“What?!” I yell, spinning on my heel.

I turn around and, standing there like a scolded child is Mrs. Weinstock, one of my five bosses.

“Mrs. Weinstock,” I say, “I am so sorry.”

“Would you come and talk to me in my office?”

“Sure,” I answer, my voice suddenly small again.

Kidman is the filthy old man. Atkinson is the drill sergeant that wants you to scrub the floors with a toothbrush—although, to be fair, he’s only had me do that once. Iverson keeps calling me Kayla and hasn’t once given me clear directions on anything, so when I invariably screw up, he’s always got something to say about it. I still haven’t met Mrs. Beck.

Mrs. Weinstock, on the other hand, she is the master of the guilt trip.

With that soft-spoken tone and those big eyes, made even bigger by the thick glasses she wears—I swear, for the sole purpose of adding to the puppy effect—she can make you feel worthless just by looking at you.

Once I’m in her office, she asks me to close the door behind me.

“Have a seat,” she says.

She’s the oldest forty-something woman I’ve ever come across in my life and somehow, that only makes her entreaties all the more gut-wrenching.

I sit and wonder whether she’s got me in here to make me feel terrible about yelling at everyone in the office, or because Kidman told her that I put that file on her desk or what.

“How are you doing? You seem a little stressed,” she says.

“It’s been a rough day,” I tell her. “Then last night, there was this whole thing with my roommate…”

Even though I know better, those big brown eyes just make me open up. I can’t help it.

“I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she says. “I just got a call. Someone from Claypool and Lee—did you know they’d be calling me for a reference?”

“Yes,” I answer. “I thought we talked about that.”

“Well, we did,” she says, “but I didn’t think you’d actually go through with applying somewhere else. I thought we’d made a nice home for you here.”

“Ma’am,” I start, “it is absolutely nothing against you. I’ve just been looking for something more permanent.”

“I thought you’d want to stay here,” she says. “But you’ve never once asked me if we had anything open for you. Why is that?”

“To be honest, ma’am,” I start, “I haven’t had the greatest experience here. I really don’t get the feeling that anyone really wants me around.”

And now she looks like she’s going to cry.

“I’ve always been so nice to you, Leila—”

“What did you tell them?” I interrupt, as I’m starting to get the feeling that she just torpedoed me.

“I told them that we sure didn’t want to see you go,” Mrs. Weinstock says.

“Did you give them any reason not to hire me?” I ask.

“Now, why would I do that?”

Yep, she’s actually crying now. I really hope I got that other job; otherwise, I might just end up getting fired by Rose Nylund.

“I didn’t say that you did, Mrs. Weinstock,” I answer, but she’s too busy wiping the tears from her eyes with a tissue to pay me much attention.

This is torture.

Right now, I kind of wish I was back in Kidman’s office.