The Moon and More(37)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“They actually keep pretty well, if you stick them in the fridge,” she explained as she folded a piece of wax paper carefully around it. “When you’re ready to eat it, microwave it on low for, like, thirty seconds only.”

I nodded. This must be what shock feels like, I thought, as I paid, tipped her, then carried the box to my car. I passed three garbage cans on the way, and told myself at each one I should toss it in. But I didn’t. Like that box held the last little piece of what was normal, and I wasn’t ready to give it up just yet.

Once at the office, I put on my busy face and headed inside, intending to go straight to the back storage room to get the towels and whatever else needed delivering to clients who had requested them. Then I saw everyone gathered in the conference room. It was Friday at nine a.m., which meant another one of Margo’s mandatory meetings. Crap.

“So nice of you to join us, Emaline,” she said as I came in. “Did you bring food for everyone, or just you?”

I ignored this, taking a seat next to my mom, who was busy typing something on her phone, her morning Mountain Dew from the Gas/Gro on the table beside her.

“Well, I guess we can start now,” Margo said, shuffling some papers in front of her.

“What about Mrs. Merritt?” Rebecca asked. Despite having been with us only six months, even she knew any meeting was useless without my grandmother, who, despite Margo’s posturing, was the real boss here.

“I have a printed agenda that will catch her up,” Margo replied, passing the stack of papers over to my mom, who was still busy with her phone. They sat there on the table, untouched, until my sister finally picked them up again, handing them out to us one by one with a bit too much gusto. “All right. Let’s start with item one. Staff food storage and rules.”

My mom finally put down her phone, then nodded hello to me. I nodded back, very aware of her looking at the take-out box, my face, then the box again. I concentrated on the stupid agenda, not wanting to risk full eye contact.

Margo cleared her throat. “It has come to my attention that certain employees are not showing the proper respect for other people’s foodstuffs.”

“Foodwhat?” Rebecca asked.

“All drinks, snacks, and lunches in the office kitchen area brought from home,” Margo replied. “As I’ve reminded everyone here multiple times, they should be labeled with the owner’s name, to be removed and/or consumed by that person only.”

My mom sighed. “Is this about your coconut juice?”

“It’s coconut water, Mother, and no, it isn’t,” my sister snapped. “It’s about the simple concept of respect for other people’s property.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Her drink vanished,” my mom said. “She thinks it was you.”

Of course she did. “I don’t even know what coconut juice is.”

“It’s coconut water,” Margo said. “And it was clearly labeled with my name when someone took it from the fridge. It’s not the first time, either. Clearly, the issue needs to be addressed.”

“And it has been. So move on,” my mom said, waving her hand. Then, to me, she added, “What’s in that box, anyway? It smells fantastic.”

Rebecca nodded. “It really does.”

“It’s a biscuit from Last Chance,” I told them.

“Bacon and egg?” my mom asked. I told her yes, and she sighed. “I knew it. I could just tell.”

“Item number two,” Margo continued, loudly. “New staff uniform guidelines.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Not this again.”

“I thought we tabled this?” Rebecca said.

“We did. Until now.” Margo cleared her throat. “Now, I’m aware that this is not a popular issue. But the core of uniformity is uniform. It’s important that we as a staff are always easily identified by our clients.”

“If you start talking about khaki pants and denim shirts,” I warned her, “I am walking right out of here.”

“Emaline,” she shot back, “I am sick of you always trying to bully me out of making needed changes. As my employee—”

“I don’t work for you,” I said. “I work for the office.”

“I am the office!”

“Girls,” my mom said, in a tired voice. I couldn’t really blame her; Margo and I butting heads was a part of just about every meeting, if not every day. Despite the fact that I was the youngest, we’d always argued with each other more than either of us did with Amber, mostly because she was too lazy to get that riled up. We’d both gotten a work ethic; the stubborn gene was just a lucky bonus.

“Khaki and denim is the perfect combination for a beach rental office!” she said now, pulling a glossy catalog from her stack of papers and waving it at us. A picture of a woman in black pants and a white shirt balancing wine glasses on a tray was on the cover. “And there are options here that are practical for every department, from us all the way down to the service contractors.”

“The service contractors?” I said. “What, you’re going to make the cleaners and maintenance people wear them as well?”

“Anyone who interacts with our clients on our behalf is representing Colby Realty. If they are in uniform, there’s no question who the person is who suddenly appears at your rental house to clean your pool. He’s easily identifiable, not some shirtless, barefoot stranger.”

“Shirtless?” my mom asked. “Who’s shirtless?”

I was pretty sure I knew. I looked again at the to-go container, feeling sick.

“Here in the office,” Margo was saying now, “we’ll be in khaki pants or skirts, with denim shirts in long or short sleeves, embroidered with our logo. Contractors will wear shorts and polo shirts or, in certain cases, T-shirts.” She folded back a page of the catalog, then pushed it towards Rebecca. “Everyone will know all the options available to them before they’re asked to purchase them.”

“What?” I said. “We have to pay for these out of our own pockets?”

“Emaline,” she said, looking tired, “I think you and your boyfriend can afford a couple of polo shirts.”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” I muttered. “And anyway—”

And that was when I realized two things: what I’d said, and that it was too late to take it back. Hearing this, my mother literally jerked in her seat, as if this news was an electric charge, straight from me to her.