The Moon and More(48)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“No, no.” I waved my phone at him. “Them, not you.”

“Oh.” He brightened visibly. “Okay.”

We pulled out into the traffic, and I looked over at him again. He was such a kid, all impulse and emotion, but he was young; it made sense he was so easy to read. I could only imagine how he’d take the news that his parents were divorcing, whenever they did finally tell him. It broke my heart just thinking about it.

When we got to the office, we found Margo in the conference room, sitting at her laptop. All around her, on the table, chairs, and every other flat surface, were towels. All white, all sizes: bath, washcloth, hand, mats. It was like the linen closet had exploded, albeit very neatly.

“I thought we were out of towels?” I said.

She looked up at me, her expression irritated. “I didn’t say that. I said there were no towels for you.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I don’t actually need any. The clients do.”

“This morning, at the meeting,” she said, in a way that made it clear a scolding was to follow, “I carefully detailed the new, computerized system I have implemented for inventory of the towels. Ten minutes later, you went back to the storeroom and took a bunch, ignoring everything I said. “

Beside me, Benji was watching this exchange, looking at Margo, then me, then back at her again. I nodded in his direction, saying, “You remember Benji, right?”

She gave him a glance. “Oh, yes. Hello.”

“Hi,” he said. “That’s a lot of towels.”

“Yes, Benji,” she replied, in the same know-it-all tone, “yes, it is. It is, in fact, all the towels we have here at Colby Realty for midweek replenishment for renters. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s necessary to have this many so we can always be sure we can meet the needs of our guests.”

“Margo,” I said, “he’s a kid. He doesn’t care about this.”

“The point is,” she continued, ignoring me, “I developed a system to ensure we always know how many of each kind of towels we have at our disposal. All that is required to make the system work is that each employee who checks a towel out logs it in the database. Is that so complicated?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” Benji replied obediently, at the same time.

“We don’t need an exact count, just a general idea,” I said. “It’s towels, not radioactive material.”

“And you are not in charge here,” she shot back. “I say we are using this system, so we are. End of conversation. Now come in here and get a refresher course so I can get back to work.”

For a moment, I just stared at her, and she held my gaze, just as fiercely. Under other circumstances, I would have held my ground like I usually did. But beside me, Benji was fidgeting again.

“Fine.” I stepped into the conference room. “Refresh me.”

“Gladly.” She pushed out the chair beside her, and I slid in, gesturing for Benji to sit as well. “Now, we’ve put a computer in the storage room for inventory use. What you’ll do, when you need towels, is open up this Excel file labeled ‘Linens,’ and then . . .”

Fifteen minutes later—which was about fourteen more than was necessary—she was done. I stifled one last yawn. “Got it. Anything else I need to know right now?”

Margo glanced around her. “No, I don’t think so. Just put all these towels back in the storage room, separated by type, and we should be good to go.”

“Me?” I said. “Why do I have to put them back?”

“Because it’s your fault I had to do this exercise in the first place. If you’d been paying attention this morning, none of this would have been necessary.”

Not for the first time that day, I was sorely tempted to pull her hair or frog-punch her, like when we were kids. Instead, I just reminded myself that, soon enough, I’d be gone from here, with towels—and Margo—no longer my daily cross to bear. Then I picked up a stack of washcloths.

“I can help,” Benji said, grabbing another pile from the table. “Where do they go?”

“Thanks,” I said. “Follow me.”

I was on my second trip to the storeroom when my phone rang. I shifted the tall stack of mats I was carrying to the other hand, then fished it out of my back pocket. “Hello?”

“Hey, Emaline, it’s me.” A pause. “Theo.”

“Hi,” I said, navigating the hallway. “Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you. Things are sort of—”

“So look, Ivy really feels,” he broke in over me, “that it would be best if you just gave us Clyde’s contact information. She’s concerned that having you as a go-between will, um, complicate things.”

Of course she was. “No,” I said, “what will complicate things is if he won’t talk to you because you’ve deliberately chosen to ignore the parameters he set up.”

I waited for a crack about this word being an SAT basic. Instead, there was just silence. Then, “True. But as a filmmaker and documentarian, her relationship with her subject is crucial. Anything that diffuses or distorts it can endanger the project.”

“Say whatever you want, but I’m not going against his wishes,” I said. “And neither should you.”

There was that muffled noise again, and then suddenly his voice was lower, closer to the receiver. “Look, I’m not trying to hassle you, okay? She’s just angling, it’s what she does. I’m sorry. I’m so grateful to you for everything this morning.”

“Theo.”

“Not the kiss,” he said quickly. “I mean, that was great, too, don’t get me wrong. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Even though I know we’re, um, not talking about it. Until tomorrow.” Now I was blushing, right there in the hallway. “But introducing me to Clyde, finessing that connection . . . that was amazing. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to,” I replied. “Just don’t let her ruin it. Okay?”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “So, um . . . I am still going to see you, though, tomorrow, right? In a non-work-related way?”

I looked at Benji, scooting past me in the narrow hallway, toting a bunch of washcloths. He’d already cleared half the table, making twice as many trips as I had. Clearly, all that preteen energy, properly channeled, could be a serious resource.