“Hi, Stewart,” I answered.

“Hi, Cora. Could you come into my office for a minute?”

Apprehension gripped me. Did I do something wrong? Was I going to be fired?

“Um…sure. Can you tell me what the meeting is about?” If I was going to be fired, I’d like to be mentally prepared.

“I’ll tell you in my room.” He hung up.

That was not reassuring.

I listened to the dial tone for a second before I hung up, giving myself a few extra seconds to gather myself.

I could feel curious gazes burning into my back as I weaved my way through the maze of cubicles to reach Stewart’s office. Most people realized a late day meeting with the boss did not bode well.

I rapped smartly on the door.

A muffled “come in” greeted me.

I turned the knob and walked him. The smile on Stewart’s face was strangely comforting. Surely he wouldn’t be happy if he had to fire me, I reasoned.

Stewart looked like the stereotypical model of a middle manager. His body looked soft, with a beer gut big enough to hide the waistband of his pants. He was groomed, but his clothes never seemed to fit quite right on him. His pants sagged at his thighs or his shirt collars were too tight on his thick neck. Looking perpetually stressed, he always had a sheen of sweat on his balding head.

He gestured to one of the flimsy chairs in front of his desk. “Cora, please have a seat.”

Cautiously, I lowered myself into a chair and folded my hands in my lap. Deciding not to beat around the bush, I asked, “Why do you want to see me, Stewart?”

His doughy fingers combed through the remaining tufts of graying hair above his ears. The display of his nervous tic made my anxiety crawl back.

He laced his pudgy hands together and placed them on the desk. “As you might have heard, the CEO is looking to promote someone from our floor to become his executive assistant.”

I held back my snicker. What a diplomatic way to say the big boss had picked the next guillotine victim. “I heard the rumors, but what does that have to do with me?”

He tugged on his collar. “Well, Mr. Weston has requested that you become his new EA.”

My jaw dropped.

Say what?

Surely I had misheard. “What?” A disbelieving laugh issued from my mouth. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Stewart did not appreciate my flippant comment and frowned severely. “You’re to report to his office first thing tomorrow at eight am. He’ll go over the details with you.”

My hands gripped onto the edge of the chair tightly. “But what if I don’t want the promotion!” It was all I could do to keep my fingers from forming air quotes around the word “promotion.”

“Why ever not? You get to work on some exciting projects and you get paid more for it! It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

From the way he avoided making eye contact, I knew he was lying. I wasn’t normally Stewart’s biggest fan; he was too spineless and ineffectual to be a good supervisor, but I never actively disliked him until this moment.

I took a deep breath to collect myself. Screaming at him would not help my situation. “Stewart, I really like where I’m at. This promotion should go to someone who has more seniority. I don’t deserve it. In fact, I can recommend someone who has more experience and would jump at the chance to work for Mr. Weston. Several somebodies, actually. Why don’t you meet with him and present him with these better qualified candidates?”

My supervisor shook his head and muttered, “Sorry. Mr. Weston made his decision and I’m not going to question it. If you don’t want the job, you can quit.”

I bit back an unflattering remark. “I can’t quit.”

“Then your only option is to show up for your new job tomorrow,” he said unsympathetically, shrugging his shoulders.

Obviously, the little wimp didn’t want to risk the displeasure of the CEO so I left his office with my mouth clamped shut. The alternative would have been to spew word-vomit and get fired on the spot.

At least now I had a job for another month before the sexist tyrant fired me, I told myself mockingly. And I was being optimistic.

When I got back to my cubicle, everyone had already left for the day. A yellow note was stuck on my monitor. It was from Jamie.

Hope everything is ok. Call if you need to talk.

I plucked it off the screen and smiled wryly. It made me realize how few friends I had made during my time here. Jamie was the only one who seemed to have penetrated the shield I built around myself after my mom passed away. But then, Jamie rarely took no for an answer. Affection rippled through me. As chatty as Jamie was, she was caring and sweet.

After staring at the note of a second, I put it in my purse. I wasn’t ready to share the news yet, although I was sure the office would be abuzz when I wasn’t at my desk tomorrow.

“Well, I’m never going to be in this cubicle again,” I murmured sadly. I might have hated the lack of privacy, but my cubicle had represented security and stability.

I retrieved an empty box from the copy room and gathered my personal items. There were pitifully few– a picture of me with my mom and brother, a potted cactus, my dad’s calculator– it was a sentimental item that went everywhere with me– and a romance novel I read during lunch. I stared at the four objects in the cavernous box. They looked so pathetic that I finally stuffed everything except the plant in my purse and left the box behind.

On the El, I stared blindly out the window, lost in my thoughts. We lived near Humboldt Park, which was a less than stellar area in Chicago, but it was all I could afford on my salary. We had to sell the house to pay off our mom’s medical bills. I always carried my pepper spray and walked briskly. Other than a few minor incidents, I hadn’t encountered too many problems. I worried more about my brother, who always had his head in the clouds.

“Marcus, I’m home!” I called as I closed our apartment door.

“I’m in my room studying!” he screamed back.

I laughed softly. The apartment was small enough that we could have heard each other if we spoke at a normal volume, yet both of us persisted in raising our voices. It was a habit carried over from when we actually had a four-bedroom, two-story house.

I fought back the wave of nostalgia, followed closely by self-pity. I reminded myself to be grateful we had a decent place to live. The apartment may be cramped and the super was not diligent about fixing things, but it was clean and the bills were paid.

The reminder of bills made my stomach cramp. I needed to figure out a way to get my old job back. Maybe I could convince Mr. Weston that I was unsuitable for the role. It would take some diplomacy, which was not one of my strengths, but I needed to try.

But first, I had to get dinner on the table.

“Pasta okay with you for dinner?” I asked Marcus.

“Sure!”

I busied myself preparing the meal. Like all teenagers, Marcus was always hungry and the smell of food drew him out of his room before I finished cooking.

He flopped his lanky frame onto one of the bar stools.

“How was school?”

“Meh…our math teacher still sucks,” he made a disgusted sound.

I sighed in relief that he wasn’t moody tonight. I wasn’t sure if I could deal with his sullenness on top of my work crisis. After my mom died, a lot of anger built up in him and it inevitably spilled over into our relationship. It didn’t help that I had to uproot him from everything he knew: his school, his home, and his friends.

Not for the first time, I wished I had the money to pay for his old private school. I had to pull him out when we couldn’t afford the tuition. Marcus said he understood, but I knew he missed his friends and especially the teachers, who were able to give him enough individual attention and to design assignments that challenged him.