Chapter 2
Lauren Price was taking over my work. She'd joined four years after I had and had just become a project manager.
She knew how to talk.
When a client wanted an impressive event, she'd say we needed to capture the brand's vision.
When the client turned to me and asked whether we could actually do it, my first question was usually how wide the freight elevator was.
Put those answers side by side, and I did sound pretty unambitious.
Lauren sat beside me, flipped through two pages of the handoff checklist, and laughed.
“All this? You really like to cover your bases.”
I pulled out the page for the market at the end of the month.
“This one's on the terrace. To move indoors if it rains, we need to pay to reserve the backup space.”
“We only get the freight elevator during assigned windows. All forty vendors can't show up to unload at once.”
She nodded, but her eyes kept drifting toward Graham's office.
“Got it. This isn't my first project.”
I thought for a moment, then finished what I needed to say.
“Supplier schedules, client requirements, and backup plans are all on the shared drive. The items in red still need confirmation.”
She pinned the checklist under her cup and said she'd read it that evening.
That afternoon, Graham came to inspect my computer.
He checked the shared drive, then my desktop. Finally, he fixed on the flash drive on my key ring.
It was orange, worn almost white in places.
The casing had cracked. I'd wrapped it twice with clear tape.
“Leave that too. It's all project material.”
“There's no company material on it.”
He didn't believe me.
With HR and an IT colleague watching, I plugged it into my personal laptop.
Three folders appeared on the screen.
Public Courses. Practice Projects. Someday I'll Sit in the Front Row.
When they saw the name of the last folder, the room went quiet for a moment.
Lauren let out a breathy, patronizing laugh. "Aw, a little passion project? You actually dream about sitting in the front row?"
My face warmed.
It was a pretty little dream.
So little that I'd once assumed just putting my head down and doing good work would get me there eventually.
The folder held exercises I'd made after work.
Suppose there was an empty shopping center. Suppose we held a secondhand market there. I'd invented the budget and every vendor.
I'd given those imaginary vendors names. I'd even given the woman selling flowers a husband who was always late.
It made it easier to see where people might run into trouble when I worked out the relief schedule.
I'd spent so long working on other people's projects. I wanted to take one of my own from beginning to end.
Every exercise ended with the same line.
Project lead: Nina Wells.
I showed them the files, then unplugged the drive.
“All the company material is in the handoff directory. These are my own practice projects.”
My IT colleague checked the inventory and took the work computer away.
Lauren signed the handoff acknowledgment, then took a picture of my desk.
She said they were going for a consistent look now. My old insulated carafe didn't fit.
I put it in the cardboard box.
Then she asked, “Nina, why does Sam always agree to rush things for you?”
“I ask about his schedule in advance. I don't change the dimensions at the last minute. And if we promise to pay on a certain day, I keep following up until we do.”
She waited.
“That's it?”
“Also, when his crew works overnight, I make sure everyone gets something to eat.”
She gave a little laugh.
“You really are made for operations.”
I lifted my box and didn't answer.
From that day on, she no longer got to decide what I was made for.
