The Stand-In by Lily Chu
For Auntie Bernie
One
My day is tidily laid out on my new LifePlanX app. It’s a work of art, to be honest. Here, the Life of Gracie Reed is beautifully organized and color-coded in neat little rows, a guarantee against indecision and inaction.
This Gracie has it together. This Gracie is a boss. Totally unlike the real, pathetic Gracie who just stepped out of the lawyer’s office and promptly started blubbering like a spineless wuss. You waited until you were outside, I congratulate myself. You didn’t cry in front of him. Small wins are still wins.
I tap my phone screen so that meet with lawyer is emphatically crossed out, which makes me feel a teeny bit better even though nothing’s actually changed. But according to my latest self-help read, just saying the word done is supposed to deliver a shot of that sweet drug dopamine, and I’ll take all the satisfaction I can get.
It’s not yet noon so I decide to sneak in a coffee break, which is not on my schedule and is therefore verboten by the LifePlanX app people. Their whole premise is that each minute of your day should be allocated to predetermined tasks without any wavering or add-ons. You only do what you log admonishes the tagline. In an effort to keep me on my path to success, the app sends me chipper reminders of where I should be at particular points of the day—and usually am not.
Screw it. I deserve sugar and caffeine. I toss the phone into my bag, jam a baseball cap on my head, and head over to my favorite café.
“Looking glum, friend.” Cheri looks up when I enter to the discordant accompaniment of bells. “Want your usual?”
I could actually go for something special as a pick-me-up—maybe one of those bougie frappes with fancy flavors like salted honey or sage caramel—but since she’s already started making the latte, I nod before leaning over to inspect the shelf of muffins. “I need chocolate, too.”
“Oh, we’re at chocolate levels of glumness.” She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, babe. Loni took the last one for her kid.”
When Loni sees me look over, she gives a friendly wave, so I hastily attempt to morph my involuntary death stare into a matching reciprocal smile. I don’t succeed in time. Her eyes widen and she unconsciously leans against her wife as if seeking protection against my disproportionate muffin wrath. Her wife wraps a loving arm around Loni’s shoulders, and I suddenly feel stupid for thinking that baked goods would make me feel better.
“Can’t be that bad,” says Cheri, cleaning the espresso machine with a cloth. Then she frowns. “I have to stop saying that,” she scolds herself. “It can totally be that bad. You might have a broken heart. You might have received a terrible diagnosis. You might have been catfished or lost your true love or witnessed an accident.” She pauses as if considering the vast opportunities for sadness the world has to offer, then shakes her head.
It’s none of those things, but it’s still pretty awful. Thirty-eight minutes ago, I took my courage in hand and gave Fred the Employment Lawyer several hundred dollars to tell me exactly what I suspected: I didn’t have any proof my boss, Todd, was a fucking sexual predator, and without proof, I had no case.
“Have you gone to your HR department?” he asked after I’d outlined the situation.
“No.” Why would I have bothered when I already knew they wouldn’t believe me?
Fred looked at me over his bifocals. “That’s usually the first step unless you fear retaliation.”
“I did. I do.” Todd is malicious, and I don’t want to take the risk of having more of his nastiness and spite focused on me.
“Did you tell anyone at all?”
“No.”
He nodded. “Then we need proof. Emails. Voice recordings. Witnesses.”
“He’s smart about it.” I sat stiffly in the chair, humiliated at having to tell another human being about how I’d let this level of harassment happen to me. I’d had so much on my plate that at first it was easier to simply ignore Todd’s behavior and tell myself it wasn’t that big of a deal.
“Then you need to be smarter.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s how the law works. Once you get me that proof, we can nail his sorry ass to the wall. Can you quit?”
Not an option, not right now. I can’t jeopardize my employment, and so far I haven’t been able to find a new job. I let out a long sigh. Definitely not problems that can be solved by a chocolate muffin.
“I’ll take the Bluebell Blueberry Bomberama,” I tell Cheri, directing my attention to a decision I can control. It’s vegan and bran, more of a refueling puck than sweet treat, but thanks to Loni’s selfish toddler, it’s the only muffin left except for cardamom squash. Which is also bran.
As I mentally resign myself to a healthy dose of insoluble fiber, a blinding flash of light explodes to my left. Stars dance in my eyes for several seconds and then slowly fade away to reveal a small man wearing a Pink Panther-esque trench coat and trilby hat. “Smile, beautiful.”
I automatically obey with a reflexive grin that falls off right away, because what the fuck? He takes another picture, then a tsunami of clicks wash over me as his camera snaps and the flash pings in rapid succession. I squeeze my eyes shut and throw up my arms, holding the muffin in front of my face as protection.