The Plan Read online

  “Hey, when is your company’s yearly shindig? In just a couple days, right?”

  My left eyebrow lifts. Clara fishes the box down with a hanger.

  “Oh, no, you do not. Something along the lines of what I wore last year will be quite enough.” Heck the identical outfit as last year, more than likely. It’s not like anyone is gonna notice.

  “People will notice,” Clara says, as if she can hear my every thought. “I know what you’re thinking, Emma.”

  I wasn’t even kidding.

  “It does no good for Emmarella to acquire fabulous shoes if she never wears them to a ball.” One half of a pair of crystal adorned strappy heels is a pendulum from her index finger.

  1:03 a.m.

  * Textbook: Pillow.

  * Osmosis: Needs to be a viable study method.

  I AWAKE TO THE SOUND of my bedroom door being knocked on. Well, beaten on. Repeatedly.

  Needlessly, too, I might add as it is wide open.

  Clara bounces on the balls of her bare feet.

  No other parts bounce. She is disgustingly fit for someone who spends all day surrounded by baked goods.

  “Gooooood morning, Emma,” she half-slurs sarcastically and points back toward our living room. “I have something for you!”

  “Is it a sleep?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. What is it?”

  “Inspiration.” She smiles beatifically, spins, wobbles, and commences to tromp about the house.

  On the sofa sits a shopping bag filled to the brim. It bursts with items ranging from satin to silk to what I hope against hope is not white latex. Predominantly lacy, uncomfortable looking underthings. Frederick’s of Hollywood kind of things.

  I do wish there were assless chaps. Not that I would wear them. But there is nothing funnier than the words assless chaps.

  But, tangentially, answer me this: Do any chaps actually have asses?

  I enjoy lingerie even more than the next person. Don’t get me wrong.

  That being said, I am exhausted and have no wish to humor her and go through these items. Clara would never allow me to go back to sleep if I deny her this. So, with as much desire to handle objects as is typically reserved for radioactive isotopes, I reach in and grab out whatever is nearest the top.

  Electric blue coordinated bra and panty set. Nice.

  Plum and lavender inset bustier with matching cheekies. I will wear this one some day soon just for me.

  A bra so padded it could double as a Muppet. I would have to refer to my breasts as Kermit and Fozzie.

  Hot pink fishing line.

  Oh, wait. It’s a thong.

  I cannot be expected to wear a thong. I am not a stick figure. Thongs ride up my butt crack. The removal of undergarments is not supposed to launch a full scale search and rescue operation.

  I refuse to go spelunking just take off my undies.

  “I am not wearing these,” I say.

  Clara snatches them away. Snorts.

  Day of Employment:

  363

  1:11 p.m.

  * Personal Assistants Who Started Today: 3.

  * Personal Assistants Still Employed: 1.

  * Fit to be Tied: Rebecca.

  * Actually Tied: Bert and I. We placed identical bets.

  “HOW CAN I BE EXPECTED to accomplish anything constructive if I have to replace personnel every damned minute of every damned day?” Rebecca fumes. She must be very upset; her blotter and stapler no longer run at perfect, intersecting lines. She buttons, then unbuttons her suit jacket on repeat.

  Madeline smartly tucks the betting pool notebook behind her back. “Wonder why Mr. Canon is acting nastier than usual. Do you suppose it’s the holiday blues? I always hear the holiday season can cause depression and loneliness.”

  Bert laughs. “If that guy is lonely, he has only himself to blame. He probably ate all his young.”

  Oh, low blow. That hardly seems fair.

  There is no replicant technology that affords androids procreation.

  8:59 p.m.

  * Final Exam: Impossible to complete in the three hours allotted.

  “EMMA! EMMA!” A particularly nice girl from first semester study group snags me in the hallway immediately after I leave the classroom.

  “Hey, lady,” I say, as I try to cover for being unable to recall her actual name. Anything would be preferable to calling her what I remember her as: Age Inappropriate Pigtails.

  “Are you taking Klassen’s Divorce and Child Advocacy intersession course?” She scoots to the side to allow others to pass, ringlets swaying below her ears.

  “Yes, I rented the texts last night.”

  “Great,” she says. “We’re forming a study group. We’ll probably meet right after class every afternoon in room one-nineteen. See ya!”

  She leaves too quickly for me to tell her that I have to use all my vacation time every morning just to be able to attend the class. I won’t have enough time this year for any real vacation. Or study sessions. Or a life.

  Day of Employment:

  364

  8:41 a.m.

  * Laundry: Sorted. Categorized. Pre-treated.

  * Basically: Everything but actually washed.

  * Kitchen: Suffers from an appalling lack of donut.

  POUT. I AM HENCEFORTH REIMAGINING the word as more than a mere verb and noun. It denotes my entire state of being at this moment. My outlook.

  It’s a good thing today is Saturday. I’ve expended the bulk of my waking moments foraging for the day-old goods that are the greatest perk of being Clara’s roommate.

  Erm, I mean, apart from her being my oldest and dearest friend. My sister from another Mister. My Sole Sister—highest of honors between us Heel Hoors. Yikes. Must sort priorities.

  But seriously: Homer has a point. Donuts equal yum.

  “Clara, are you trying to torture me? Quash my will to live?” Cabinet doors bang. I rummage and search to no avail. Not a single cream puff to be had. Not even a stale apple spice cake donut to soak in my black gold. I mean coffee.

  Clara is missing.

  I will earmark a few minutes later in the day today to rationalize why I noticed that fact after the donuts. About forty minutes after. And a hunt that would’ve located D.B. Cooper if he had the misfortune to smell of cruller.

  She’s always home long before now. Her workday starts around 2:00 a.m. weekdays and as early as midnight for the extra heavy Saturday sales.

  That Time to Make the Donuts commercial guy was a fairly accurate portrayal of Clara’s nocturnal adventures. The more successful her entrepreneurial efforts, the more zombie-esque she has become. Which is not exactly an insult in her mind, either. One of the eccentric things that endears her to me is an inexplicable affection for the extraordinarily terrible film I Walked with a Zombie. Which, I must admit begrudgingly, may have grown on me over the years of coerced viewings.

  There are days I half expect to find a check from the Sadist Sleep Study Institute in the mail. Compensation to us both for being participants in a long-term deprivation experiment we are both far too exhausted to remember signing up for.

  Clara’s text tone sounds out. Her shop is slammed, and the help went home sick.

  No need to ask.

  My successful lobbying at work helped nudge her catering bid to victory. Even fully staffed it was shaping up to be a huge production day for her. In under three minutes, I tie my hair up, throw on blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and Keds, and back the car down the drive.

  I better at least score beaucoup donut holes for this.

  10:16 a.m.

  * Here: Flour.

  * There: Flour.

  * And Everywhere: Flour.

  “HOW’S IT GOING BACK THERE?” Clara peeks into the prep room.

  I’m up on a pallet, working at the cutting bench, giant mixing bowl on an old storage drum that sits waist high. Beside me, several metal racks await donuts to be cut from Clara’s secret recipe dough.


  She guards it like none other. It’s all very Super Secret Squirrel. Fort Knox could take tips. Colonel Sanders would tell her to relax.

  “You tell me.” I finish another roll through the dough with the cutter. She watches me pop the centers out of donut rings two at a time and place them onto a proof box screen.

  I touch the one in the lowermost right corner. “Dibs.”

  “Looks like you’ve got it under control. Reminds me of ye olde good ol’ days when you used to help out at my mom’s store.”

  “Just like riding a penny-farthing.” I poke out two more holes in her direction for emphasis.

  Clara runs back up to man the counter. Display case is all but barren. Neck deep in customers.

  “What time exactly does the demand for donuts taper off?” I call up to her. Desperation is evident in my tone. Though tonight’s catering goods are mostly complete, we still have to do the finishing flourishes and prep for transport.

  She smiles crookedly over her shoulder at me.

  I have flour in places where flour ought not be. Where people typically only complain about having sand in.

  Flour has gotten farther than anyone I’ve dated in recent memory.

  Flour needs to buy me a dozen long stemmed homophones.

  1:35 p.m.

  CLARA CALLS ME TO THE FRONT COUNTER because she says she needs me to sack orders.

  Clara: Is full of shit.

  Canon is here.

  I regret telling her his name.

  He towers over Clara. Peers over her shoulder, inspecting the individually wrapped, ornate cookies she spent the past two days making. I presume he is verifying the party order.

  I’d like to verify his parts are in working order.

  He’s wearing slacks and canvas brogues, long sleeve white shirt. Biceps strain the fabric slightly. Hair styled the same is if he were ready to take the podium and address a shareholders’ meeting.

  Coming in person is hands-on, in the extreme. Surely this could be delegated. Well, if said delegee stayed employed long enough, anyway.

  “Emma.” Clara waves me over. “Please finish up with Mr. Canon, would you?”

  I slide in. He looks over and draws back fractionally.

  This is when it occurs to me that I am coated in a layer of flour thick enough to be easily mistaken for a geisha.

  His head shakes in the negative. “No need. Everything appears to be in order. Good day.” He’s gone before the white, powdery dust cloud settles.

  “Ooo la la papa ooo mawh mawh, Emma,” Clara teases. “You can sure pick ’em. He is gorgeous. And, oh so very proper,” she says, puffing her chest up and tucking her chin in, “and stodgy.” She marches mechanically. Drops her voice low. “Very good job indeed, I dare say. Indubitably. Say, could you be a brilliant chap and help me to extract this board from betwixt my bum cheeks?”

  2:00 p.m.

  * Bakery: Closed.

  * Arms: Sore.

  * Shower: Ineffective.

  * Also: Superfluous.

  WHAT, PRECISELY, IS THE POINT of bakers showering off with vanilla and warm sugar scented body wash?

  I collapse back sideways onto my bed, hair wet and hanging over the edge.

  3:40 p.m.

  “EMMA,” CLARA TRILLS FROM MY DOORWAY. “Let’s Beau Brummell the hell out of you.”

  I don’t bother to lift my head. “It doesn’t even start for over three hours.”

  “Listen. This fixation of yours with the aloof man on your floor just isn’t like my Emma. What are those annoying words you’re always saying you do at work? Be proactive. Facilitate. Solution focused. What else?”

  This gets a partial sit-up. “Clara, I am putting it behind me, because, as you well know, that man pays me no heed. And furthermore, I’m probably lucky for it as he is the hugest of jerks. This situation doesn’t feel good, and as a rule, things that cause pain should be avoided.”

  Coincidentally, that also is my outlook on running. I think it’s a healthy outlook. Irony is chock-full of fiber.

  Clara shakes her head and smiles disbelievingly. “You? Avoid a challenge? I cannot believe such a thing.” She tames an errant curl with the hot iron. “Emma Baker. I have known you this side of forever and have never once seen you back down from a challenge.”

  “I am not going to talk to him, Clara. Exactly what have you gotten in your head that I’m going to do? Saunter right up to Canon and strike up a conversation? Dazzle him with witty banter? My rapier wit? Feign insight into world politics or whatever it is that might actually appeal to him?” My rant steams on. “Anything I have to say to him is magnificently inappropriate, at best. Like ‘Hey, now that you have a few beers in you, are you loosened up enough to speak with one of us plebes?’ or ‘Greetings, Mr. Canon, how lovely to finally meet the owner of my favorite butt cheeks.’ Or…or…or…” I stumble over a few words, sounding more upset than I feel. “‘Are your beer goggles thick enough to make me sexy?’”

  “You finished?” she asks, drumming her fingers against the doorframe.

  Squinting, I dare to ask, “Your point being?”

  “Just walk up to him and say whatever comes naturally. Whatever you say will be either brilliant or unnecessary because you are smart and beautiful, so you don’t exactly need a killer pick-up line. An annual office party is the ultimate place for people to cross corporate barriers. We’re talking drunken grope sessions under the receptionist’s desk. Copy room fornication.” She whisks a set of hot rollers out from behind her back. “Let’s make some regrets!”

  I flop back on the bed.

  5:23 p.m.

  ONE MIGHT THINK that having several hours to get ready for a party, even a rather dressy one, might be plenty. One might also think that a person such as myself who has managed to get up every day and leave the house fully and appropriately attired for multiple decades could be entrusted to accomplish the task of achieving said state of being clothed.

  Clara: Not amongst the collective “one.”

  “I happen to think I dress quite nicely, as well as on trend, thank you very much.” I slide out of the third outfit I’ve nixed.

  She holds up a women’s white tuxedo. Intended to be worn shirtless.

  I can’t say no fast enough.

  “Yes, of course you do. That’s not even in question. I would never borrow your stuff if you looked passé. And you know perfectly well that’s not my point, so stop your fidgeting.” She plops a set of false eyelashes down on the vanity. “But if your normal gorgeousness isn’t cutting it, crank it up to eleven.”

  I look at the lashes. They look back at me.

  “I will dress to the nines, but it will be for me. I used to love the holidays, and I used to take the time to make them special. So this year I will decorate me.” I half-laugh, unwinding a roller. “Say, do you still have those silicone bust extenders?”

  Clara squawks, “You wanna borrow my chicken cutlets?”

  I wince at her accurate description. “The very same.”

  7:26 p.m.

  * Official Party Start Time: 7:30.

  THERE IS NOTHING FASHIONABLE about being late.

  Crimson satin dress so shiny and bright red that dalmatians may try to ride around on top of me.

  Sparkling shoes strapped on. Dark curls cascading over my shoulders and down my back. That shadow trick with pearlescent powder finally worked.

  I may even keep from ripping these false lashes off.

  Not likely. But still. The possibility exists for the first time in the history of ever.

  “Well, helloooo, nurse.” Bert shakes his wrist like he has handled a hot spud.

  I smile and give a tiny curtsy for good measure.

  Off to the bar. Belly up.

  Rebecca is already here, resting her elbows on the bar. Shoulders hunched slightly. The constant upheaval at work may be getting to her. Overturned shot glasses line up single file in front of her like good little soldiers.

  Plus, she runs the committee t
hat puts this soiree together every year. I’m sure it’s a thankless task. Nobody really wants to come to these things or buy presents for coworkers instead of having more money for loved ones.

  I stepped in many an afternoon to run interference, keeping all the people who had “the perfect idea” for everything from music to theme to food. She would have gotten nothing done if she’d listened to each individual pitch. I sorted through the onslaught, separated wheat from chaff so to speak, and prioritized the best according to cost.

  This year, Rebecca instituted a White Elephant gift exchange, that passive-aggressive method of conveying just how little the people you see more often than family mean to you via the splendor of craptastic gifting.

  She also set the fun additional requirement that we all wear, or in some other manner utilize, our gifts at work on at least one day prior to New Year’s Day.

  I drew Bert. I shall bestow upon him a ninety-percent-off-the-clearance-price Team Jacob shirt and a defunct Borders Book Store gift card with a one dollar and seventy-eight cent balance. Adoringly gift wrapped in junk mail. Bow crafted from plastic grocery bags.

  Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

  Regret.

  Regret bagging on my shoes, Bert.

  After an exchange of a few pleasantries (read: gossip) with Rebecca, I head to the bathroom to readjust my bra and all the things that currently threaten to no longer dwell within.

  7:45 p.m.

  * Victoria: Spilling all my Secrets.

  * Holiday Party: Secular.

  THE EARLY SOJOURN TO THE BATHROOM was perfectly timed to miss our comptroller’s announcement that our company is in distress and there would be minimal bonuses this year. Most staff will get spiral sliced hams.