by tweaking the wording, we are doing them a service. I hear my inner voice say, This is wrong.
“She said ‘spanking.’ That’s it.”
I tried. But we’re not going to use the word Alix wants: beating.
“I’m sure we can substitute a word here or there,” Alix says quickly. “Since it’s broader than spanking, and it means virtually the same thing. Just run it by her.”
I swallow hard, and then I hear myself say, “No.”
“No, what?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t beat her children, Alix.”
“Liz, I know we can get her to agree to that line,” Alix says. “Otherwise the story won’t work for a cover line, and we have no time for a replacement.”
Stomach clenching, I realize it will be a race to the finish line to make it to JFK on time tonight, and most likely I’ll be working on the plane and through the rest of my trip.
“Always finding problems, never the solutions,” Alix says out of the corner of her mouth.
I catch it, dropping my shoulders. “I’ll call her and see what I can get her to say.”
“Good,” says Alix just as Jeffry Clark, our new executive managing editor hired by Cynthia out of a digital media agency, strolls in. MacBook Air in one hand, his other is in his jeans’ pocket, male entitlement emanating off of him with every unhurried step. His Bushwick beard and inked sleeves read carefully studied hipster, but in the past few months his consulting-driven management style has meant he’s anything but relaxed, constantly on us to find new “efficiencies,” just like his annoyingly foreshortened name.
“Alix, Liz. Have you figured out who’s writing this story yet?”
“Liz will do the first draft and I’ll top-edit the Monday after next when it’s done,” says Alix before I’m even able to respond. “Liz, you speak French, right? You can track down the French moms living in the States.”
“We’re going to need to make sure the subjects are available to shoot next week. Who’s prepping?” asks Jeffry.
“I’m out next week,” says Alix. “Turks and Caicos, remember?”
“Well, someone’s got to be here to manage the shoot. The assistants can’t handle it.”
No... NO, I think simply as images of my Parisian trip come tumbling down. Alix points her gaze directly at me. “Liz can handle it, I’m sure,” she says.
“I’m out, too, next week. Remember the press trip you wanted me to go on? What if I find American mothers living in France?”
“That won’t work.” Alix shakes her head no. “They need to be based here.”
“Sorry, Liz, you’re going to have to cancel the trip,” he says. “Alix has a family reunion in the Caribbean she can’t miss. You can go to Paris anytime. We need coverage here. I’ll let the PR firm running the trip know.”
I can’t quite think what to say with the two of them staring at me. Refuse them and I’ll be fired and probably blacklisted from the entire industry. I flash to my shameful $7,897 of credit card debt, courtesy of a stream of bridesmaid-related expenses over the past few years, my rent check, the upcoming $505 reoccurring student loans payment reminding me every month that I chose the priciest liberal arts education so I could make the very connections landing me here.
“Alix, please, is there another way?”
“I’m sorry, Liz. It’s not my job to clean up your mess. You could have handled it if you were more efficient with your time.”
“But I always have to take on the workload of other staffers out on maternity leave on top of my own. You know that.”
“You always seem to have excuses,” Alix says. “If you had children, I’d understand, but tell me why is it such a big deal to stay late a few nights a month when you have no real responsibilities otherwise?”
All of a sudden, my face feels hot. I had always figured hard work would be rewarded, but apparently the joke is on me. If I were a mother and in the right “box,” I’d have a legitimate excuse. But I haven’t been able to make that happen yet. And until I do, no matter how hard I work, I won’t count. Fuck it.
“No.”
“What?” Alix says.
“I can’t,” I respond, simply.
Alix’s eyes narrow. “Liz, your attitude has been holding us back for too long. I need to talk to Cynthia.” As she turns to leave, I inhale a whiff of her noxious, old-school perfume and I gag. Doubling over, I begin to dry heave.
“Liz, are you okay?” asks Jeffry. He and Alix rush to my side, as they tell me to breathe. Finally, I straighten up. “I’m sorry, I, uh, I don’t know what happened. I’ve been feeling a little off lately,” I stammer. Just then, an eerie giggle lets out from my old phone.
PUSH! :) Notification! Week 16: Congratulations! Your baby is now the size of a kumquat! Time to start some squats! Baby Smiles: 0!
I fumble to mute the sound and click the screen closed, but it’s too late. “Oh, God. Not you, too,” Jeffry whispers.
“Are those maternity jeans?” gasps Alix.
I go completely blank, and then I hear words coming out of my mouth I don’t recognize as my own. “Yes. Me, too.”
Jeffry’s attention is riveted on me now.
Did I really just say that?
For a few seconds, they are speechless. “Wait, Liz, are you pregnant?” Alix jumps in.
With my eyes fixed on the floor, my whole body freezes. I don’t say yes, but I don’t say no. A few seconds pass. There’s a spasm in the pit of my stomach.
“Well, then, that settles it. We can’t do anything now. Jesus,” says Jeffry.
“When are you due?” Alix says.
I look down at the app. “October 20.”
“Huh,” says Jeffry, confused. “I didn’t know you...had a boyfriend...a partner.”
“Because it’s none of anyone’s business,” I say. Where is this confident Liz coming from? “By the way, Jeffry,” I add, “Alix asked me to alter one of the tiger mom’s quotes to make it say that she beats her children, but it’s not true.”
Alix’s and Jeffry’s faces both display a look of shock.
And then I lean over and throw up the contents of Pippa’s baby shower into Alix’s wastebasket.
