The Meeting Point by Olivia Lara
Twenty-One
I call Janice, but in her usual style, she doesn’t even let me speak.
“I was about to dial your number. Do you have plans tomorrow morning?” she asks. “Andy is busy; I’m away for the weekend, Debbie is sick. I need you to go to Long Island.”
“I’m on my way to Hartford,” I say, hoping she will find someone else to ask.
“That’s fine. It’s not so far. Can’t you just drive over? It’s a one-hour thing. In and out.”
“I can’t, sorry, I have plans.”
“Maya, have we not talked about this before?”
I’m sure we have. Every time I needed to do something, I had to ask Janice for permission. Going to my mother’s birthday, a friend’s wedding, even sleeping in on a Sunday.
“I’ll email you the details,” she says.
“Wait, Janice—” I hesitate. “I can’t go to Long Island this weekend and that’s why I called. I need to take time off—a week or so. You see, David and I—”
“Who?”
“David. My boyfriend.”
Not like I mentioned his name a few hundred times in the last five years.
“We broke up and I can’t stay in New York because I don’t have an apartment.”
“Why are you telling me this? I’m not going to take you in,” she says and laughs.
“I just wanted you to know I’ll be staying with my mother in Hartford. I can’t drive to New York from there daily, so I need time off. Besides, I haven’t had a vacation in four years.”
“You can move wherever you please. If you want to make the one-hundred-plus-miles drive back and forth from Connecticut to New York each day, that’s fine with me.”
“That’s the point. I can’t.”
If she’s this aggressive when I explain a personal issue, I wonder how she would’ve reacted if I told her I’m going to California to meet a man. This woman is something else.
“What do you think this is? A telecommute job?”
“No, I don’t think that. I just need a week of vacation.”
I feel my voice is starting to crack.
“You’re so disrespectful. I gave you a second chance and everyone told me it was a mistake. There you go. Now you’re proving their point; you didn’t deserve my pity.”
We all have a breaking point. It’s that moment when you forget you’re a coward. You forget there are consequences, you have no back-up plan, and your decision will cost you.
“I work harder than anyone else. I’m there first and leave last. I write the most material, and I’m paid the least,” I say, my jaw clenched. I’m unsure if I do it not to scream or not to cry.
“Stop whining. Everyone works hard. Go to Long Island, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“No!”
“No?”
“No.”
“Are you trying to get fired?”
“Who’s going to do all the work if you fire me?”
“You are an ungrateful little brat. I should fire you.”
“You can’t, because I quit!”
“What?”
“You heard me. I quit. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”
She hangs up.