Your Big Break

  My eyes travel to the photo album sitting on my bookshelf. It contains pictures of our family trip to France six years ago. Mom and Dad took me there as a college graduation present. I was twenty-two at the time. Most people that age would have dreaded a vacation with their parents, but I loved it. My father always worked such long hours that, growing up, I cherished every moment I got to spend with him. I never grew out of it. My brother was in the middle of finals, so he couldn’t go. But Mom, Dad, and I had an amazing time.

  I walk across the room and pull the photo album off the shelf. I flip through it, studying the various pictures: Mom and Dad outside the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre. Me and Dad in front of the Eiffel Tower. Me, Mom, and Dad taking a cruise along the Seine. Dad in the gardens of Versailles. Dad sipping wine in a Parisian café. Dad admiring the Mona Lisa, which had turned out to be disappointingly minuscule in person.

  The more I page through the album, the more I realize something. Dad—excuse me, Father—is in virtually every picture. Suddenly, this makes me furious. I never realized he was such a camera hog! Rather than snap a few shots of me and Mom for posterity, he insisted that his ugly mug be in every frame. Even back then, he was a selfish bastard.

  My rage grows as I continue flipping through the album, finding page after page of his smug, irritating face. Father strolling along the Champs-Elysees. Father trying on a beret in a tacky tourist shop. Father eating a croissant on our hotel balcony.

  It’s bad enough the man has ruined my family. I’m not going to let him ruin my memories of Paris, too!

  I dash over to my desk and grab a pair of scissors out of the top drawer. I start pulling the offending photos out of the album and dropping them in a pile on the bed. Once I’ve removed all the Father-tainted shots, I begin the arduous task of cutting him out while still salvaging the rest of the picture. It’s tricky, but I manage. I slice the Eiffel Tower photo straight in half, keeping myself and tossing out the lying, cheating bastard. I crop Father out of the Mona Lisa photo—no sense letting him ruin good art. I remove him from the Champs-Elysees, the gardens of Versailles, the Arc de Triomphe.

  I even tackle the croissant picture, cutting it down until all that’s left is an unidentifiable hand holding a pastry.

  When I’m finished, I slip the cropped pictures in the album and then lie back on my bed and admire my work. My photo book now contains a bizarre, scattered tour of France. To an outsider, it might appear as though these choppy prints were doctored by a psychopath. But I know better.

  I toss Father’s remains in the trash, feeling deeply satisfied.

  14

  Trey’s Tips

  “‘Regretfully, I must tender my resignation,’” I read aloud.

  “Are you quitting?” Amanda asks, coming into my office.

  I jump. I didn’t realize anyone was listening, and I’d prefer privacy.

  “No, this is for a client.”

  “I thought Trey was in charge of job resignations?”

  “Trey’s in Wisconsin,” I say for the thousandth time. Why is it that no one but me seems to remember he’s out? “I’m handling his overflow.” When I was a kid and having a bad day, my mother would say, “You can’t crawl under your bed and hide when you have a problem.” Today, I am truly wishing that I could crawl under my desk to hide. But I can’t. I have to sit at it and pretend to be a normal person. I have to pretend that I never spoke to Sean, never cut up those pictures. I have to pretend that I didn’t stay up until 4:00 a.m. last night, watching TV and trying not to cry.

  “Dani, this letter you’re writing sucks.”

  I have to pretend I don’t want to strangle Amanda.

  “It’s a rough draft.” I continue reading: “‘I have greatly enjoyed being in your employ these last three months. I feel my time at Morgan Keegan has allowed me to grow both personally and professionally.’”

  Amanda grabs my spare chair and starts pulling it around my desk.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in class right now?” I ask, giving her a pointed look. I’m on a tight deadline. It’s 9:30 a.m., and this letter of resignation has to be signed, sealed, and delivered to the client within an hour.

  “Nope. Summer term doesn’t start for another two weeks.”

  “Shouldn’t you be working on our website?”

  She shakes her head. “Craig’s got to approve the template I designed before I can move forward.”

  “Then don’t you have some other work to do?” Why won’t she take the hint?

  “I’ve got nothing to do,” she says, sitting down beside me, “so Craig wants me to shadow you for the day. He says it will be a great learning experience.”

  Just what I need. “Fine,” I say with a tight smile. I get back to the letter. “‘However, at this stage in my career, I feel I need to refocus my efforts on obtaining an advanced business degree—’ ”

  “Why are you reading it out loud?”

  “To get a sense of the flow.”

  “I think it’s too formal.”

  “I’m—I mean he’s—resigning from a job. It’s supposed to be formal.”

  “You can be professional without being formal,” Amanda argues.

  “Let’s look at Trey’s notes,” I say firmly, searching through the papers on my desk. “He left instructions on job resignations.”

  “What makes Trey the be-all-end-all expert?”

  “He used to work for a job placement firm,” I tell her. “He rewrote people’s résumés and cover letters, and coached them on interviewing skills. It’s ironic. Trey spent three years helping people land jobs. Now he’s helping people quit them.”

  Amanda shrugs. “It’s a natural progression.”

  “I’ve written letters of resignation before,” I assure her. “The problem with this guy is he only worked at Morgan Keegan for three months. Now he’s bailing out to attend night school part-time. How do you spin that?”

  “Just tell the truth.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out some Tootsie Rolls. “Want some?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks. It’s not that simple. Our client doesn’t want to burn bridges. If the MBA program doesn’t work out, he might reapply for his old job.”

  She unwraps a Tootsie Roll and pops it into her mouth.

  “Aha!” I exclaim, locating Trey’s notes in the stack. “Now we’re in business!”

  “Or out of it,” she cracks, “if you want to get technical.”

  I scan the page, which is a list of bulleted points.

  Trey’s Tips for Letters of Resignation

  • Professionalism is key

  • Be clear, concise, and, above all, confident

  • Avoid emotionally charged phrases: I want, I must, I need, I feel

  • Avoid doubtful phrases: I wish, I hope, I think, I fear

  • Maintain a positive attitude

  • If possible, word the letter in the third person

  • Use the word “I” as infrequently as possible

  “What does it say?” Amanda asks, leaning over. I can smell the chocolate on her breath.

  I hand her the piece of paper. “Third person?” I wonder aloud. “Is Trey kidding?”

  Amanda laughs. “It’d sound bizarre, like people who talk about themselves in the third person. ‘Amanda hates her job. Amanda is quitting. Amanda’s boss is a pain in the ass!’”

  “What?!” Craig screams, bursting through the door.

  Sometimes I think he hangs around outside my office all day.

  “Craig, I didn’t mean it like that!” Her face is beet-red, and she looks to me for help.

  “We’re working on a job resignation letter for a client,” I explain.

  Craig’s relief is visible.

  “According to Trey, we’re supposed to write it in the third person,” I continue.

  Craig nods, “That’s basic business writing one-oh-one. You don’t use I. But you don’t have to stick to third person proper.” He starts out the door, then sto
ps. “Dani, I’m counting on you to give Amanda the tour of duty today.”

  Tour of duty? This isn’t a war zone.

  Well, not on most days.

  “Will do,” I promise.

  Craig leaves, and I go back through the letter and clean it up, taking out some of the more emotionally charged phrases and cutting I’s.

  Please accept this letter of resignation, effective immediately. Though brief, my time with Morgan Keegan has allowed for both personal and professional growth. At this stage, it is paramount to concentrate my efforts on obtaining an advanced business degree.

  I work diligently, addressing the three-months-on-the-job issue as best I can by placing emphasis on the importance of education. When I’m finished, I read the letter out loud. Amanda and I both agree that it does sound better. I print it out.

  “Let’s go,” I say, rising from my desk. I place a copy of the resignation letter in a manila folder. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Where are we going?” Amanda asks, hoisting herself up.

  “To drop this off at Morgan Keegan,” I say. “After that, I’m taking you to meet the biggest womanizer in all of Boston.”

  “The biggest womanizer in Boston?” She eats another Tootsie Roll. “Who’s that?”

  “His name’s Evan Hirschbaum, and he’s Your Big Break’s number-one client.”

  “Number-one client, eh?” She raises an eyebrow. “This should be fun.”

  “Fun?” I repeat with a laugh. “Try baptism by fire.”

  “I thought I was going to meet a world-famous womanizer,” Amanda gripes, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

  “You are. But first I’m going to introduce you to an ex-girlfriend of his.”

  It’s just past 11:30 a.m., and we’re standing on the doorstep of Sophie Kennison’s apartment building in Cambridge. “I live a few blocks from here,” I muse, ringing the buzzer. “I didn’t realize we were neighbors.”

  Amanda sighs. “I hope this doesn’t take long. I’m hungry.”

  “You ate all those Tootsie Rolls,” I point out.

  “They’re not lunch.” She groans. “I need something more substantial.”

  I push the buzzer again. A weary voice calls, “Hello?”

  “Sophie?”

  Silence. Then, “Who’s asking?”

  “This is Danielle and Amanda from Your Big Break,” I supply.

  “And?”

  “We’d like to come up and talk to you.”

  “No,” she says sharply.

  Great, we’re playing it this way. I lean closer to the buzzer. “Sophie, it’s really important that we see you.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “It will only take ten minutes,” I try.

  She pauses. “My apartment’s a mess. I don’t want any company.”

  “Why don’t we go out for coffee?” I suggest. “Our treat.” Technically, it’s Evan’s treat, since it’ll be coming out of his retainer.

  “I hate coffee.”

  “Soda?” I suggest.

  “Not thirsty.”

  “You want to grab lunch?”

  Amanda nods enthusiastically, but Sophie replies, “Not hungry.”

  “Picky, picky!” Amanda whispers in my ear, and I hope Sophie doesn’t hear her.

  “Is there anything you are in the mood for?” I ask, trying to hide my exasperation.

  “Ice cream,” she tells me. “I could go for some ice cream.”

  “Ice cream it is!” I say brightly.

  “Let me throw on some clothes. I’ll be down in five minutes.” She clicks off.

  Amanda nudges me. “I bet she’s a porker. Who eats ice cream before noon?”

  “Shhh! You shouldn’t talk about people like that. Sophie is beautiful.”

  Amanda says coyly, “Beautiful as in big, beautiful woman?”

  “Not even close. She probably weighs a hundred and five pounds soaking wet.”

  “Oh.” Amanda seems genuinely disappointed. “Then why the ice cream?”

  “Ice cream and chocolate are the biggest breakup comfort foods.”

  She smiles knowingly. “So, we’re here to wallow?”

  “Console. And convince.”

  “Convince?”

  “We’re going to convince her she’s better off without Evan Hirschbaum.”

  “Exactly how do you plan to pull that off?” Amanda asks skeptically.

  “Wait and see,” I promise, winking slyly. Deep down, though, I’m starting to feel scared. Ever since the Gretchen fiasco, I’ve been feeling scared all the time. After Garrett dumped me last year, I was devastated. It took me so long to get to a place where I felt confident again. And now Gretchen has come along and crushed all of that.

  When Sophie comes out a few minutes later, I’m taken aback by how gaunt she appears. Her skin is ghostly pale; her hair is limp; her eyes are framed by dark circles. Despite her promise to put on clothes, she appears to be wearing pajamas. She bears no resemblance to the stunning, vivacious sex kitten I broke up with two weeks ago. Back then, she looked like a model: strikingly tall, with huge, gray eyes, flawless flaxen skin, and white-blond hair. She looked exotic, Nordic. Today, she looks like a corpse. Or a college student in the middle of finals week, running on no sleep and propped up by coffee and junk food.

  “There’s a Ben and Jerry’s around the corner,” she says dully.

  “Lead the way!”

  We fall into step behind Sophie. “Did you have a nice vacation?”

  “I was wondering about that. How did you know I went to Connecticut?” She stops dead in her tracks. “Did he tell you?”

  Uh-oh. “No, your landlord did,” I improvise.

  “Nice try, but I don’t have a landlord.”

  “Strike one,” Amanda quips under her breath.

  Sophie starts walking again. “It was Evan, wasn’t it?” she asks.

  “Yes, it was Evan,” I admit.

  “Well, I’m so thrilled Evan has time to talk to you!” She stops and puts her hands on her hips. “Because he’s certainly made it a point of avoiding me,” she shouts.

  “Sophie, Evan’s feelings have changed,” I say gently. “He still cares about you, but he’s got to focus on his career.” This is Evan’s standard excuse. He insists that we use it. I don’t know why. It never goes over well.

  “Focus on his career,” she scoffs. “Focus on some exotic dancer is more like it. Isn’t that who he’s dating this week?”

  That sounds about right. “Evan’s law practice is extremely important to him. He doesn’t have time for a relationship.”

  She starts walking again. “But he has time for casual sex,” she says.

  We reach the Ben & Jerry’s ice cream parlor and head inside.

  “What are you having?” I ask, pulling out my wallet.

  “Who’s paying?” Sophie wants to know.

  “I am.”

  “But ultimately, it’s coming out of Evan’s pocket, right?”

  “Yup,” Amanda pipes up. “Every cent.”

  “Maybe I’m hungrier than I thought.” Sophie studies the menu. “I’ll have two scoops of Cherry Garcia, three scoops of Phish Food, one scoop of Chubby Hubby, and one scoop of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. For here.”

  The acne-faced boy behind the counter bursts out laughing. “You serious, lady?”

  “Lady? How old do I look to you?” she demands.

  “Thirty-five?” he guesses.

  She leans across the counter. “I am twenty-four! And I am not a lady, I’m a girl!”

  I feel sorry for the clerk, and I understand his mistake. Ordinarily, Sophie looks her age, but today she’s so run-down that even I would have pegged her for much older.

  “You want the ice cream or not?” The counter boy isn’t laughing anymore.

  “Yes.” She repeats her order. “Two scoops of Cherry Garcia, three scoops of Phish Food, one scoop of Chubby Hubby, and one scoop of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.” I can
’t believe she remembered it.

  “That’s seven scoops, you know.”

  “I can add.”

  He smirks at her. “I’m going to put it in more than one container.”

  She stares him down. “I couldn’t care less how it’s prepared.”

  Amanda and I have been silently observing this exchange. We watch as the clerk fixes Sophie’s massive ice cream order. When it’s ready, he shoves a tray with all the containers at her.

  “I’ll snag us some seats,” she says, trotting off with her enormous purchase. She stops in front of a small table in the corner and begins laying her cups of ice cream out in a circular formation. It looks ridiculous, as though she’s ordered for a family of four.

  Amanda settles on a vanilla shake, and I get a scoop of Cherry Garcia. Then I fish out my company Visa card and hand it over. I don’t glance at the total. I’m not paying for it directly, but this feels extravagant, wrong.

  We sit down across from Sophie, who is absentmindedly stirring a plastic spoon through her Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. “I used to hate ice cream,” she complains. “Evan was the one who turned me on to it. Of course, I wasn’t the one doing the eating.”

  “I don’t get it,” Amanda says, slurping her shake.

  I know where this is headed, but I’m powerless to stop it.

  “Evan was an enthusiastic lover. He found very creative uses for ice cream.”

  “You mean, like, in bed?” Amanda asks, widening her eyes.

  Sophie smiles coyly. “Evan and I used all kinds of foods during lovemaking: whipped cream, cantaloupe, strawberries, chocolate sauce . . .”

  I wonder if Father uses these things with his mistress. Don’t go there. Do not go there. . . .

  Amanda is incredulous. “I didn’t think people actually did that in real life.”

  “You’ve never mixed food with sex?” Sophie asks, looking surprised. “Never poured honey all over a lover’s body, then licked it off?”

  People are starting to stare. A young mother shoots us an angry glance as she yanks her son away from our table.