Big Chicas Don't Cry(14)

As soon as he was out of earshot, I started. “So I want to apologize for my attitude earlier. Obviously, I had no idea who you were. And if it makes a difference, I’ve had a crappy couple of days. But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I am sorry, and I just want you to know that I plan to be nothing but professional from here on out.”

“Okay,” he said with a curt nod and walked out of the conference room.

Wait. What? That was it?

No, it couldn’t be. I caught up to him in the middle of the hallway, just outside the copy room.

“What do you mean, okay?” I asked as I stepped in front of him.

He raised those eyebrows again. “Okay means okay. I don’t know what else you expect me to say?”

“I don’t know,” I answered with a shrug. “I guess I expected something more.”

Adrian fixed his glasses before answering. “Well, there’s not. So is that it? Can I go set up my desk now?”

I didn’t answer and instead moved out of his way. I watched him walk toward the newsroom, and for one tiny second, relief washed over me. But then my new boss stopped, turned around, and gave me more of a sneer than a smile.

“Actually, there was something else. I forgot to ask. So how was that raspberry streusel bar?”

There was no disdain or contempt this time in his tone. In fact, there was no emotion at all. And just like that, my anxiety from before came rushing back. “Um, it was good. Why?” My voice was quieter than I wanted it to be, but at least it didn’t shake.

He nodded. “Just wanted to make sure it was worth it. See you inside, Ms. Garcia.”

I stood there for a few minutes trying to comprehend what he had meant. Was he really the kind of guy who would use something like that against me? Fine, maybe I had made a scene in the coffee shop. What did it matter? No one from the paper had been around to see it. And, technically, it had all happened before nine in the morning and before he was officially my boss. Besides, I was a fucking great reporter and Charlie and Tom both loved me. If he gave me any shit, I’d go straight to them and was pretty sure they’d have my back.

So what if he had a Pulitzer or a publishing deal? I knew this town and this paper like the back of my hand, and no one, especially not some condescending transplant from Washington, DC, was going to change that.

Ms. Garcia, huh?

I could give people names too. For example, Adrian Mendes had officially become Pinche Asshole Number Two.





Chapter Seven


SELENA


“Selena, what do you think?”

Wait. Did Alan Umbridge, principal of the Umbridge & Umbridge Company, just ask for my opinion about something?

Shit.

Every one of the firm’s nine staff members was seated around the oval table inside the office’s main conference room. I had been doodling flowers and butterflies on my legal pad and daydreaming of that new Marc Jacobs wallet I had been eyeing for the past week at Neiman Marcus. Hearing my name startled me, to say the least.

I cleared my throat and pushed my glasses up. “Well, I think we should definitely incorporate some type of direct mail and frequent-user campaign. Even some type of rewards-card idea and . . .”

“No, no,” Alan interrupted. “I was asking about how many times a year do you think a person might book a round-trip bus ticket to Mexico.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not sure. I guess we could ask the company for some data from the past few years.”

“Well, of course we could ask for data, Selena. I just thought you might know off the top of your head. For example, how many times do your relatives do it?”

Now I understood what Alan Umbridge was asking. “Actually, Alan, I don’t know of any relatives that have booked a bus trip to Mexico in the past several years.”

“Really? Does that mean they don’t ever go back to visit their country?” he asked.

“This is their country,” I said very slowly and carefully.

“Of course. Well, when they do go back to visit Mexico, how do they get there?” he asked.

“Um, an airplane?” I tried not to sound sarcastic. It didn’t work. He raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, and proceeded to talk to Vera from Creative about the direct mail piece.

After the meeting I went back to my cubicle, wishing once again I had an office so I could close the door and vent all my frustration by throwing something. But I had been at Umbridge & Umbridge for five years, and I figured it would take another five before I got that office and the respect that came with it.

Instead, I was an assistant account manager hired because the company wanted to bring in more Latino clients.

They literally told me that during my interview.

Every once in a while I’d be brought in to a meeting if an existing client wanted to expand their advertising into the Spanish language media. I’d be asked what newspapers my family read or what TV shows my family watched.

One time, I even got asked what kind of food my family ate on Thanksgiving (a local pie shop wanted to know if it was worth their dollars to run a spot on a Spanish radio station advertising their Thanksgiving specials). When I responded, “Uh, turkey” in the same sarcastic tone I had used today, Henry Umbridge (Alan’s brother) actually asked, “Turkey tacos?” I almost spit out my caffè macchiato that time.