From the Jump(9)

“But sometimes you go wild and have a fling just for the fun of it, right?” Elena grins knowingly. “I mean, you can’t live your entire life doing what you’re supposed to do.”

I blink, unsure how she’s managed to make good strategic decisions sound so silly.

“Oh my gosh, Olivia!” Her eyes widen and she leans forward, fascinated. “You do, don’t you? No wonder you’re so perfect!”

I flinch beneath what feels like an accusation rather than affirmation. If it’s actually working, and this is what perfect looks and feels like, I’m suddenly terrified I’ve bought into a lie.

“I don’t know how you manage it,” Elena says. “I never do what I’m supposed to do. I tell myself I’m going to diet or date the right men or read the right books, and the next thing I know there’s an ex-felon with dreamy eyes on the couch next to me with a pizza in front of us and Netflix has paused to ask if we’re still watching. Does that really never happen to you?”

“I don’t even remember what pizza tastes like.” It feels silly to admit it, but I don’t know what else to say. A simple No, none of that has ever happened to me might sound judgmental. Anyway, the truth is the night Elena has just described sounds amazing. Obviously, I would prefer a guy without a record, but I like the sound of his eyes. And why shouldn’t I get a night on the couch?

Be fit, they say. So, every day I spend an hour of my evening under the strict instruction of my personal trainer. My legs might be perfectly toned, but my stomach is in a perpetual state of growling unrest. Be healthy. Be financially responsible. Dress for success. Be your best self. Look your best. Find a partner. Settle down. And don’t forget to go out and have fun!

But none of these goals quite go together.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to do. And look where it’s gotten me. I’m stretched thin, literally.

I’m supposed to be an independent woman. Everything I believe in is pressuring me to buy my condo. I took this stable, boring, increasingly life-sucking job with its good salary for this very reason. But everything else I’ve been told to do—the gym memberships, the skin creams, the organic almond milks and coconut waters, the overall maintenance required to play this role of the advancing career woman—eats up all the money the job brings in.

And even if I’d saved more, or if my job does provide me the credibility necessary to procure a loan, what next? I’m supposed to be able to buy my own place, but I’m also expected to believe I can achieve the plan on my inspiration board. And if I do? Well, in that case, I should have a family coming my way any minute. And I can’t raise kids in a one-bedroom apartment with a stove full of books and a stand-up shower. They’ll feel like they’re being waterboarded.

“No pizza?” Elena gapes at me with an awe that’s embarrassingly misplaced. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

“You are grown up,” I say. “And we have the same job. Only I’m here late every night while you’re out living your life. If someone’s winning, it’s you.”

Elena looks as shocked as I feel at the admission. Maybe my confession to Deiss last night has left a crack in a door I never meant to open. Thankfully, no one around us seems to have heard me.

“You don’t have to stay late just because they ask you to,” Elena says. “None of the rest of us do. I thought you were just kissing up for a promotion.”

“Sure.” She doesn’t know I often have nowhere else to go. Or that I keep naively hoping the extra work might finally result in a creative project the higher-ups will approve as is. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? That doesn’t mean I’m not sick of it.”

“But you could just stop. All you have to do is say no.” Elena’s eyes light up, and she leans in to whisper, “It feels so good saying no to them.”

Before I can formulate any kind of response, Mr. Dailey calls the meeting to order. Like a switch has been flipped, the party-like atmosphere fades. Seats groan as people settle in. Smiles sink into frowns. It’s the flaw of the Friday afternoon meeting. We’ve all just been given a glimpse of the relief of the weekend, but now we’re about to be reminded of the fresh hell awaiting us next week. It will niggle at the back of our minds on Saturday, but by Sunday night, it will be wailing like a siren, obliterating any effort to hold onto the remaining joy of the weekend.

“I’m sure you’ve all received the memo about bathroom etiquette,” Mr. Dailey says sternly.

I turn toward him and sit up straight to present the image of an enthusiastic, attentive employee who cares greatly about her coworkers’ bowel movements. My mind, however, sinks into the simplicity of Elena’s suggestion. No. For only two tiny letters, the word is strangely compelling. Intoxicating even. No. It sounds so firm. So decisive. I whisper it silently, and my tongue clicks off the roof of my mouth in a satisfying way, even as my chest tightens.

That word is the antithesis of everything I learned growing up. My mother taught me to not end up how she did, abandoned, alone, scraping to get by. If I would only do as I was told, by her and everyone else, I’d become someone better. One of the bright, beautiful people we watched on TV instead of the tired, worn-down scraps we always felt like. If I did everything right, I’d be financially solvent, have a home, and be loved. If that were true, though, why am I not? Technically, I haven’t reached any of those benchmarks yet.