The Herd(50)
“I just really miss her,” I said finally.
* * *
—
Aurelia bustled out at one point, giving me a sharp nod hello and then announcing she would be canceling Monday Mocktails. The hired bartender was from a buzzy Japanese bar, and the Herders seemed disappointed as she spread the word. But I was relieved, knowing I wouldn’t have to look up in the darkened afternoon to see throngs of cheerful women sipping virgin lychee mojitos.
Mikki invited Hana and me to dinner at her apartment in Greenpoint: “All carbs, probably Italian, and we’re watching Project Runway in lieu of talking, obviously.” Hana and I both liked the sound of that, and as the sun plunged lower and lower I tied up loose ends: confirming Fatima wouldn’t tell anyone what she’d seen on Click (Bitch I break laws for a living lol you have nothing to worry about); drafting an email for Erin explaining this new book idea wouldn’t work out either. But discomfort buzzed in me whenever my mouse hovered over the Send button. Maybe I wasn’t ready to call it quits? Maybe I needed someone to tell me this was worth pursuing, now more than ever?
Mikki and I grew antsy as the crowd thinned, murmuring on their way out about the canceled Mocktails and the denial of their God-given right to tangerine-ginger fizzes. Hana pretended not to notice our fidgeting as she typed madly at her computer.
“Sorry, guys, I’m just racing to get this news alert out before the end of the day,” she eventually said, her eyes swinging up. “God, I never thought this was an announcement I’d be planning.”
The Herd’s official closing time neared and then rolled past. Aurelia popped over, blinking in the light.
“You guys heading out soon?” she said with as much friendliness as she could muster.
“We can lock up,” Hana said, her face bluish from her laptop’s glow.
“And we’ll be out of here soon,” I added on behalf of all of us, because I felt tired and ungenerous and eager to get the fuck out of there. Aurelia said good night and I herded us into the coatroom and plucked my puffer from a hanger. We were looping scarves and tugging on hats when a sudden round of gunfire made us freeze.
It started again. Not gunfire—drums, a drum line. Snares and bass, now a cymbal crash. Hana, Mikki, and I grabbed our things and hustled out of the coatroom and into the sunroom, pressing up against the windows. On the street below, we could just make out a troupe of drummers, their marching-band uniforms decorated to look like nutcrackers. One of them blew a whistle and then they broke into their most elaborate cadence yet, their arms a blur, the plumes on their cylindrical hats bobbing, and the half-circle of spectators shook their shoulders to the beat and lifted their phones high, recording. In the windows of the buildings around us, silhouettes appeared. I pulled my phone from my purse and held it to the glass, but all I could see was our reflections.
“Can we somehow turn the lights off in here?” Hana asked, tapping at her screen.
“The switches are all the way at the front desk,” I said.
The drum corps was marching in time to the music now, forming shapes visible only from above: a starburst, a cross, a triangle—no, a Christmas tree.
“This is so cool. I’m gonna see if I can get it from the roof.” Hana turned toward the staircase, tucked back by the coatroom and fitness studio.
Ten floors below, a percussionist whaling away on a triangle dropped the instrument, whipped off his hat, and launched into a confident back handspring. The crowd went wild, their screams and whoops reaching up through the glass. I leaned my head against the window, feeling its coldness on the space between my brows, on the third eye.
“Are you okay?”
I turned to Mikki and saw that she was looking behind her. At first she just sounded confused, but when she repeated herself, her voice tightened up into concern: “Hana, what’s wrong?”
I spun around and saw Hana at the far end of the room. She’d dropped to her knees and her chest was heaving so hard, we could see it from here. Not just see it—hear it, a rasping hee-hah, hee-hah.
“Hana?” I called, more quietly than I intended. Go to her, my brain shot out, but my feet were glued to the floor.
“What’s going on?” Mikki took one small, scared step forward. “Are you okay?”
Hana opened her mouth but what came out was a strangled mewl. She kept lifting her finger to the ceiling and gaping her mouth like a fish.
The spell broke and I rushed to her, dropping onto my own knees and sliding the last couple feet between us. Outside the drum line did a frantic crescendo, echoing around the buildings, boomeranging booms. I grabbed her shoulders. “Hana, what is it?”
She looked at me, her eyes widening.
“Eleanor,” she said, her voice hysterical. “She’s on the roof.”
PART III
CHAPTER 13
PLEASE STOP SAYING YOU SUFFER
FROM IMPOSTOR SYNDROME
By Hana Bradley Published to Gleam On April 10, 2019
Hi, Gleam Team! Hana here—publicist for Gleam and the Herd. In PR, I’m lucky to work with ambitious, accomplished, hardworking people who inspire others…much like yourselves! And you’d probably be shocked to hear that many of the women I work with come to me with a confession. They lean in and say it softly, like they’re letting me in on an awful secret: I feel like a fraud. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m not sure I deserve to be where I am. That’s right: These incredible, inspiring people are diagnosing themselves with Impostor Syndrome.