Page 58 of The Frog Prince

I spend the week doing everything I should, plus following up with phone calls to the media, and although I’m tempted to call Brian Fadden, I don’t. I can’t—won’t—call him until I really have something for him, and right now my interest is more personal than professional, so I definitely can’t call.

Despite the rather frenetic pace at the office, I do finally manage to use Olivia’s gym guest pass, going every day, even though the time isn’t consistent. Some days it’s before work, other days it’s after work, and on Tuesday and Wednesday it’s during my lunch.

I even see Olivia Thursday morning before work, at the gym. She’s just finished the hybrid yoga-Pilates class, and though I’ve heard it described as a ninety-minute torture fest, Olivia walks out of the class as if it were kids’ play. She’s wearing a cropped brown athletic top and bootleg brown velvet yoga pants, and she looks as if she were still a model. I envy her. I can barely do a circuit in the weight room, and I don’t look anything like a model in my navy blue workout gear. I’m short and hippy and relatively flat-chested. But I’m here, I tell myself, and that’s what counts.

In the women’s locker room Olivia makes some small talk, but she’s fairly distant, and it’s a reminder that she hasn’t totally forgotten last week’s Tessa incident. I can’t help wondering what would happen if she found out I am actually helping Tessa with the Leather & Lace Ball.

And I don’t like the thought, because I know I’d hate the consequences.

Friday afternoon around three, Olivia calls me into her office. “You can shut the door,” she says, but it’s not really a suggestion; it’s a directive, and I do.

I sit down in one of the chairs opposite her desk and wish I’d brought a notebook and pen just so I’d have something to hold, because right now I feel like a kid called into the principal’s office.

I hate this feeling. I only ever went to the principal’s office once (no, make that twice), but the time that stands out in my memory was in seventh grade, when I put a mean note in a girl’s locker because I was jealous of her. The girl was pretty and had great hair and great clothes and tons of friends, and the cutest guy in junior high for a boyfriend. I didn’t think it was fair that she should have so much when I had so little.

So I typed up this mean letter that suggested ways she could die (I’m not proud of this). The note was typed and anonymous. But she took it to the school office, and the English teacher recognized my fluency with language (as mean notes go, it was very creative), and that visit with the principal was followed up by a meeting with my mom, followed by several sessions with the school counselor, followed by an apology to the girl, followed by a final meeting with the principal, the girl, my mom, and the girl’s family.

I learned several important things from that painful incident: (1) You won’t become more popular by telling the popular girl she should die. And (2) if you’re going to write mean things, use small words and bad grammar instead of proper syntax and diction.

“What’s going on?” Olivia finally asks after leaving me in suspended silence for nearly a minute. “You don’t seem like you’re happy here anymore.”

I’m surprised. “I’m very happy here.”

“I don’t know. Something’s different.”

I try to keep my mouth from falling open. I’m genuinely bewildered. I’ve worked really hard all week, and handling numerous events at the same time is like juggling bowling pins. There’s always something big and awkward coming up (and down), and the only way to survive is to focus and keep moving. “I think I’ve had a great week. I’ve gotten a lot done, and the Kid Fest proposal is ready to go out first thing Monday morning…” My voice trails off, and I look at Olivia and try to understand what she wants me to say, what she wants me to do.

“You’ve changed.” It’s all she’ll say, and she lapses back into silence.

I’ve changed?

I think this over, feeling obligated to think this over. Have I changed?

I’m finally going to the gym regularly. I’ve lost a couple of pounds. And I do feel more settled in San Francisco than I did a month ago. But have I changed?

“Is it a bad change?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You’re different. That’s what I’m saying.” Olivia picks up her phone to make a call. “You can leave the door open.”

I’ve been dismissed.

Back in my cubicle, I’m troubled by the brief meeting with Olivia and would very much like to discuss it with Josh, who I think has a better handle on office politics than anyone else on the payroll, but he’s down on the Peninsula, meeting with some of the Beckett School folks, and there’s no one else I trust enough to talk about this with. So I force myself to finish up what I’m working on, and at five I stop in at the gym for a fast workout before my dinner with Paul.

But the fast workout takes a little longer, and although I shower, I don’t have time to wash my hair, and it’s not looking all that hot as I try to style it at home. I shouldn’t have worked out. And I should have washed my hair. But now I’m late, and I’m making mistakes as I do my makeup—my shaking hand means a big blob of mascara right in the middle of my eye, and now my eye is tearing up and my eyeliner is smearing and I’ve got a grayish streak in my foundation beneath my eye.

Damn it.

I don’t want to be going to dinner with Paul. I don’t want Olivia being short with me. I don’t want any more problems for the next twenty-four hours.

But I’ve agreed to the date, and Olivia is mad at me, and I can’t control life, only my attitude, so I finish dressing and try to spray more hair spray on my hair in hopes of giving it some lift before dashing to my car.

*

As I drive,I panic. Tonight is starting out all wrong. You should never forget you’ve made plans and then stand your date up. And then when you book a makeup date, you should not be late. I know this, and yet I am late, and although I’m driving as fast as I can, it’s not fast enough. Traffic is heavy, and I’m impatient and tempted to lean on my horn, but I don’t.

Calm down, I tell myself. Be calm. Nothing bad is going to happen.

By the time I reach Formaggio, I’m twenty minutes late, and I lose another five to seven trying to find parking for the car since there’s no valet. I’ve never been to Formaggio before but have heard plenty about the cuisine. It’s a hip Italian-Mediterranean place that’s always packed.