Lucy
I sit up in my chair, putting on my game face.
It’s that time of year again at Quinn & Wolfe: performance reviews. When managers morph into grumpy trolls, and we minions scramble to cram a month’s worth of work into a single week, all in a futile attempt to prove our worth. It’s our white-collar Hunger Games but with more paperwork and no Hemsworths.
Helen from HR slides a stack of papers to my boss, Andy. He inhales deeply, eyeing the pile as if it holds the weight of the world’s woes. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Flipping through the papers, he glares at Helen. “Why’s it so much longer than last year?”
She meets his scowl with a polished smile. “We’ve included a comprehensive assessment of soft skills-communication, teamwork, collaboration.” She punctuates her words with a triumphant pen tap against his file. “It’s all in there, Andy.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters under his breath.
It’s not often I agree with Angry Andy.
He sighs again, settles on the first page, and clears his throat noisily as Helen slides a copy my way.
“Productivity, excellent. Problem-solving skills, excellent…” He flips the page with the enthusiasm of a man forced to read a dishwasher manual. “Flexibility, excellent.”
As he yammers on, my attention drifts to the view outside-the Empire State Building. It’s easy to forget I’m hovering forty floors above reality when I’m elbows deep in wireframes and screen designs.
“Your designs are exceptional,” he drones. Funny, that doesn’t sound like a compliment.
Still, it’s hard to argue with “exceptional.” I blush, basking in the ego stroke. This is it. Come on, Andy, spit it out already. Lucy, you’re promoted to Lead Graphic Designer. Congratulations.
About freaking time.
“Teamwork…” Andy looks up from the paperwork. “Good, although stop covering for Matty when he sneaks out for a three-hour lunch.”
“I don’t-”
“I have eyes, Lucy, and they aren’t just for show.”
Right. I squirm in my seat. No more all-you-can-eat Turkish buffet for Matty.
Andy skims the rest of the form as if trying to beat a speed-reading record. “Attendance.” He flicks a glance my way. “Actually, you’re too early for meetings. Like a dog waiting by the door for its owner. It’s off-putting.”
I stare at him, stunned. Helen looks like she’s ready to disappear under the table.
Too early for meetings? Is that even a thing? Before I can mentally give him the finger, he’s already plowed on.
“Time management, great. Everything’s done ahead of time, in fact”-he flips the page and gives me a look that could be a smirk or a facial tic-“Steve from marketing dubbed you ‘Wonder Woman’ for your swift work on the blog design.”
I nod in stoic agreement, face carefully blank. “Just doing my job.”
Wonder Woman, my ass. More like a chronic workaholic.
To buy more time, some people claim jobs will take five days when really, they take two. Take my work buddy Matty as a prime example. Me? I’m the opposite. I’ll stay up all night to perfect a task, then breezily claim I knocked it out in a couple of hours.
“All right, let’s wrap this up.” He slams his pen down, turning to Helen. “Are we good?”
Hang on a second.
“Andy,” Helen interjects, “You skipped section 15. 8.”
“Ah, for fu-” He lets out an exasperated sigh, shooting her a look of utter contempt.
“Health and safety. Do you need any adjustments to your workspace? Ergonomic chair, ergonomic mouse, etcetera.” His hand does a lazy dance in the air. “Look, just read through the list yourself, will you?”
“We’ve got some new desk models with built-in footrests,” Helen chimes in. “Take your pick.”
“Umm, Andy,” I say slowly. “Can you just go back to what you were saying before all the ergonomic stuff?”
Grunting, he flips back a page. “Time management-”
“No, not that,” I cut in, leaning forward with my hands on the table, maybe to strangle him. “About my design output. What about the promotion?”
“What promotion?”
My eyes bug out. “My promotion?”
The one you’ve been dangling over my head for six months to get me to pick up yet more responsibility around here without extra pay, you jerk?
“Oh, right. No promotion this round.” He gives a casual shrug, shoveling his paperwork toward poor Helen as if she’s some sort of human filing cabinet. “We’ll revisit next year, yeah?”
No, no, a thousand times NO.
This cannot be happening. There’s absolutely no way I’ll be able to walk out of this office and face Matty, Taylor, and the rest of the design team without that promotion.
Keep it together. Don’t turn on the waterworks. I swear, if a single tear trickles down my face, I’m throwing myself out the window.
“Andy,” I say, attempting to keep my voice steady. “I’ve worked my butt off this year. You even said my designs were excellent.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t matter how excellent your designs are.”
I blink at him, flabbergasted. “It doesn’t?”
“You’re AWOL at networking events, you make rare guest appearances at company parties, and you couldn’t pick our senior executives out of a police lineup,” he rattles off, shaking his head. “Come promotion time, you’re practically a ghost.”
“I network!”
He arches a skeptical brow. “Name one time.”
“Fine.”
Think fast.
“The design convention four months ago!” I let out a whoosh of air in relief. That counts, right?
He sighs. “You spent the night hoarding chicken wings in the corner while the rest of the team was bent over backward to schmooze the Quinns and Wolfe.”
My mouth gapes. What a complete and utter… I knew Andy wasn’t exactly a hearts and flowers sort of boss, but I genuinely thought he appreciated a good work ethic.
“I hadn’t eaten lunch that day,” I mutter, sinking lower into my chair. “I was finishing up a project for you.”
I’m awarded a dismissive grunt in response.
I glance over at Helen, who’s nodding at me like one of those dashboard bobblehead dolls in a power suit.
I take a breath, summoning what’s left of my dignity. “Listen. I get that networking matters. But I work hard, and I think my designs speak for themselves.”
I’m no good at small talk, handshakes, and sucking up to the elite of our corporate world. I’m a designer, not a friggin’ politician.