Page 26 of The Shake Off

My apartment might be a tiny one bed, but thankfully, my landlord had the foresight to add a half bath into what used to be a hallway closet, so guests didn’t have to traipse through to the bedroom. Though maybe I’d be tidier if they did.

Probably not.

I peered into the box of polishes, and called to Kit, “Hey, can you grab me some cotton rounds and polish remover while you’re up, please?”

“I thought you had a pedicure at lunch,” she said, returning two minutes later with the items I’d hollered for and put them on the table.

“I was supposed to, but I had a meeting run over with my boss.”

“Is she letting you go yet?”

I shook my head with a groan. “Nope.”

“Oh, that sucks.” She reached for the corkscrew and the new bottle of wine. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Not for a while. I think I need to quit and start over somewhere else.”

Kit stopped pulling on the cork. “Isn’t that a little drastic?”

“I don’t know what else to do,” I shrugged.

There was another loud squeak as she eased open the bottle. “Pay, you’re good at your job. Your boss loves you.”

“She loves that I do all her work for her,” I snapped. “I work my ass off, but I don’t get paid nearly as much as I should do for the amount I do. I’ve fallen into a trap of being indispensable yet cheap, and no woman should ever be cheap. Plus, I don’t want to edit children’s books forever. There’s only so many fluffy bunnies chasing a carrot I can take.”

“But I love all the fluffy bunny books,” she grinned, “so does Bell.”

“Well, if I ever get to move, I’ll keep you in grown up books instead.” I smiled, though I could feel the annoyance starting to rise at thought of never getting out of the fortieth floor. “Want a rom-com? Thriller? Historical?”

“Oh, I’ll take historical for a thousand,” she replied, in her best Jeopardy contestant voice.

“You got it,” I said, soaking a cotton round in polish remover. “What are you teaching right now?”

“Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.”

“Oh God, depressing. No wonder you need wine.”

Kit and I had met on our first day of college at Columbia. I was moving into my dorm room and found Kit sitting on a chair – on the left-hand side – having already unpacked, made her bed, and added her retro posters of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens book covers to the wall. She’d also tidied her desk, setting out all her note pads and Post-its in color order, and put all the pens in a pot by a plant that lasted a month when we both forgot it needed watering. I promptly dumped the large box I had under one arm on the floor, left my suitcase by the door, and suggested we go to the nearest bar which would accept our fake IDs, and get to know each other better.

Before the first drink arrived, we discovered we were both English Lit majors, and have been inseparable since. The only difference between us, aside from the obvious that she’s the neat freak whereas I can always find something better to do than tidy, is that Kit knew from our first year she wanted to pursue teaching, whereas I wanted to be a book editor, and I couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a semester on Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf.

“Tell me about it,” she winked, and glanced at the television. “Ooh, the game is starting.”

I let out a gasp, nearly dropping the polish remover all over the floor. “Holy shit, is that President Andrews taking the first pitch? How did I not know this?”

We both watched Emily Andrews, the small, blonde-haired President of the United States, walk out onto the Citizens Bank Park field. Even sitting at home on the comfort of the couch, you could tell that this woman meant business – dressed in her sports jacket and ball cap bearing the Presidential seal, and a pair of jeans and sneakers. Her features were schooled into that steely but smiley expression she always wore, like she’d order your assassination but give you a mom hug first.

It never faltered.

President Andrews conducted every aspect of her life the same way; from winning the election in an almost state-wide sweep last year to the determination she exuded when taking on Congress, and the world. This woman fought to win, and most of the time, did exactly that.

We watched as she stood on the mound, right where Ace usually positioned himself, and leaned back. The ball flew out of her arm and straight into the Phillies pitcher’s glove to a deafening cheer and encore of the Star-Spangled Banner.

“Jeez, she must have been practicing. That looked powerful.”

“Yeah. She’s probably had the team at The White House all week showing her how to do it,” Kit replied with a nod. “Hey, did I tell you Radley Andrews is considering Columbia for the fall?”

I turned to her with wide eyes. “Radley, her daughter? No. That’s cool.”

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