Page 3 of The Game Is Afoot

Anyway, it’ll all be better once I finally, finally get this promotion. I’ve had to focus on that, had to put my head down and work, because with Corey here and present as a co-parent,notdoing that would just be wasteful. Once I get it, though, I can stop putting so much of my mental energy toward daily existential crises and have more time to do…whateverit is I need to do so my heart doesn’t beat so fast all the time. And yes, that goalpost for when I can finally rest is constantly moving, but this time,for realthis time, once I hit it, I will garden and walk and actually do something just for myself like paint my nails or get my eyebrows done because these things are out of control, and not in the cute Gen Z way, but in the way that’ll have Gen Z making Bigfoot truther videos on TikTok. I will finally be able to breathe. Because why is it so hard to breathe?!

“Um, Mommy? You’re in the red zone,” Pearl says, sticking her face close to mine. I can see the eye boogers I missed when I washed her face. “Jack says when you’re in the red zone, you should squeeze a squishy ball or do a calming dance or drink a glass of water.”

“I have been drinkingsomuch water. I’m not convinced humans are supposed to drink this much water. Like, is this a conspiracy between the water bottle companies and…I don’t know—Big Water? Making us drink all this water?”

“Big Water?” Corey laughs.

“Also, you’re supposed to take deep breaths. Jack says to take deep belly breaths to get yourself back in the green zone.” Pearl demonstrates this, eyes wide to make sure I’m paying attention, but instead of getting closer to the green zone, I just move even farther in the red. Crimson. Maroon. Because after learning about these zones at school as part of the new social-emotional education initiative, Pearl’s been diagnosing my colors constantly. When we were on our third chapter of Percy Jackson before bedtime and I was dozing off (blue). When I caught her trying to lure a squirrel in the back door because he looked lonely (yellow). And let me tell you, when you’re trying to stop your daughter from potentially contracting rabies, it’s real annoying to be told what color you are (red). The school psychologist didn’t seem to take that into consideration when he was enlisting the whole second grade into his color zone police force.

“Remember, you’re supposed to call him Mr. Cohen, baby girl.”

“I know, but it’s soooo hard to call him Mr. Cohen when he’s at our house all the time, and Icancall him Jack then. Also, he doesn’t even care, I don’t think, because he barely even says anything when I call him Jack at school. And he thinks you should take deep breaths, too.”

Yeah, that school psychologist spreading the annoying color gospel is also my boyfriend of a few months. And it’s a good thing he’s cute (and incredibly kind and supportive and in possession of green reading glasses that make my stomach do somersaults when he puts them on) because what do you meanhe thinks I should take deep breaths, too?

My eyes dart to Corey because that’s another thing that’s new. Not Corey and I being divorced—that was finalized a long time ago—but him being around when I’m dating someone else. Me dating at all, actually.

But he’s kneeling on the ground, his face hidden from me, as he scratches behind Polly’s ears.

“I need to give you some love, don’t I, Polly Olly Oxen Free? Because you’ve been waiting so patiently, haven’t you, girl?”

She wags her tail and squirms her whole body in appreciation, and Pearl drops down, too, to kiss the top of her head.

“Ewww, ewwww! What’s that? My knee is wet!”

“Whoops, it looks like she peed a little. I guess she was excited to see me. You got a change of clothes, Pearl girl?”

Something tells me I’m about to experience the whole damn rainbow of zones by the end of this day.

Two

I’m in the puce zonewhen I go to pick up Pearl from her after-school theater class.

Or whatever color is uglier than puce.

Dark mustard.

Beige.

Because Rose went off script in my performance review.

I was prepared for the tears. I was prepared for the love bombing and gaslighting—orfawning for five minutes over my clearance blazer from Old Navyandtaking just a moment to look at things through another lens. I was prepared for her to blame Project Window’s shoestring budget, even though they somehow found the funds to hire a middle manager last fall.

What I wasn’t prepared for was her bringing up my reward money.

God, even hours later, sitting in my car instead of across from Rose and her rancid-smelling mason jar of kombucha, my stomach is still churning with rage and regret.

“I’m so glad you got all that money from that principal at Pearl’s school, Mavis. It’s so hard to live this nonprofit life attimes. You know thatnoneof us are paid what we deserve. But I mean, how fortunate that you were set up like that! That you don’t have to worry!”

I should have explained I still have plenty to worry about. I should have told her that, actually, my finances outside of my salary are none of her business, thank you very much. Whatisyour business is the labor that I’ve given this company for almost eight years, which you’ve exploited as you sit high up on the perch of your moral high ground, trusting that the importance of our mission will keep me in line. And hey, if you want to talk about hownoneof us are paid what we deserve, then okay, yeah, let’s talk about your Tesla and your Goop meal delivery and what salary you’re bringing home to deserve all that.

But instead I sat there blinking at her like I was a robot who just got rebooted, my default code-switching, nice-accommodating-Black-person programming taking over.

“Isowish we were able to give you a salary increase this year, and Nelson here can vouch for just how much we tried to make it work.” Her eyes flicked to Nelson, the aforementioned middle manager, who at least had the decency to look sheepish when he showed up for my performance review, less than five months with Project Window under his belt. “But I truly believe that everything works out the way it’s supposed to, and how wonderful that you got that cushion. The universe always provides!” Rose clutched her vaguely ethnic printed scarf around her shoulders and smiled. “And from what I’ve heard, it provided you with alot!” She did an infuriating little shimmy as she cooed that last word.

Nelson’s eyes went wide before wincing, and that’s all the confirmation I needed that he’s the one who told Rose about the reward money. It makes sense, with how his wife, the school librarian, was wrapped up in the whole sordid drama. I wanted tograb him by the collar of his Death Star–printed button-down and demand an explanation, but again, nonconfrontational, professional robot Mavis was running the show. So I just—beep boop—thanked her for her time and stood up to leave.

“And if youarelooking for any extra ways to practice your leadership skills, I am still searching for someone to run our upcoming series of DEIB courageous conversations. It starts next week because, yay, it’s almost February! Happy Black History Month! Your voice and perspective are so valuable to us, Mavis. And there’s afifty-dollarstipend!”

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