Page 7 of Not Bad for a Girl

I thought for a moment. “He’s a guy on my development team, butI don’t think we’ve ever talked,” I said. I scrolled down to read the message. “Indiana! Bro! You saved us from the Hammer. Have a drink on me tonight.”

“Aw, looks like they really appreciate what you did for them, bro.” Patrick grinned at me.

“That was really nice of him,” I said. “Like, weird, but—”

The phone dinged again, and I again read aloud. “Allen Parks has paid you five dollars.” I thumbed the message open.All hail the King!I read, noting the emoji of beer glasses clinking.

“Like, what is happening right now?” I asked myself. “I feel like I’m being initiated into some sort of secret club.”

“Maybe you are. Do they all think you’re a dude?” Patrick asked. He grabbed my phone and opened the Venmo app. “Well, no wonder,” he said. “Your profile pic is Indiana Jones.”

My cheeks reddened. “Well, he’s the more famous of the two of us, so…” I wiped my hands clean and pulled up my work email on my phone. There were other messages as well, thanking me for the early start to the weekend and for “taking one for the team” by pointing out Hammer’s mistake. “So it looks like a lot of people think I’m a man now. Those two little letters in Hammer’s email got out of hand quickly.”

“So none of your new coworkers have actually seen you? No camera? No conference calls? Nothing?”

I tried not to get defensive. “Well, I’m not exactly a commanding presence, you know? I figured if I kept face time to a minimum, they might respect me a little more. I didn’t think they would think I was a guy. I just thought they wouldn’t see me as a little girl,” I said. “It’s going to be so awkward to send out a message Monday morning correcting my gender.Or should I just add pronouns to my signature? I feel like it’s getting to the point where I’m going to have to address it.”

“How would you do that? Like a gender-reveal email? ‘It’s a Girl!’ that rains pink confetti when you open the message? I would probably die from secondhand embarrassment if you did that. So maybe you don’t.”

“Don’t tell them?”

“Or don’t correct them. You’re right—this is a good opportunity to let people see your work instead of you. You’re like that blob of clay.”

“This one specifically?” I asked, turning back to my bird. It was looking more and more disturbing.

“Yeah, that one. Shape it. Give it wings!”

I turned it over in my hands. “I’m Frankenstein, and you’re my monster,” I told it.

He nodded approvingly. “Make that monster your bitch.”

“I give you the spark of life.” The bird listed to the side and fell over.

“It lives!” Patrick cried. “But in all honesty, you suck at pottery. If we really were on TV, you would have gotten us kicked out in the first round. Why are we taking this class?”

“Because my mom used to make pottery,” I told him. “I’ll never be good like she was, but I think it’s fun. I have this one really clear memory of her using the wheel to make this beautiful pot. I think I was about three, and she made it look so easy and so graceful. I still have that pot.” I kept my tone light. People always felt bad for me when they found out my mom had died when I was little. I missed her a lot. And I still got sad about it, but the truth was, I’d had a great time growing up with my dad. He’d let me take apart our television when I was eleven, even though it never worked quite right afterward. He’d let me paint his toenails every weekend. And he gave me all the love.

Patrick cleared his throat. “That’s so sweet and terribly sad, it almost makes me feel like a jerk for telling you that what you’re making looks like third-grade arts and crafts,” he said. “Almost. Because it does.”

I snorted and turned to check out his hobbit house. “You’re one to talk,” I began, then stopped. Patrick’s little house was adorable. He was adding vines and leaves around a circular doorway and had carved little windows complete with shutters on either side. “Holy cow,” I said. “Where have you been hiding this talent?”

He shrugged. “Bilbo deserves the best house in Middle Earth.”

Kelli had been walking between the tables and chose this moment to stop by ours. “Oh, my word,” she said as she caught sight of Patrick’s creation. “This is truly lovely. Have you had classes before? What’s your name, dear?”

“Patrick,” he mumbled, and I saw the tips of his ears turn pink. I tried not to laugh at his obvious discomfort.

“Everyone, come over and see Patrick’s little fairy hut!” Kelli called.

“Everyone don’t come over,” Patrick muttered under his breath. “And it’s not a fairy hut, it’s ahobbit hole.”

The other students crowded around and oohed and aahed at his little house. One of them looked over at my misshapen bird. “What’s that?”

“It’s going to live in the home Patrick’s making for it,” I answered.

He drew himself up in his seat. “This is Bag End from the Shire, not a house for your lumpy duck.”

I gasped and pretended to clutch my pearls. “Lumpy duck? Take that back,” I said. I winked at him as everyone went back to their tables except Kelli, who lingered a moment longer. “What’re we making today, Ana?” she asked.

---