Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter Ten - How Are You Getting On?

When I've typed every word out that's been said on that tape, and edited them, juggled the layouts around, and repeated the process about fifteen times, I finally lean back in my seat and groan audibly. Mr Clifford is immediately by my side. "How are you getting on, Miss McKenna?" 

"Good, thanks, sir. I've got three interviews done." 

"We're aiming for ten, aren't we?" 

We were? 

"Yes, of course. I'm well on the way." 

"Yes... I can see," he says snidely, and turns away to check up on Charlotte Finley. Ohhh. Charlotte Finley. Little Miss Perfect Finley. The pretty, sassy, clever, easygoing, fast-working, teacher's pet Charlotte Finley. 

You know, when I had friendship difficulties, as the teachers called it, at school, my parents reassured me by saying 'Maya, when you leave school, you'll be fine. At work, nobody will victimize you, or tease you. Nobody will be better, because you all have different jobs to do." 

They obviously didn't anticipate the arrival of Charlotte Finley. She's like the school-bully-who-pretends-she's-a-sweetheart-in-front-of-the-teachers-but-actually-she's-more-mean-than-a-viper, but about a hundred times worse. For one thing, at work, there's no 'anti-bullying policy'. You're free to do what you want, and I guess that includes victimizing innocent employees. 

Then there's 'Nobody will be better, because you all have different jobs to do'. Well, the thing about Charlotte Finley is: she has the same job as me. We're competing for Miranda French's and Mr Clifford's attention, and boy is Charlotte Finley winning. She's lapping it all up. She's like a baby shark in high heels. 

All right, I may be exaggerating a little. But every morning, she greets me with a little tap on the head with her perfectly manicured nails (of course she's taller than me. I mean, it's stereotypical. And stereotypes are made for a reason), and says 'Good morning, kiddo. Let's hope it's actually a good one for you today. Seeing as I don't think you've actually had a good morning so far. Or afternoon, for that matter." Then, she flicks her hair straight at my face, and sashays off to her desk. The sashaying doesn't quite work, seeing as her desk is about three steps away from mine, but everyone has faults, right? 

Now we're on the topic of faults, I'd like to mention that Charlotte Finley's special talent is bringing up mine at every given opportunity. Like, "Oh, hello there, Mr Clifford. Yes, she is working hard, isn't she? Probably to make up for the fact that she didn't do any work yesterday, just sat staring at her screen for two and a half hours." Then she gives the most insufferable giggle, and flounces off. Or, "Oh, Miss French! So nice to see you today. You were at a christening yesterday, were you? Yes, I read it in the signing in-and-out book. That's more than can be said for Maya. She came in at two o'clock yesterday, can you believe it? Though, of course, there's no evidence. I don't think she even knows where the book is!" Cue another giggle, another flick of the hair, another flouncy sashay out of the room like she owns the place. From the way that Miranda French dotes on her, I think that one day she probably will. 

If my life was a movie, then there would have to be something that she sucks at, that I'm fantastic at. Then I can show the whole company that actually she's just an idiot, while I am the true star. Unfortunately, this isn't Hollywood, and she's better at my job than I am. It's all terribly unfair, but to be honest I've learnt that life isn't always like a Hollywood movie. Sometimes, it's like a badly animated Disney. 

"So, Maya..." says Charlotte, once Mr Clifford is gone, leaning towards me, "how are you doing with your project?" 

"Oh, really well," I lie, "it's like, three-quarters done already. Crazy, isn't it?" 

"I can't believe you're only doing four," she says, eyes landing on my screen. It clearly says '3 INTERVIEWS COMPLETED'. 

Oh, no. 

"That's from two weeks ago," I say, minimising the tab faster than I've ever minimised anything before (which, now I think of it, isn't actually that often. I usually just x the tab. I've never appreciated the swooshiness with which it diminishes. I must do that more often). "I'm totally overloaded with people wanting to be interviewed."

"You're doing ten, right?" 

"Yes...?" 

"So you must have done exactly seven point five interviews. Which means... you should be in the middle of one right now. Coincidence, that!" 

"Oh, no..." I stumble for words. "I mean, we were halfway through the interview, and then, uh..." 

"Then?" 

She knows I'm lying - it's obvious from the glint in her eye. 

"Then... they had to go. To - to the bathroom." 

"The bathroom? Oh, okay. Now it all makes sense. And there's no way, no way at all, that little Maya McKenna is lying. Hmm?" 

"Oh, no, I don't lie," I say. Yep, that's my eternal life strategy. Don't ask me why. When you're in a hole, keep digging. I know the traditional saying is the opposite of that, but that one is the one my mind abides to. 

"So then! Why don't you show me those seven and half interviews!" 

"I can't, Charlotte." 

"Oh? And why is that?" 

"Because... because it's confidential." 

"Maya, this is for the French Weekly, is it not? Because those stories in a few weeks aren't gonna be confidential. They're gonna be plastered all over social media, and all over the newspapers. Yep, I can see it now... Commuters Revealed! Darling, their stories will never be confidential. The real reason that I can't see it is because they're in your head. All made up!" She stands up triumphantly. "Am I clear?" 

"Crystal," I mutter. 

At some point in a Hollywood movie, there is always a confrontation like this one. But when the Mean Girl announces that this amazing thing is 'all in their head', the protagonist should pipe up, "Actually, no. It's not in my head, and I have proof," and hold up a load of articles, films and forensic papers explaining exactly why the Mean Girl is oh-so-wrong. But in my case, she's oh-so-right, and the only think I can do is hang my head. 

"You don't need to lie to me," she says gently, and for a moment I think she's a reformed character. 

I've already said this isn't a Hollywood movie. 

"I already know you're useless!" she smirks, and totters off in those ridiculous heels of hers. 

Useless. Pretty much, yeah.