Blog of a Teenage Superhero

Chapter Eight: Fired

"You're fired," Virginia Mayweather says, never bothering to look up from her laptop. I've been standing in the doorframe for minutes now waiting for her to speak, and now that she has, I'd do anything to make her take the words back.

"But, ma'am—"

"I can't have someone stalking the mayor on my team." She glares up in my direction. My stomach clenches. Teachers hating me is one thing, but my boss?

My hands fly up. "I didn't, ma'am—"

She shakes her head and holds up a hand for silence, moused blonde-brown curls brushing her ears with a fwip fwip. Her necklace jangles against her chest, blue raindrops swirling and clanging on their fat chain. "Knowing you and your dad, you probably did, and even if you didn't, these are serious allegations the Journal does not need being looked into right now. I'm sorry Monet, but I have to let you go."

I close my eyes. My ribs are still tender and sore, but the pain is nothing compared to Mayweather's kick in the heart. There comes a knock on the door. A familiar voice.

"Ms. Mayweather—Oh, Monet, honey!" Dad runs up, heeled shoes clicking the polished floor. He squeezes me on the shoulder, patting my face as if to check it for breaks. I stand stiff, afraid if I move, I'll cry. "Are you okay? I heard about the attack. And Kai. There's ice cream in the fridge for him. I know it isn't much, but..." He stops for breath, holding up his phone. His whole hand is shaking and I guess him on his fifth coffee cup. "Ms. Mayweather, hi, I just had a question about—Why is Monet here?—my social media. I'm curious as to know what approach you'd like The Journal to take on this attack." 

Ms. Mayweather stands up with a polite smile. "Your daughter is being fired."

"Oh." He lets out a shaky sigh, dropping my face when he decides I'm still intact. Elbow leaned on my shoulder, phone held up over the both of us, he gives me another pat. "Smile, honey."

I try, but I'm busy throwing up in the back of my mouth. I blink hard against the flash. He clicks the phone off and slips it into his pocket. "Huh," he says, clearing his throat. "'Hashtag fired.' Has a good ring to it, doesn't it, Monet?"

I try to nod at the playful nudge, but I'm still throwing up in the back of my mouth.

"She isn't even on the payroll, is she?" he adds, oblivious to my plight.

"Uh, no." Mayweather shrugs. "As for your social media—"

"With all due respect," I begin, pacing the floor before her, hands clasped behind my back. "The mayor is in on the heroes' disappearance. He was with Masquerade—"

"Out." Mayweather points at the door, tapping her manicured nails to the desk. "You're embarrassing yourself." Dad's expression hardens. And all at once I hurt more than I did fighting Masquerade. And drowning. Combined.

"But—"

Mayweather waves a hand over her shoulder. "Out. If you want to spew your conspiracy theories, get a blog."

Dad sucks in a breath. He's never given me a real talking to before. He just has that Disappointed Dad look I'd prefer a bullet over. "Honey," he says, scratching his stubble, "I know how it feels to think something like that, but we're reporters. We need proof." I shrink back, reality like the world's worse punch in the gut. Yes, the mayor wanted me dead. But my dad and my boss don't have proof of that, and I did stalk the mayor. I may have a had a perfectly good reason, but it wasn't all that legal. Mayweather has every right to be mad. And I have every right to be "hashtag fired."

"Sorry." A lump's welling up in the back of my throat that I choke down with a sound a little too close to a squeak. "I think I'll just... leave..."