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beer please,” I translate for her.
    â€œI know that,” she says in a controlled voice. “Why were you saying it?”
    â€œIt was a joke. The woman training me asked if I knew any Spanish.”
    â€œShe said you wouldn’t stop saying it.”
    â€œI didn’t mean to. She just kept piling work on me, and then she would ask if I needed anything. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
    Jane picks up the next message. “Bank of America. They said you spent all afternoon playing solitaire—”
    â€œThey didn’t give me any work—”
    â€œI’m not finished. They didn’t mind the solitaire, but they weren’t happy about you screaming ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’”
    â€œIt was a really bad hand. Not that I’m excusing it. I’m sorry.”
    â€œAnd last but not least, Tom Spencer from Spencer Insurance said that you propositioned him for sex.”
    â€œWhat?” I leap out of my seat and grab the message. “That’s bullshit,” I say. “That’s total bullshit.”
    She snaps the message back and accidentally scrapes me with one of her spears. It leaves a trace of white against the back of my hand like an airplane streaking the sky.
    â€œSo you didn’t say anything about stripping naked and standing on your desk?”
    â€œIt’s out of context. Totally out of context,” I say, flopping back down in my seat and stuffing the rest of the chocolate chip muffin in my mouth. “Have you seen Tom Spencer?” I cry, conjuring up his bald head and enormous gut. “Can you imagine anyone propositioning him for sex?”
    Jane surprises me by throwing her head back and belting out a laugh. “All right, all right. I’ll give you that one.” She wads the message from Tom and flings it across the room. It lands in a potted fern.
    â€œThank you,” I say. “From now on I’ll be on my best behavior.”
    â€œThat’s what I was hoping to hear.” She picks up an assignment card, jots down an address, and hands it to me.
    â€œParks and Landon,” I read. “A law office?” I perk up immediately. This is definitely good news. She can’t be too mad at me if she’s sending me to a law office.
    â€œYou got it. It’s at least a six-week assignment. Maybe more.”
    I do an incredible job of not screaming. I nod my head like I expected as much. Six weeks as a legal secretary! This was incredible. I start calculating forty hours a week times twenty-five dollars an hour in my head. Or do legal secretaries make more?
    â€œTheir file clerk is on maternity leave,” Jane says.
    I nod and smile, but I’m really wondering why she thinks I care about their file clerk.
    â€œOf course, I can’t give you your usual rate,” she says. I was right. Legal secretaries make more.
    â€œHow much more?” I ask, crossing my fingers that it is at least an extra five bucks an hour. What if it’s ten? An extra ten dollars an hour? I can pay off my credit card and maybe even take a little trip. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Ray and I could run off to Atlantic City for a weekend. What a perfect excuse for calling him. I conjure up the Saint of Raises. If it is ten dollars an hour more, I’ll never steal again.
    â€œNot more. Less ,” Jane hisses. I look around to see who she’s talking to now. I hate these new “in your ear” phones. They’re so deceiving. It almost looks like she’s talking to me. “Melanie, you know that a file clerk isn’t going to pay your usual rate,” she says.
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œWhat don’t you understand?”
    â€œWhy would the file clerk be paying my rate?” And then the horror hits. “You mean. Me? A file clerk?” I can barely get the words out; they’re so heinous, so ill fitting on my tongue. “Jane. I’m an