Page 4 of True Colors

His glance is cold. His message is sharp, clean. Delivered without any malice.

He doesn’t know who I am, and he doesn’t care to know who I am, as long as I can speak to my data.

“I—I can.” My voice is almost swallowed by the room. I try again, louder, but it wobbles—like an engine misfiring when you push it too fast. “I j-just need a moment.”

“We don’t have moments,” he replies flatly. “If I were a client, I’d have zero faith in this data thanks to your inability to articulate what’s in here.” He throws the printout on the conference table in front of Erin.

Dot inhales sharply. “Luther⁠—”

“Erin, can you take this on? We need to present that to the London team, and I’d rather we didn’t spend two hours getting it done.” With her, the stutterer, is the unsaid part of the sentence that I hear.

And it hurts.

Erin glows with victory. “Of course.”

I’m ashamed of myself. I can control my stutter on a good day, but today is not one of those.

It started badly as I declined a collect call from Central California Women's Facility at seven in the morning.

My bicycle had a flat, so I had to fix it and then get on the road. Any disruption to my rhythm or routine makes me anxious, and that anxiety makes everything harder.

On the page, I’m fine. I write clearly, without hesitation. I think in complete sentences—there’s never any impairment there. But the moment I open my mouth, it all goes to hell.

A therapist once explained that it’s a trauma response. My stutter isn’t something I was born with, the way it is for many people; it came later, after the trauma, when fear rewired my body before I had the language to understand what was happening.

I’ve also worked with specialists who gave me tools to manage my speech, and with preparation, I can do quite well.

I sit very still, hands folded in my lap, so no one sees them shake as the meeting proceeds. Luther moves on and talks about other data models he’s seen and would like for us to emulate.

A message flashes on my phone. It’s from Dot: You did fine. You are fine. Okay.

I smile and nod at her. I’m not agreeing with her, just acknowledging her kindness.

Dot is my rock. She’s my mentor and my savior. She’s the reason I have a job as a senior data analyst at one of the best data analysis companies in California. But even she can’t protect me in situations like this, though she tries.

By the time the meeting ends, everyone rushes to gather their things. My team looks at me with varying degrees of pity, vindication, and curiosity.

I don’t meet any eyes.

I’m halfway to the door when Luther’s voice stops me. “Anouk.”

I freeze.

He stands at the head of the table, his palms resting on the desk as he looks at something on his laptop. “I’ll need the raw dataset you used,” he demands without glancing at me.

My face burns. “O-okay.”

“And next time”—he lifts his eyes and holds my gaze—“if you submit something, be ready to explain it.”

He’s not being cruel or snarky; he’s telling me what he expects of his employees.

I know executives like him. They don’t try to understand. They don’t care enough to.

We’re alone now, and he can ask why I have trouble speaking—check in with me.

Instead, he decides I’m incompetent.

It’s arrogance in the purest form, where one thinks the world genuflects to them.