Page 5 of Not Safe for Work

“Miss Malik,” Charles says. “Will you please come to the front?”

Heads are turning, people peering through the crowd, wondering why the second lucky contestant hasn’t floated up to accept her tiara.

“Tris,” Molly hisses again. “Go!”

“He said my name,” I hiss out the side of my mouth, my eyes never leaving the towering forms of David, Charles, and Rafe Gallagher, who study me like a snarling three-headed beast, ready to tear me limb from limb.

“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Molly shakes me again, placing her hand in the middle of my back, attempting to dislodge my ass from my chair.

“But why?”

Molly is panicking as hundreds of curious stares find me in the crowd. “Go!”

It feels like I’ve just done something very, very wrong.

“Miss Malik,” comes a different voice. This time it’s David. He’s taken the mic from his brother, and his gaze bores into me like he wants to tear out my spleen and feed it to his pet hyena. I see where his son gets it. “Please. Will you join us at the front?”

Finally. Finally, my brain catches up with my body, and I push myself up, wincing at the sting as my thighs tear away from the rough plastic. I place one foot carefully in front of the other. It’s a good thing I’m wearing flats today. My legs feel as hollow as plastic straws as I reach the front.

The room is awkwardly silent. They must wonder why I’m acting so strange.

Why am I acting so strange?

Because this shouldn’t be me.

Because I graduated with a 4.0 GPA, and I was supposed to do things. I was supposed to make something of myself. And I tried. I really did.

After finishing college at the top of my class, I snagged a great job at an environmental start-up—one of those cool, hip places with an espresso lounge, unlimited PTO, and a pool table in the middle of the floor. I thought I’d make a difference working directly with large corporations to minimize their adverse environmental impacts.

But that turned out to be a complete disaster, some of it my fault and some of it not.

When an opening at WMC presented itself, I was desperate. The job involved project management and engineering design for clients in the energy and mining sectors. It wasn’t what I ever saw myself doing, but it felt like I had no choice.

I was shocked when they offered me the position, and I accepted it on the spot.

So, I tried to put the past behind me and decided this would be my dream instead. I settled in to assemble the next thirty-odd years of my career with my sights set on the corner office and the hairline cracks in the thick glass ceiling over my head.

But I hadn’t counted on just how deeply the stagnant stick of sexism remains rooted in the mud—even if they built the engineering building where I finished my degree without a single women’s bathroom.

First, I was passed over for a supervisor promotion in favor of a man with less experience and fewer projects under his belt. That was three years ago. Then there was the operations manager job that went to a man less than a year from retirement and a string of reprimands on his employment record. Then there was the department head job that went to a man—nay, a boy—who had arrived fresh from college and whose dad worked alongside David.

Little by little, each of these insults chipped pieces of me away. Battered by the elements, the edges of my ambition slowly eroded into a shapeless, worn surface.

Then, a year ago, an opening came up for team lead of the environmental division.

I’d worked in each of the five departments that formed the division. My record was impeccable. I’d exceeded all of my KPIs. I’d demonstrated my ability to lead over and over, stepping up to help solve every problem we ran into. I poured my heart and soul into the application. Done all they’d asked of me. And they gave the job to Rafe.

To make matters worse, Rafe then found my presence so objectionable that he asked to have me moved to a different team so I wouldn’t be reporting to him. And though I can’t really explain it, that hurt more than I’ve ever been able to admit out loud.

It was the final dart straight to the center of my chest. I went into myself for weeks until Molly finally dragged me out. But the fight died in me then. None of it seemed worth it anymore.

Now, I come to work and do what I’m asked, but I’ve stopped trying to excel. I am no longer one of this company’s bright young stars. My shine wore off long ago.

So, what am I doing up here?

Somewhat tentatively, I approach the center of the platform, where Rafe waits with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his designer jeans. Casual Friday suits him—of course it does. Everything looks good on him.

“Excellent,” Charles says, gesturing me closer with a hand hovering an inch above my shoulder. He positions me next to Rafe, a foot of space separating us. Charles is saying something else about the retreat, but I’ve stopped listening, white noise roaring in my ears.