Free The Plan by Qwen Salsbury Page B

7:55 a.m.
* Bag : Wallet, picture of best friend and self, makeup, notepad, lunch, hairclip.
* Clothes : Red wrap dress, red pumps.
* Hair : I don’t even want to talk about it.
    I L EFT T WENTY M INUTES early today. That should’ve been plenty of time for normal traffic and most emergency circumstances.
    But no.
    The lot was scraped down to glaring ice. The windshield would not defrost. Time out in the wind has taken a toll on my hair; it is now inexplicable. Everyone drove too fast or too slow. Hit every light. Encountered a school bus route that I didn’t know about during my route test run yesterday.
    I should learn not to even bother with being prepared.
    The best laid plans oft go awry. Oft? What the fuck is oft all about? Too much going on to finish the entire word?
    That’s all just a nice way of saying one is screwed regardless.
    Life’s a bitch, and she has several sisters.
    Now I’m riding the elevator while it stops on nearly every floor. People file in and out.
    One person gets on and rides it up one whole level. I suppress a scream.
    Some guy behind me huffs irritably. I keep my eyes trained on the numbers. Climb. Stop.
    We’re over capacity at one point, I’m certain of it. I feel my backside get pressed into the person behind me.
    “Sorry,” I mutter.
    “Not your fault.” A deep voice. A soft reply. The flesh behind my ear tingles. Instinct, for reasons I don’t want to examine, tells me to fold into the man behind me.
    Then I realize that this man is probably getting a face full of my frizzy hair. Mortifying.
    The doors open for my floor and I bolt, never looking back.
    10:11 a.m.
    “T HIS I S T HE B REAK R OOM ,” Madeline states the obvious. I don’t mind. It’s comforting.
    “The coffee is on the honor system. There’s usually a fundraiser for someone’s school children if you want snacks, otherwise the vending machines are here to price gouge you.” Madeline goes on explaining and tosses a handful of change in the collection jar next to the coffee pot.
    “The refrigerators are cleaned out every Monday,” she says and begins to pour a coffee from one of the pots. “You can get some really nice st—”
    A blond woman with a severe look barrels through the room toward where we stand. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, clearing a path for her, but conversation continues without pause. Madeline stands to the side, holding her coffee pot aloft and smiling cryptically at me. I’m sure I look confused.
    The blonde reaches for a pot with a masking tape ring on the handle, pours a cup swiftly with one hand while adding what looks to be specially reserved creamer and sweetener. She turns, lips pursing tightly, and heads out of the room.
    “Damn it!” The blond woman switches the cup to her other hand and sucks her now free—and probably scalded—hand into her mouth, then shakes it off, all the while walking swiftly away.
    My hands float out, a silent request for explanation.
    Madeline, smiling, resumes pouring her coffee. “That is Mr. Canon’s assistant.” She pours in enough sugar to trigger early onset diabetes and leans back on the counter. “Well, for the moment.”
    “Oh, has she been having trouble?” That explains why she seemed so nervous, why everyone got out of her way.
    “Heck, no. She’s doing exceptionally well. She’s lasted for almost a month. May even set a record.”
    I decide I need to stay far, far away from this Canon person.
    2:58 p.m.
    “P AY U P .” A thin young man leans over Madeline’s cubicle wall with his palm up.
    “Hold your horses there.” Madeline is chewing on a marker and looking over a colorful chart. “Yep, it is you.” She looks up at the guy and then hands him an envelope from her desk.
    I do my best to acclimate myself to this new computer program, but their exchange has definitely piqued my interest.
    “Sweet!” He fist pumps and then looks back at me rather shamefacedly. “Oh, you must be Emma. I’m Bert Stiles.” He extends