Megan Hart - Switch

junk food. That was al. But when the maple-syrupy

goodness hit my tongue, I knew that wasn't al it was.

It had been a simple command. Eat oatmeal for breakfast.

Sweeten it however you like. Straightforward and

uncomplicated.

It had taken away the issue of what to have for breakfast,

a problem I faced every morning as I rushed around trying

to get ready and spent precious minutes staring without

enthusiasm into my refrigerator. I didn't have to think about

what to have, or waste time concerning myself. Eat

oatmeal for breakfast, the list had said, and I did.

I'd eaten oatmeal every day as a kid. Sometimes for

dinner, too. My mom bought it in bulk from an Amish

market. Great huge tubs of big, roled oats. Not the fancy

kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the

kind with Benjamin Franklin or whoever he was on the

front. The kind you had to slow cook. Funny how I hadn't

thought about how easy, filing and tasty oatmeal could

realy be until I got that note.

Even though the mail almost always was delivered or in the

process of being delivered before I had to leave for work,

many times I didn't care to brave the crowd flocking

around the mailboxes and just waited to pick it up after

work. Until recently, I'd never had anything exciting to

pick up.

This morning, though, I muscled my way through the

crowd and puled my mail from the box. My heart

pounded as I flipped through the junk and bils. I had a

postcard from my dentist reminding me I was due for an

exam.

And a new note.

Today, you wil be strong and know you are beautiful.

Wow.

I closed the card, returned it to the envelope, and slid it

through the slot of mailbox 114. I didn't stop to hide what

I was doing, not caring if anyone saw me do it, though at

I was doing, not caring if anyone saw me do it, though at

that moment the flock of tenants had flown away and I

was the only one there. I peered through the glass window

at the card in its cradle of other mail and wondered how

such a simple command could have completely stolen

away my breath.

Paul traveled often, so it wasn't unusual for me to go

several days or a week without seeing him. On the days he

was in the office, though, he never failed to come out to

greet me when he heard me arrive, or if I'd managed to get

to my desk ahead of him, he always stopped to say good-

morning. But not today. I heard him muttering into the

phone through his closed door, but he didn't come out. He

had, however, left something for me on the desk.

A list.

It didn't tel me to be strong or know I was beautiful, but I

couldn't stop thinking about that as I read the chores and

tasks he'd left for me. He hadn't given me anything out of

the ordinary. It was only my reaction that was different.

I would never have said we had a close relationship, but it

was always cordial. On the day he'd taken out my splinter,

it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm

it might even have gone beyond that to warm. Too warm

for Paul, apparently, because he barely looked at me when

he came out of his office around eleven, his coat on and his

briefcase gripped so tight in one hand his knuckles were

white. I sat up straighter at my desk.

Strong and beautiful.

"I'l be gone until about four."

He didn't need my permission, of course, so it was stupid

to say, "Okay."

That was al he said. Tension like gum stuck to the bottom

of a sneaker stretched between us. He wouldn't look at

me.

This pissed me off.

I hadn't asked him to treat my wound. I hadn't made him

touch me. And I wasn't going to sic him with a sexual-

harassment suit or anything asinine like that, either.

He nodded, his gaze cutting away from mine. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Paul."

I could see the crimson creeping into his ears even from

my seat at the desk. He didn't acknowledge me after that,

just left. That pissed me off, too.

I hadn't become an executive assistant because I'd

dreamed of it ever since I was a little girl. I became an

executive assistant because nobody seems to have

secretaries anymore. And because it was the cheapest and

fastest business degree I could earn that would qualify me

for a position in the range of salaries that would alow me

to move the hel out of Lebanon and start a new life.

I never intended to stay at this level forever. I'd taken the

job with Kely Printing because of their employee-

education program. I had to work there for a year before I

could start taking night classes toward my MBA, a cost

the company would partialy reimburse if I qualified, and

I'd make sure I did. I wasn't an executive assistant

because I didn't want to be something else. Just too poor.

And until today, I'd never felt bad about what I did, this

one step up on a ladder that had many rungs.

The list he'd left hadn't been written with fine ink on

creamy paper, just scribbled on the back of a paper

already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely

already printed on one side in handwriting so fiercely

indecipherable that reading it was like cracking code. It

wasn't a long list but even so, it was a list and I looked at it for a long time.

That piece of paper, those numbered sentences, effectively

broke my day into chunks. They provided a purpose, a

path, a pattern. I didn't need Paul to give me that; I was

more than capable of prioritizing my daily duties, and yet,

staring at the instructions gave me a sense of

accomplishment before I'd even completed a single task.

It surprised him, I think, when he came back to the office

just after I should have left. I hadn't dawdled, but the list

had been very long and some of the tasks I hadn't yet been

trained for. I'd figured them out, though, my fingers tap-

tapping on the keyboard as I filed in data spreadsheets

and saved files and sent e-mails. I was shutting down my

computer as he disappeared into his office.

I took my time gathering my sweater and water bottle. In a

moment Paul reappeared in his doorway. Paul had not

loosened his tie or taken off his suit jacket, not at the end

of the day. He looked tired.

"Paige. I wasn't expecting you to stil be here." He slid his

"Paige. I wasn't expecting you to stil be here." He slid his gaze from mine in a manner so blatant I couldn't have

missed it. "I got al the files you sent."

I could've let it pass, pretended something wasn't strange

between us. Maybe I should've, but his attitude rankled.

"Is everything al right? I mean, I did everything you asked

for, right?"

He nodded, but when he spoke, his voice was gruff and he

avoided looking at me. "I've been very pleased with your

performance."

I thought of what Brenda had said, about how the girls

never lasted long. Wel, I needed this job and I'd be

damned if I was forced out of it. I could find another job if

I wanted, but it would be when I wanted. Not when Mr.

Johnson decided to make me miserable enough to quit.

But there was more to it than that. Strength and beauty.

Flaws and strengths. Lists. It was bound wrists and a

blindfold and being told what to do without having to think

for myself.

We stared at each other until he looked away.

"Thank you," Paul said. Then he went into his office and

"Thank you," Paul said. Then he went into his office and

closed the door behind him.

The misdelivered note handwritten in fine ink on gorgeous

paper wasn't anything like the one Paul had given me. So

why, then, had they both become so inexplicably linked?

Kira caught me on my cel phone as I drove home. Our

conversation didn't last long, and while she might not have

felt the strain, I did. We hadn't been best friends for a long

time, but like al my other old habits, Kira was a hard one

to break.

Her cal took my mind off Paul and the lists, but got me

thinking about Austin again. I wasn't sure that was an

improvement. She didn't apologize for inviting him to the

Pharmacy with us, but she didn't bring up Jack's name,

either, so I guessed that was sort of a draw.

I let her talk on and on even though I didn't have much to

say. She didn't notice, or ignored, my lack of replies, until

finaly she hung up before I could remember to tel her I

stil had her purse. Typical. Kira was always careless with

what she had, no matter how much or how little.

At home when I wanted to drive for a while to clear my

At home when I wanted to drive for a while to clear my

head, I could have my pick of backcountry roads, winding

through cornfields and cow pastures and woods. I could

drive for hours, literaly, without crossing a major highway.

I could open the windows and let my hair blow in the wind

with the radio cranked up loud, singing along. I could lose

myself on the ribbon of asphalt and make time stand stil.

Not here. I could've found a rural road if I went out of my

way, but it would've taken more effort to do it than it was

worth. Instead, I suffered stop-and-go traffic through

urban neighborhoods with my windows roled up and my

doors locked. Harrisburg wasn't a big city, but anyone

who didn't think it had crime was a fool.

The song came on the radio just as I puled into the

parking garage. I'd just started listening to the public radio

station out of Phily. The Cure had done a cover of

Hendrix's "Purple Haze" with a lot of funky backbeat and

some sort of weird Star Trek effect. It was an old song

and not one the local stations played.

I was transported.

"You ladies here to see the guys, right?" The guy

behind the counter gives us all a knowing wink as

behind the counter gives us all a knowing wink as

though he's seen our type before. "Bachelorette

party?"

It's not. It's an anti-bachelorette party, a divorce party, I

guess you could cal it. I've just signed the paperwork

dissolving my marriage to Austin. For the first time since I

was seventeen years old, I'm a single woman.

I have good friends. I can be glad of that. Kira couldn't

make it tonight, but I've got Nat, Misty, Vicky and Tori.

Laurie and Anna made it, too. It was my idea to come to

see the boys dancing at the nudie bar, but they al joined

the band and jumped on the wagon as soon as I suggested

it.

The bouncer leads us past a stage with two poles on it

where two bored-looking girls teeter in slutty shoes and

wiggle lethargicaly. There's nobody in the club yet, though

there's seating for a couple hundred horny men. We folow

the bouncer to a back room, al of us giggling like maniacs

and more than a little nervous.

It's not what I expected. I'd seen the Chippendales dance,

but this…this is a smal room painted entirely black with a

smal stage in the center, a single, silver pole rising to the

smal stage in the center, a single, silver pole rising to the

ceiling. A couple smal tables and a couch I don't want to

sit on ring the stage. There's no music. There's nobody.

Until the curtain at the back of the room parts and a young

guy about my age comes out. He's got a sheaf of blond

hair, fuck, like Austin, and the same build. But I lift my chin

and act like I don't care. I don't care. I don't.

He's not alone. He has another guy with him. And

believe me, they are not the Chippendales. The music

starts, the heavy bass thumpa-thumpa of some club

song I don't really know. The boys, dressed in dark

slacks and white shirts, ties, start to dance.