push it closed, and when I sit up again, Candace is across the aisle. Just bits of her. Etherlike dissections of her arms and legs, a see-through head bent low over the screen like she's reading a waveform. I put my hand over my mouth and the tears I haven't yet been able to shed roll across my knuckles.
I told Mr. Weigland this might be a problem. And there's her desk, and her chair, and her plastic cubicle walls. These glowing traces of my best friend will be there for days, or weeks. And no one else will be able to see them but me.
I head down the hall toward Mr. Weigland's office. He comes in early, too, but not for the same reasons. His predawn tendencies have more to do with a loveless marriage and no children. Halfway there, he sees me coming and gives me a half turn of his head, performed so slowly, no one else would notice. Mr. Weigland does this if he's in a meeting I'm not supposed to know about, or if he senses I'm about to say something that will adversely affect my position. We never sat down and agreed upon this sign. I'm not sure he's even aware of doing it, but it happens frequently. There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to know, or say.
Watch it. He's nervous today. His eyes float toward the other person in the room, Helen Rumney, the BodySpeak Manager. She's a late-twenties woman with thick blonde hair and sharp, deeply clefted features. Her backside is pressed against the nearest pane, elbows, too, revealing flat rounds of scabby flesh. She's attractive. Knows how to use it. Spends all day posing against all sorts of glass walls.
Helen Rumney's colors are like nothing I've ever seen. When she's in a room, it's an effort to look away. Her insatiable need has its own gravitational pull. Her disregard for humanity has turned her into a slow-turning tornado that feeds on air and light. It's not unusual for her to be obscured by this storm of colors in constant rotation around her. Somedays this mass is packed so tight it's more like a cocoon than a cloud. A gray skein of yarn out of which poke arms and legs. Other times, her energy expands into a thick red-brown fog. When it gets like this, I can't even see her for this veil of ambition. She's proud of her resilience and tenacity. Her ability to put emotion away. But she doesn't see what I see--the way it's worked on her like a toxin. On Helen Rumney's worst days, the flesh of her face disappears and all that's left is the pale hue of worn bone.
Mr. Weigland steps past her and opens the door. "I'm running a little late. Give me ten minutes, Harper," he says as if we had a meeting scheduled.
Helen turns her head so I can see the side of her face. One round fish-eye. One half of her A-line jaw. She purses her lips. Says before the office door can be closed, "She's reading my colors again, Richard." Then turns back around.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Weigland is hanging over my cubicle wall, Helen Rumney gone. "She wants to keep going with the program."
I look straight ahead. Don't say a thing.
"You doing okay?"
"You didn't move her desk." I point at Candace's cubicle.
Mr. Weigland bobs his head, contrite. "We're moving somebody else in next week . . ."
"I can still see her!"
"I don't know if I can requisition another office, Harper." He sighs heavily and frowns down at the tips of his shoes. "Manager Rumney's got most of our budget sunk into Body-Speak."
"Then tell her I'm not doing another thing on that program until you move it! The computer, the desk, the walls . . . everything!"
Mr. Weigland opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. He looks at Candace's old space and nods. "I'll have them move it today."
By midafternoon, the scent of fresh plastic is everywhere. They've taken everything away and replaced it with new pieces not yet out of their bags.
I'm elbow-deep in files when I hear a voice over my shoulder. "How are you today, Miss Adams?" It's Evans, our mailman, standing at the edge of my office. His skin is
I told Mr. Weigland this might be a problem. And there's her desk, and her chair, and her plastic cubicle walls. These glowing traces of my best friend will be there for days, or weeks. And no one else will be able to see them but me.
I head down the hall toward Mr. Weigland's office. He comes in early, too, but not for the same reasons. His predawn tendencies have more to do with a loveless marriage and no children. Halfway there, he sees me coming and gives me a half turn of his head, performed so slowly, no one else would notice. Mr. Weigland does this if he's in a meeting I'm not supposed to know about, or if he senses I'm about to say something that will adversely affect my position. We never sat down and agreed upon this sign. I'm not sure he's even aware of doing it, but it happens frequently. There are a lot of things I'm not supposed to know, or say.
Watch it. He's nervous today. His eyes float toward the other person in the room, Helen Rumney, the BodySpeak Manager. She's a late-twenties woman with thick blonde hair and sharp, deeply clefted features. Her backside is pressed against the nearest pane, elbows, too, revealing flat rounds of scabby flesh. She's attractive. Knows how to use it. Spends all day posing against all sorts of glass walls.
Helen Rumney's colors are like nothing I've ever seen. When she's in a room, it's an effort to look away. Her insatiable need has its own gravitational pull. Her disregard for humanity has turned her into a slow-turning tornado that feeds on air and light. It's not unusual for her to be obscured by this storm of colors in constant rotation around her. Somedays this mass is packed so tight it's more like a cocoon than a cloud. A gray skein of yarn out of which poke arms and legs. Other times, her energy expands into a thick red-brown fog. When it gets like this, I can't even see her for this veil of ambition. She's proud of her resilience and tenacity. Her ability to put emotion away. But she doesn't see what I see--the way it's worked on her like a toxin. On Helen Rumney's worst days, the flesh of her face disappears and all that's left is the pale hue of worn bone.
Mr. Weigland steps past her and opens the door. "I'm running a little late. Give me ten minutes, Harper," he says as if we had a meeting scheduled.
Helen turns her head so I can see the side of her face. One round fish-eye. One half of her A-line jaw. She purses her lips. Says before the office door can be closed, "She's reading my colors again, Richard." Then turns back around.
Ten minutes later, Mr. Weigland is hanging over my cubicle wall, Helen Rumney gone. "She wants to keep going with the program."
I look straight ahead. Don't say a thing.
"You doing okay?"
"You didn't move her desk." I point at Candace's cubicle.
Mr. Weigland bobs his head, contrite. "We're moving somebody else in next week . . ."
"I can still see her!"
"I don't know if I can requisition another office, Harper." He sighs heavily and frowns down at the tips of his shoes. "Manager Rumney's got most of our budget sunk into Body-Speak."
"Then tell her I'm not doing another thing on that program until you move it! The computer, the desk, the walls . . . everything!"
Mr. Weigland opens his mouth to speak, then thinks better of it. He looks at Candace's old space and nods. "I'll have them move it today."
By midafternoon, the scent of fresh plastic is everywhere. They've taken everything away and replaced it with new pieces not yet out of their bags.
I'm elbow-deep in files when I hear a voice over my shoulder. "How are you today, Miss Adams?" It's Evans, our mailman, standing at the edge of my office. His skin is
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