Megan Hart - Switch

signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong

person. Some buddy.

I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved

around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked

at it again, the single sentence.

Discipline?

I stil didn't get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope,

restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn't the only

person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn't want to

attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114

and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly

weathered but not worn. There wasn't realy any mistaking

a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the

card itself were smudged.

"Excuse me." The woman next to me gave me a smile

meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. "I need

to get to my box."

"Oh. Sorry." I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

belonged to her.

She used her key to open a different box, though, and

puled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked

through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier

had already moved down the row to the end. She

straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled

through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

"Nothing ever comes when it's supposed to." She didn't

say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

"I wish my bils wouldn't come."

She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her

mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another

smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as

hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finaly

settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that

seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway

and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail

into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching

pumps.

Bitch.

Bitch.

Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, al right.

Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back

of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection

shoes. It's what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a

pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the

tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of

slipping out.

Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness.

Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

I waited until she'd gone before I crossed the lobby and

pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and

overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought

the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automaticaly,

wondering if I'd see someone pondering discipline.

"Ari," I said, surprised. "Hi."

Miriam's grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filed can

and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. "Hey,

Paige."

"I didn't know you lived here."

He grinned. "I don't. Just dropped off something for my

grandma, you know?"

I didn't know, but I nodded. "Tel her I said helo."

"Stop by the shop and tel her yourself," he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. "I'l

do that. Have a good day."

"You, too."

I looked back as I crossed the aley to the parking garage,

and Ari was stil looking. Maybe there was a little heat,

after al. And what woman didn't like to be appreciated? I

had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and

it lasted me al the way to work.

I wasn't even close to being late, but I might as wel have

been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had

already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been

worse. He could have been standing over my desk with

the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes,

though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I

am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff

like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a

day.

Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he'd

already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit

longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without

him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee

on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I

could predict my boss's every move, from the midmorning

break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch

trip to the bathroom.

Today wasn't one of those days.

"Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of,

okay?"

I turned from the smal bar sink, where I'd been filing the

coffeepot with water. "Right, Paul. Of course."

Amazing how someone with only a community-colege

education could stil deduce simple things.

"Good." Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his

thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the

coffeemaker.

I hadn't yet figured out if Paul hovered because he

expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either

way, it didn't bother me the way it would have some of the

other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for

example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most

of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her.

She also liked to brag that she'd worked for Kely Printing

longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and

knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run

everything by someone else when she could get her work

done faster and better without interference?

I never told Brenda I found Paul's constant supervision

more comforting than annoying. After al, if he never

alowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn't

exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong.

Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never

left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.

I thought of the cards I'd found. Two, now. Two

misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me)

instructions. I could stil feel the sleek paper under my

fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smel the ink.

With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul.

"Anything else?"

"Not right now, thanks." Paul smiled and disappeared

back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery

burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.

This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had

a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes

forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two

teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports

and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because

I'd seen their photos and overheard his telephone

conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately

named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several

times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that

because he'd asked me to make a reservation for him at

one of the local golf courses and to cal his brother to

confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm

of my professional duties, but I'd done it anyway. I also

knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his

MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his

family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes

Benz.

Benz.

Those were things I knew.