Page 1 of Scoring Eden

ONE

EDEN

My fingers flit across the keyboard of the outdated computer, the incessant tap-tap-tapping drilling into my brain like the dripping of Chinese water torture. I hate the stupid big buttons on the keyboard. Hate the slow, archaic model of the computer that should have met its end back in the nineties. And I hate the smarmy smile of my boss as he leans a shoulder against the door frame and sips his coffee through a straw.

A straw.

“Remind me when my next appointment is, Edith.”

No hello. No good afternoon. No question as to how my day is going.

My teeth grind together, and a chip of enamel breaks off, which wouldn’t be a big deal—considering I’m a dental receptionist and get free insurance in my employment package—if the idea of Dr. John Anderson being anywhere near my mouth didn’t make me want to vomit into the trash can beside my desk.

It’s the predominant motivating factor in maintaining my impeccable oral hygiene.

“It’s Eden,” I correct him, injecting maximum sweetness into my voice in the hopes that it will give him a cavity so deep he’ll need a root canal. “And you have a one-thirty with Mr. Wolfe.”

He casts his beady eyes to the clock suspended on the wall to my right. “That gives me fifteen minutes to chat with you, then.”

And three hours and forty-five minutes until I get to go home.

I close the document I was working on with a sigh—a letter of resignation I will never send because I need this job and I’m disgustingly unemployable. “What can I do for you, Mr. Anderson?”

His expression thunders before he masks it with another skeezy grin. “It’s Doctor Anderson.”

I shrug as if I hadn’t riled him up on purpose. Sue me for finding an ounce of joy in an otherwise soul-rotting environment. “My mistake, Doctor.”

Fiddling with the drawstring of his scrubs, he lowers himself onto the burgundy sofa in the waiting area in front of my desk and manspreads. He paid double my monthly salary for that sofa. An interesting choice, when the computer system is twenty years out of date, and the swivel chair beneath me shudders in complaint every time I sit on it, but who cares about employee comfort when you can buy a multi-thousand-dollar Chesterfield instead?

“As you know, we’ve recently undergone some refurbishments, and you’ve been reaping the benefits.”

I stare at the permanent glitch in the corner of my computer screen. Reaping the benefits, my ass.

“Well, I’m sure you understand that while it was imperative for the future of the practice, none of it came cheaply, and that money has to come from somewhere.”

Sliding a pen off my desk, I grip it in my hand and squeeze to alleviate the mounting tension in my bloodstream. In my temples, my pulse thuds a brisk rhythm, though you couldn’t tell from the easy smile on my face.

“As such, your pay will unfortunately be reduced by fifteen percent, effective immediately.”

The pen shatters in my hand.

Ink spills across my palm and wrist, staining my skin a deep blue. A shard of clear plastic wedges itself into my thumb, and I yank it out numbly. There’s no pain. Only a whoosh of anger in my ears that makes it difficult to discern anything other than the satisfied expression of my boss cutting back at me.

He slaps his knee and rises from the sofa. “I best get set up for my one-fifteen. He’s a high-profile man, so smack on a smile, and give him your best service. I’m hoping to increase my celebrity clientele.”

“Of course you are,” I grit out, unable to see through the thick fog of red still clouding my vision.

“I appreciate your understanding, Edith.”

I can’t stress enough how much he does not have my understanding.

The door bangs shut behind him, and I launch the broken pen at the window across my desk. It splatters blue fireworks across the glass, and I groan, knowing I’ll need to clean it up before Mr. High-Profile Celebrity Man appears, lest I accrue a further fifteen percent cut to my already measly pay.

What am I going to do?

I’ve been working my ass off trying to make ends meet with little success for so long that I’ve convinced myself the ends I’ve been cursed with are repelling magnets. Every time I get close to them touching, they pull away from each other. And now, I’m staring down the barrel of a five-hundred-dollar-per-month loss, wondering how the fuck I’m going to keep pulling them together.

Between the extortionate rent prices that come with living in Seattle, the rise in food costs, and the extracurriculars my son participates in, I’m drowning.