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“Whatever you think would be the best use of my time, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am. I’m here to do whatever you need me to. Whatever makes you feel like I’m fulfilling my duties.”
Vanacore’s beautiful, weathered face perks up in my words.
“Just what I like to hear, Tommy.”
She smiles at me as the computer boots up.
“I was right to pick you, after all. So glad about that.” She holds my eyes with her for a moment as the home screen comes on, and she types in the password. As she does she shares it with me, writes it on a sticky note, and plasters it where I can see it. “H@cklEBErRyFiNn,” it reads.
“Huckleberry Fin,” she says. “You know, like the famous book, but spelled a little differently. With those numbers and capital letters we’re supposed to put in, to make a password more secure.”
I nod, deciding I should commit this to memory as quickly as possible. Passwords were meant to keep people out, not to be kept out where everyone can see.
“Got it.”
From there, Ms. Vanacore clicks into the company’s network. Again, she shares with me the login information: her username and password. The same thing goes for the interoffice communication system, Watercooler — our version of Instant Messenger — and the email program.
She shows me her login details, as well as how to set up my new one with new credentials.
“You’ll need both,” she explains, leaning in close to me. Much closer than she really needs to, given the situation.
But I don’t say anything, and she doesn’t move to do anything differently. She keeps her body pressed close to mine, enveloping me in her cloudy perfume. The warmth coming off of her, it’s like she’s still in a sugar cane field somewhere in the South, not in a high-end office in Manhattan.
“You’ll need both my login information and yours. Sometimes you will be acting on my behalf, and sometimes you’ll be acting on yours. I’ll expect you to have the good grace to know when and where to use either, Tommy.”
With her sun-beaten, sugar-cane scent enveloping me as it is, it takes me a minute to realize she’s been talking to me, let alone waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, sure thing, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am.”
Ms. Vanacore looks back at me, her silver-gray eyes pressing into me like a maker’s mark.
“Do you think you can set something up, or would you like me to show you how?”
“Show you” has a strange magnetic reverberation do it or a strange tug to it. One that almost makes me feel like I’m on an invisible leash in her hand, not in an office chair.
It takes me a long second, but finally, I answer.
“No. No, ma’am.” I clear my throat, shaking off the feeling I have of falling under a spell. “I can figure it out for myself, thank you.”
Disappointment of some kind lights across her face.
“No disrespect meant, ma’am,” I say quickly. “I just think that, uh, if I’m really going to prove myself worthy of being hired for this position, I should be able to set up my own accounts without needing to be shown. That’s all.”
Under my soft, noncombative tone, Vanacore loses her disappointment. She warms back up as if what I saw was nothing more than a passing dark cloud.
“That’s just fine. Just fine, Tommy.”
When she smiles at me, it’s like I’m being sealed or stamped as hers to hoard and protect. She moves off and away from me.
“I’ll leave you to set up whatever personal accounts you need or want to.” She settles at her desk — something I can see only in the shadow, moving across my privacy screen. “I’m going to get caught up on some phone calls with clients. The winners and losers of the day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say softly. “I’ll try to make sure to keep my activities quiet and impact your work time as little as possible.”
“That’s just fine,” she says. “If you are looking for something to do after setting up personal accounts, you may log in to mine and start putting together notes from my most recent court dates. Add them to the case files and so forth.”
After that, she picks up her office phone and begins her calls. They all start and end in the same way with this cheerful, Southern aura. I’m not sure if it’s an act, or how she really is with people, but it’s not my place to judge or think too hard.
I’ve got actual work to do. Work for my boss. Who’s a lawyer. I’m no longer an aid, so I can’t just waste away my time gossiping and judging others.
Chapter Ten
Tommy
The lunch hour comes more quickly than I expected. In between setting up my new intra-office communication profile, my email account, and my own subfolder in the law floor’s filing system, I’m more than occupied. So occupied, in fact, that Vanacore actually has to come over into my cubicle to get my attention. She leans over my chair and says my name for me to realize I’m being called to.
