Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108636 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“Neil? You there?” the CEO of Hughes International, the literal biggest social media holding company on the planet, asks on his end of the screen. I know for a fact that he wasn’t expecting to take this meeting with a cat, and I can’t imagine he’ll have the patience to watch us fumble with it much longer.
“Hold on, Marcus,” Mr. Banks comments from behind me, allowing me back to the keyboard again. “We’re having some issues.” His face is still a cat, and mine is now too. For me, at least, it covers my skin, which is officially the color of a tomato.
“Mr. Banks,” I whisper toward him. My heart is pounding so hard, it might beat itself straight out of my throat. Likely, of course, to be followed by vomit. “Let me see if I—”
“Oh man. Now, I’m all wet,” he mutters, dejected, and proceeds to move his fingers back to the keyboard to tap whatever keys he can reach. “A wet pussycat.”
The filter has changed from “cat” to “cat in bathtub,” and is it just me, or has Mr. Banks said the word pussy no fewer than one hundred times already? It should be illegal to hear your best friend’s father say the word pussy this much, and the fine should be doubled at eight in the morning.
I know he’s technically saying pussycat, but it’s the way he says it. Pussy, far too long pause, cat.
My gaze flicks to Beau again—of course—but he’s not looking at me. He’s actively gesturing toward two of his coworkers to do something, anything that’ll be more productive than sitting here watching his dad and me wrestle with a laptop.
“I think I got the pussycat off,” Mr. Banks says then, clicking the remote to the projector to turn the Zoom off the main screen and then clicking it back on. “Uh-oh. It’s back. Your pussycat is back, Juniper.”
I want to die a slow death as the entire room suddenly comes down with a cold to cover their laughs. Beau’s is the most distinct, but the rest of our coworkers are at an unfair disadvantage—I’ve been studying the man’s every move, sound, and smile since I was a scrawny eleven-year-old girl with braces and he was a studly sixteen-year-old high schooler who spent his summers shirtless and surfing. Take in the fact that I’m now twenty-three, I’ve got a decade-long track record of observing Beau Banks, and I’d swear I know him better than I know myself.
I’m sweating now, pits and tits and everything in between, and things are getting serious. My boss has been a cat for a full three minutes, and I’m starting to wonder if the Zoom app will ever be pussy-free again. The screen, no matter what I press, isn’t budging. “Mr. Banks. Please. Let me shut down the computer and restart.”
Officially out of skills, Mr. Banks turns operations completely over to me.
“Then what?” he asks.
The truth is, I don’t know. If I knew why Avery’s computer was frozen on cat filters, I would have turned them off a long time ago.
“Let’s go old-school and switch to a conference call,” Beau suggests, jumping up from his seat and peering out into the hall to get his assistant Natalie’s attention.
“Marcus, we’re having a system malfunction, so we’re going to reconnect on the conference line,” Mr. Banks says then, his kitty mouth moving ever so cutely for all to see. “Please accept my apology for the delay.”
I scoot all the way into the frame, doing a force quit on the meeting and all the running apps, and when that doesn’t work, I hold down the power button with brute force. My pink silk bra-covered boobs are the only thing on-screen for a flash of a moment as I lean over and they peek out of my white blouse, and then thankfully, blissfully, the laptop shuts down and everything goes black.
I close my eyes to will away an impending cry and restart Avery’s computer. Beau and Natalie are making quick work of setting up the conference call, and before I know it, the meeting is back in progress without the unfortunate addition of pussy.
My first day at work as a fresh-out-of-college intern is set to qualify as a national disaster—seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if FEMA bursts into the room with aid—and I only have my best friend to thank for it. Starbucks, in her mind, was way more important than this meeting, and when your dad owns the company and you have a conscientious friend like me, you can get away with reprioritizing the official schedule to align with that.
Neil assigned this task to her when we had orientation with him last week and Avery was pretending to be all serious about the new job so she could get an additional allowance for new “work attire.” The thousands she spent at Hermès and Saks have yet to even see the fluorescent light of the office, and because we all know her so well, none of us are even surprised.