A Bitch Named Karma. Stephanie Haefner

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      Marcus and I met for breakfast the next morning before he headed to work and I headed to Val’s office. He carried the plates with bagels and lox and I had both beverages. Maneuvering through the crowded café, a businessman in a suit two sizes too small bumped my hand with his laptop case. My caramel macchiato crashed to the floor and splattered on my shoes.

      “Watch it, asshole!”

      All I received in return was a dirty look. An employee appeared and cleaned the spill and my shoes and fetched me another drink.

      “What do you think about karma?” I asked Marcus once I’d sat down at the table.

      “I don’t know. Never gave it much thought, I guess.”

      “I had a bizarre dream about it last night. Do you think it exists?”

      “Could, I guess.”

      “Like my macchiato. Last week I bumped someone and she spilled coffee on her shirt. Do you think the scene this morning could be karma?”

      “Like the universe is out to get you for a simple accident? I don’t think so.”

      “Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid. Forget I said it.”

      * * * *

      Later that morning, the elevator door opened to the offices of Smith & Roland, people sprinting around, every one with armloads of papers and boxes. The place normally resembled the theater a few blocks down that only showed nature documentaries—quiet and boring with most of the audience half asleep. Something was definitely up.

      Val’s office looked like a battle had just taken place. I stepped around cardboard boxes as she popped up from behind her desk.

      “What’s going on?” I asked.

      “Oh, Lexi. Everything is a mess! I don’t even know how to tell you this. You better sit down.” Her gravity-defying hair looked a bit more frizzed out than normal. “I’m not gonna be your editor anymore.”

      “That’s ridiculous.”

      She sighed and sat in her chair. “It’s true.”

      “I don’t believe it.”

       “Here, look.” Val brought up the email sent to her the afternoon before, from Mr. Smith’s secretary no less. A short and simple “Please clear out your office within twenty-four hours and report to Human Resources for your new job assignment.”

      After reading the single line of text that so swiftly changed Val’s career, I wanted to scream and cry and throw myself on the ground in a toddler-esque tantrum yelling, “No! No! No!”

      “Your last royalty check—it wasn’t a mistake,” she said and looked to me with glossy eyes. “Your book sales have dropped. So have some of my other authors. They say it’s all my fault.”

      She stood and began placing some things in a box as she told me about her replacement—an outsider. This supposed miracle-worker of an editor had been lured away from another publishing house. Mr. Smith and Mr. Roland needed to make some major changes for the good of the company and hoped the big bucks they threw at this new woman would save it.

      “She’s here already,” Val said, stifling her tears. “You’re meeting with her today in her temporary office. As soon as I’m cleared out, she’ll be moving in here.”

      My relationship with Val far surpassed the editor-author marriage. We were also friends. She’d established my career and walked me through my first publishing experience. She’d given me my first big break and now she was my rock. How the hell would I do any of this without her?

      As she reached to pull one of her photos off the wall, she broke down crying. I did the only thing I could think of.

      “These assholes can’t fuck you over like this! This is unacceptable! If they don’t give you your job back, I’ll walk!”

      “Lexi, no. They mean business. For the sake of your career, you need to stay put.”

      Our eyes met. She was serious. I’d trusted Val on every aspect of my career in the past, no questions asked, and had no reason to doubt her advice now.

      “Fine. I’ll meet with her. But if I don’t like her, she can go to hell. They all can.”

      I walked down the hall confident as my Manolo Blahniks click-clacked on the marble, ready to raise some hell. A hand-written sign had been plastered to the door: Sheila Brown— Editor. The scent of a black Sharpie wafted into my nostrils as I pounded on the door. I heard a screechy “Come in” and found a middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk.

      She flipped through a manuscript and didn’t look up when I strode through the door.

      “Sit, Ms. Marshall.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ