Page 7 of Snapshot

But the jolly feeling of relief quickly dissipates when I see my mother waiting for me right outside the building. Her arms are crossed, wrinkling her neat, blue blouse. Her dark gray dress pants hemmed just above the ankle show off her pointed black heels. She’s tapping her foot, her obvious tell when she’s trying to control her temper.

It brings me right back to high school when I was constantly in trouble. Whenever I’d get C’s in school…foot tapping. The time she caught me sneaking back into my bedroom after a boy dropped me off at one in the morning…foot tapping. The time I clipped the curb in her car and busted her front driver’s side tire…very aggressive foot tapping.

“Where’s your stuff?” Mom asks, her lips barely moving.

I tap my satchel. “Right here.”

“They’re not going to let you back in the building, Lennox. You need to take all of your belongings.” Mom is a director on the sales side of Advantage Insurance. I wonder how she found out. Gossip moves like wildfire in a call center. Someone probably tipped her off the moment I disappeared from the company instant message directory.

“I realize, Mom.I did.I didn’t have much here.”

She exhales dramatically. “I can take an early lunch. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe over some Subway?”

I cinch one eye closed and shake my head at her. “Don’t try to butter me up with a footlong Italian B.M.T. with all the fixings, extra pickles, mayo, and the special vinaigrette. I know you just want to lecture me about getting fired.”

She raises her eyebrows at my response. “I do. But that description was quite specific. Sounds like you want a sandwich.”

I raise my eyebrows right back at her. “Are you paying?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Can we skip the lecture?”

“No,” she snaps.

But my stomach grumbles right on cue. “Fine. Sandwich and lecture, then. Your car or mine?”

Mom scoffs. “I’m not getting into that metal death trap you call a vehicle. I don’t even like my baby driving in that thing. Ithought this job was going to get you a little closer to a down payment on something safer.”

We turn left, heading toward the dedicated parking spaces. All directors get a special spot with their initials spray-painted on a parking block.

“What happened, Lennox? I thought the job was going well.”

“I hung up on a customer,” I answer simply. “They fired me. That’s it. There’s no big story. I broke a rule, then I paid the price.” I keep my eyes down on my ballet flats. The soles are so worn I can feel the cold concrete on my feet. Vegas is never freezing, but in December, the air is brisk enough to cool the sidewalks.

“I understandwhyyou were fired. I’m asking what possessed you to hang up on a customer. It’s literally the first thing they teach you in training. Advantage’s only deal breaker. Simeon Walters from my sales team all but cussed a customer out over the phone. I wrote him up.But did he get fired?No. Because he didn’t hang up.”

“Mom,” I say, halting in place. “What’s your point?”

She doubles back to face me, hands on her hips, challenge in her eyes. Her foot goes back to tapping. “My point is, you’re incredibly smart, Lennox. This was deliberate. You wanted to get fired.”

Is that true?Possibly.

“N-O-E-L.” I say the letters individually.

“What?” she asks.

“How would you pronounce that?”

She narrows her eyes but plays along. “No-Elle.”

“Right.” I agree with a quick nod. “That’s what I said when the caller script came in. ‘Good afternoon, am I speaking with Mr. Noel?’” I mimic, in my customer service agent voice. “I was wrong. It was pronounced ‘Noll,’ like rhymes with toll.”

“Lennox, where are we going with this?”

“Well, I apologized for mispronouncing his name, corrected myself, and asked how I could help him with his policy.”

“Okay…”

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