Page 9 of Hacking the Holidays
“My plate is perfectly organized,” Sam said. “I don’t need help with my plate. I like my plate exactly as it is.”
Oh, no ...
He was one ofthosepeople.
The kind who color-coded their sock drawers, alphabetized their spice rack, and had minor panic attacks when someone borrowed their stapler without asking. I recognized the type because Iwasthe type.
This undercover operation was going to either be laughably easy or catastrophically difficult.
“Rose issoexcited to help,” Eleanor chirped, giving me an encouraging nudge that nearly sent me stumbling into the newspaper rack. “Aren’t you, dear?”
I opened my mouth to deliver something appropriately positive about community service and the joy of helpingothers, but what came out was, “Yes. I’m experiencing elevated levels of enthusiasm.”
Sam stared at me like I was an error message he’d never seen before.
Elevated levels of enthusiasm?
What was wrong with me? Who talked like that? Nobody, that’s who! I sounded like a robot!
“Sam,” Eleanor said with the patience of someone who’d clearly prepared for this argument, “you’re working sixty-hour weeks, including your volunteer schedule. You barely take lunch breaks. And that’s before adding new time-sensitive projects to your workload.”
“I maintain very efficient time management protocols,” Sam replied, which was probably true but also completely missed the point about basic human limitations.
Eleanor had a determined glint in her eye that meant resistance was futile. “I know you’re efficient, but you can still burn out. And Rose has excellent research skills.”
This was my chance to sound professional and competent.
“Nobody probes like me,” I announced.
The words escaped before I could catch them.
This was exactly why I avoided social situations.
My brain was short-circuiting from the pressure.
Sam’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline like they were trying to evacuate his forehead. “Say what now?”
“For research,” I said, trying to recover. “Research probing. Not physical probing. I don’t have a medical license.” I could feel my face heating up like an overworked CPU. “What I’m trying to say is, I excel at data analysis. Research. Digital things. Uh, that is to say,computerdigital things. And I promise not to mess up your organizational system.”
I saw the resignation in his face as he looked between us, recognizing the pointlessness of this battle. His logical mind was running the numbers; the cost of fighting is higher than the cost of compliance.
“Fine,” he finally said with a sigh. “There is one project I’ve been postponing. It will take several days to complete properly.”
Something in his careful tone made me suspect Sam Monroe wasn’t nearly as resigned as he was pretending to be. This was possibly a set-up, and I had no choice but to go along with it.
“What kind of project?” I asked.
“We need to audit the new entries to the digital archive to make sure they were properly categorized and tagged,” Sam explained, watching my reaction. “Approximately three thousand entries requiring verification. Extremely detail-oriented work.”
Uninspiring and monotonous was more accurate.
Obviously, it was designed to keep me busy and out of his way. That being said, I could still observe him and his behavior without him even realizing I was doing it.
“Mind-numbing work,” he added for good measure, like he was still trying to scare me off.
“Perfect,” I replied without hesitation. “Repetitive tasks are very soothing. Zen-like, really.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, two people clearly running diagnostics on whether the other was exactly what they appeared to be. The answer for both of us was definitely not.
