Betting on You(14)
The woman went on to list off the teams and their designated training rooms. There was no explanation on how the group was split up or what it meant, but Nekesa and I were Protostars, staying in the Milky Way, while Charlie was called to line up with the Red Giants, who were headed to Mars. He shrugged and followed his group out of the room, and I was torn between being a tiny bit disappointed that he was gone and massively relieved I wasn’t going to have to work with him all the time.
Because even though he appeared to have grown up a little, and we’d just shared a decent human moment, there was surely enough Mr. Nothing left in him to drive me mad on a daily basis.
Once the Protostars were alone, we were each given a big red shield with a P to affix to our uniforms. We were told that our group was the administrative band that would hold the front line of fun together. We would train to become front desk clerks, concession stand reps, restaurant hostesses, and Funcierges (fun concierges). Pretty much any job that involved a little responsibility and customer fiduciary interaction fell to our team.
I was slightly offended when Mr. Cleveland, our trainer, explained that our group scored high in professionalism but very low on the fun vibe. He said our love language wasn’t socialization but rule-following, and though that might sound like a drag—the man literally used that word—we were essential to the success of Planet Funnn.
He mentioned that the other teams had roles such as “audience exciter,” “waterslide daredevil,” “snowball fight instigator,” and my favorite, “karaoke influencer,” so I imagined their training curriculum would differ wildly from ours.
About an hour into an incredibly boring PowerPoint presentation on the history of our parent company (Funnnertainment, Inc.), the side door creaked open and Charlie walked in, loose-limbed and looking totally chill with the fact that he was interrupting our very large group.
Mr. Cleveland stopped speaking. “Can I help you?”
If it were me, I would’ve died of embarrassment as the eyes of the entire Milky Way rested upon me. But Charlie was relaxed. He put his hands into the pockets of his flight suit and said, “Yeah. Um. Apparently there was a mistake. I guess I’m supposed to be in here.”
“You’re a Protostar?”
I rolled my lips inward, wanting to laugh at Charlie’s face; he grimaced like Cleveland had called him something vile. Charlie said, “Well, those are the words that they told me to say. So, um, I guess yes.”
Mr. Cleveland gestured to the open seat in the front row. “Then have a seat.”
“Awesome,” Charlie said, dropping into the chair.
“Your timing is perfect, son, because we’re just about to go over the Funnnertainment Employee Handbook.” The man chuckled loudly for a half second, very clown-like, before adding, “Buckle up, Protostars, cuz it’s about to get real.”
I bit down on my lip to hold in a groan.
Nekesa rolled her eyes and mouthed, Real boring.
Mr. Cleveland started reading word for word through the handbook. I pulled out a pencil and took notes—because what else was there to do. He went over the dress code (uniforms only), the payroll system, and employee benefits before we finally broke for lunch.
I’d never been happier to stand.
Everyone had a voucher to get a free meal in the food court, so Nekesa and I—and the rest of the monster-sized training group—started down a long and endless hallway that led to the Galaxy of Funstaurants.
I lowered my voice and said to Nekesa, “Maybe we should ditch now, before lunch.”
“What?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “It wouldn’t feel right to take the free lunch if we’re quitting.”
Nekesa looked at me like I’d just confessed to a squirrel obsession. “Quitting? What are you talking about? This place is totally bonkers.”
“Which is why I said what I said.”
“What is more hilarious than this place, Bay? I could work at a grocery store where customers yell at me because their coupon won’t work, or I could be a Protostar whose quarterly review involves learning a line dance. That, my friend, is gold and should be treated as such.”
It was such a Nekesa thing to say.
Sometimes best friends were like twins separated at birth. But Nekesa and I—not so much.
She was outgoing, hilarious, and always down for a good time. She sewed her own amazing clothes, she took ballroom dancing classes for fun, and she’d punched someone in the mouth once. She was like the heroine in a zombie movie who’d be wielding a stake and yelling, Come and get me, you zombie pussies!
I was… well, not that. I was perpetually trying to keep up with her. I’d be the girl too busy yelling Wait and flipping through the Zombie Rule Book to notice the zombie hovering behind me, about to eat my brain.
“Well, I’ve never even heard of the Bopper Shuffle.” I scratched my eyebrow and felt uneasy at the thought of working for a company whose core values were fun and belly laughing. “It is ludicrous that my potential pay increase should hinge upon cheesy choreography.”
“You’re just scared because you suck at dancing,” Nekesa teased, nudging my side with her elbow.
“It’s a ridiculous assessment!” I did suck at dancing—Nekesa said I was too repressed to enjoy it—but that didn’t change how absurd the assessment was.