“Good lord,” Janice groans.
“Come on, then,” Anya says.
“A minute of his time?” I close the portfolio, cutting off Maisey’s story.
“Here’s what you need to understand,” Janice says. “Bambi and Mother Teresa could chain themselves to that building and Mr. Blackberg wouldn’t stop the wrecking ball. In fact, if Bambi and Mother Teresa chained themselves to the building, he’d take great pleasure in swinging the wrecking ball himself.”
I grip my iPad. What kind of person would demolish a building more gleefully if Mother Teresa and Bambi were chained to it? This is who has our fate in his hands?
“I won’t believe that,” I say, remembering the way Malcolm Blackberg tucked my phone into the just-right little pocket, a small, kind gesture offered as I squatted there, dying of nervousness. I have the crazy thought that these women just don’t get him.
“He’d take extra pleasure in demolishing it,” Janice says. “Like it or not, I’m doing you a favor. Because if I sent you upstairs and by some miracle—and trust me, it would have to be a miracle—they let you through, and you showed him those few seconds of your little movie? He’d speed up the timeline. If there’s one thing Mr. Blackberg hates, it’s his time being wasted with things like this.”
“Leave with me or be escorted by security,” Anya says.
Defeated, I follow Anya and her bright bun back toward the front. She walks me right to the elevator and pushes the down button. There is only a down button.
The elevator dumps me back into the grand lobby.
This can’t be it. It can’t be over now.
I linger for a while, pretending to wait for an elevator. I can’t run back home with my tail between my legs.
I watch a person wave a card in front of the black box that goes to the higher-up offices. The card hangs around her neck. What if I went and stood next to her? And just got on with her? I watch the doors open. She sees me watching and frowns. I lose my nerve and watch the doors shut.
I decide I’ll try to join the next person. Somebody else waves a card in front of the box. I go up and stand next to him, try to look like I belong.
He glances at me and then forward. Then at me again. “Can I help you?” he asks.
I smile brightly. “Heading up to six.”
“Where’s your lanyard?” he asks.
I put my hand to my chest. “Oh…I don’t have it.”
“You work on six?”
“Uhh…no,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Floor two.” He points at the other elevator.
“Thank you,” I say.
I catch sight of the security guard watching me. He has his phone out and he’s speaking into it, watching me.
I head around the boulder fountain, toward the exit.
There’s a letter carrier coming through with her cart. Something in me calms. I hold the door for her and she thanks me and continues on. I watch her as she moves across the lobby. The security guard meets her at the elevators. He waves a card in front of the black pad. The doors open. She gets on with her cart and smiles.
The doors close.
And now he looks my way.
He really is going to toss me out now. I turn and start walking. I burst out onto the bright sidewalk…with a shocking new idea forming in my mind.
4
Noelle
I took another day off, but I’m wearing my uniform, with my trusty blue bag slung around my shoulder.
I watch myself stroll into Blackberg Plaza. I could get in trouble for this, but I remind myself that life is too short not to do the important things, even if those things are scary and possibly deranged.
And there’s nothing more important than my friends. They’re my family.
Francine and Jada were so amazed when I told them my new plan. They think I’m brave.
More like desperate.
I round the fountain and head to the security desk. The bushy-bearded guard comes out. He doesn’t recognize me from yesterday—yet. People rarely recognize letter carriers in their civilian clothes, and vice versa. When you put on the uniform, your identity is the US Mail, and you’re welcome everywhere.
I show him the small package that I’ve addressed to Malcolm Blackberg. This morning I put a red “registered mail” sticker on it, and then I added a blank sticker, where I wrote “restricted delivery” and “addressee only” in bold black ink.
Restricted delivery mail is to be delivered to the addressee only, though it can also be delivered to an addressee’s authorized agent. I’m hoping they’re not too familiar with that part of the rule.
He walks me to the elevator, opens it with his card, and gives me a smile with nary a whiff of recognition.
“Thank you,” I say, clutching my bag. I examine the buttons and hit floor six.
“Excuse me,” A pretty woman in an elegant red suit shows a card to the guard. “I’m from Bexley Partners. I have a ten o’clock on six that I’m running late for and they said to check in with you.”
“Yup, they just called.” The guard slaps his hand over the closing doors and pushes them open. “Go on.”
“Thanks,” she says, walking in with a tentative smile for me. She has short blonde hair and wonderful red and white heels
I nod and adjust my bag. My pulse races as the door closes and the elevator begins its ascent.
We ride in silence.
The secretaries and assistants will probably try to sign for it, but I’m planning on saying it has to go to Mr. Blackberg personally. I’ll just insist and I won’t stop insisting. The uniform carries a lot of weight, and I’m counting on that.
The elevator seems to be slowing, buttons lighting sluggishly from floor one to floor two to three. Just before it reaches the fourth floor, there’s a loud crack above us. I clutch the rail as the car shakes violently.
It tilts and grinds to a halt. The whole car goes dark, then another light blinks on—some kind of emergency light from the corner.
“Oh, my god,” the woman says, clinging to the rail on her side.
My heart whooshes in my ears. It’s all I hear in the total silence. “Okay,” I say, “it’s not crashing.”
“Yet,” she says.
“They have a lot of safeties on these things,” I say.
There’s another creak.
“There should be an emergency call, right?” she says.
She’s looking at me like I should know. I’m a New York City letter carrier. She thinks I should know things about elevators. She’d be surprised to learn that I rode an elevator for the first time in my life just two years ago.
I go over to the panel and squint in the dim light. The top button—a red one—has a raised image of a phone and some Braille next to it. I push it once. “Hello?”
Nothing.
The woman pulls out her phone and makes a call. She’s saying she’s going to be late to whoever is on the other end just about when a crackly voice comes through the panel. “Hey, this is engineering. Everyone okay in there?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s two of us, and we’re fine. What’s going on?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the voice says. “Just electrical. You’re in no danger. We’ve got a team on it. It’ll be a few minutes. Are you good in there?”