Random Read

After Thanksgiving, when our work slowed, we found a fake Christmas tree in the stockroom. We took it to the breakroom and tag-teamed its assembly, removing limbs from the box, passing them around, attaching them to the trunk. We hummed a carol but stopped when we found a clump of plastic greenery that didn’t belong. Mistletoe. We knew what to do.

One of us stood on a chair and taped the clump to the breakroom doorway. The rest kept watch in case an older employee, one of those with a salary, mortgage, and career path, came along. They wouldn’t scold us for not working—they never did, they acted like we weren’t even flesh and bone—but seeing us on a chair hanging mistletoe would give them one more reason to think of us as inferior, as children.

We spent our whole lunch hour trimming the tree. Normally, we would linger at the breakroom tables and talk. We were all, always, hungry. We finished half the salads we brought from home and let the rest spoil in the fridge. When one of the older adults posted a note, YOUR MOTHER DOESN’T WORK HERE, we let our salads rot another week out of spite. We were young and hopeful about our futures, which we expected to be glamorous and rewarding. Dieting and doing aerobics fed our hopes. Improving our bodies would improve our prospects. To reach our goals, we would have to stick together.