“So where am I sitting?” I asked.
Jasmine giggled and exchanged a glance with Chad.
“Well, we had to make a few adjustments,” she said, gesturing vaguely with her hand. “Since this is a business dinner to celebrate my promotion, we need to focus the conversation on success and strategy. We thought you might get bored with all the pompous talk about stocks and acquisitions.”
She pointed her long acrylic nail towards the swinging kitchen door.
“We’ve prepared a special little corner for you in there,” she continued. “The cat table. You know, like when we were little. It’s cozy, and you’ll be closer to the buffet if we need to refill the wine.”
Chad sniffed into his towel.
“Yes, Tiana,” he added. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to stain this tablecloth. It’s imported silk. It cost more than your car.”
My mother adjusted the floral centerpiece, pretending not to hear her eldest daughter being exiled to the servants’ quarters.
“Mom,” I said softly, “are you serious? I’m thirty-two years old.”
Vera finally looked up, irritated as if I had interrupted something important.
“Oh, stop making such a fuss, Tiana. Jasmine is the guest of honor. It’s her night. If she wants the head table for her associates, well, so be it. Go sit in the kitchen and be happy you’re getting a free meal.”
An intense heat rose to my neck, but I pushed it back down.
I looked at Jasmine. She radiated triumph in her petty cruelty.
She thought she could put me in my place. She thought she could push the failure into the background so I wouldn’t tarnish their image of perfection.
She had no idea she was sending the owner of a billion-dollar company to sit in a plastic chair.
I smoothed out my sweater.
“Very well,” I said evenly. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt this important business discussion.”
I walked past the table, head held high. As I pushed open the kitchen door, laughter followed me, light and cruel.
The kitchen was hot and smelled of dish soap and grease.
In one corner, a wobbly folding table sat on a simple plastic folding chair. No tablecloth, no glassware: just a cardboard plate and a plastic fork.
I sat down and stared at the swinging door.
Through the small window, I could see them raising their glasses and toasting with my expensive wine.
They thought they had won.
From where I was sitting, I had an unobstructed view of their fall.
From my exile in the kitchen, I could hear everything. The door was thin, and Jasmine had never known how to speak in a low voice, especially when she was boasting.
The cutlery clinked against the fine porcelain, then stopped.
I imagined Jasmine standing there, smoothing her red dress, enjoying the attention like a lizard in the sun.
“I have some news to share,” she announced, her voice carrying to the kitchen. “The board of directors officially approved my compensation today. Effective January 1st, my base salary will be one hundred thousand dollars per year, plus stock options.”
The dining room erupted in joy, like at a spiritual revival meeting.
My mother let out a piercing scream.
“$100,000!” exclaimed Vera, stunned. “Oh, Jasmine, that’s incredible! You’re going to be the richest woman in our community. Sister Patterson will die of jealousy when I tell her!”
I speared a piece of dry cornbread with my plastic fork.
One hundred thousand.
Respectable for a young woman of twenty-nine. In an abstract and distant way, I was happy for her.
But the irony made me grimace.
