Playing Hard To Get

“I need to see the manager,” Troy requested.

“Are you okay? Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes,” Troy snapped, “you can help me by getting the manager. That would be what I initially requested.” While Troy wasn’t ever really great at defending herself, when she finally invoked this fierce strength that every woman in her family had before her, it came out in great big waves of fire, threatening to burn anyone in her path.

“I’m sorry, I mean was there something that happened here—at the bank—that you would like—”

“Listen to me, right now,” Troy started. “I need you to get the manager. That’s all I need. That’s all I want. So pick up your little phone and call her up because someone is here to see her. Do you understand that?”

The phone was in the receptionist’s hand and she’d pressed a button, but evidently the movement was still too slow for Troy’s racing heart. She charged past the woman and opened the door to Myrtle’s office.

“You can’t go—” Troy heard the woman at the desk call.

Myrtle was seated at her desk, eating a bagel and chatting on the phone.

“Girl, you know I did, but I”—she stopped and looked up at Troy—“was so excited and thought maybe we should do it again.” Myrtle laughed and chatted easily as Troy stood there. “No, he didn’t; he is so—”

Troy stepped to the side of the desk and tried to pull the phone from the wall. And while she didn’t quite disconnect the line, the set and receiver pulled from Myrtle’s hand.

“Oh, shit,” the receptionist said, standing behind Troy.

“You see me standing here?” Troy said.

Myrtle stood calmly and stared past Troy.

“That’ll be all, Cathy,” Myrtle said.

“Do you want me to get security?”

“That’ll be all.” Myrtle retrieved the phone from the floor and replaced the handset. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t need a seat,” Troy said.

“Well, fine. Stand there. But make sure—”

“What was the shit you pulled at church yesterday?”

“Shit? It was merely a testimony to something that I—”

“Don’t pull that crap with me,” Troy said. “I’m new to this, but I’m not new to drama. I know what you’re trying to do. And if you think you’re gonna run me out of First Baptist with some public campaign against me you can forget it.”

“Really?” Mrytle opened her drawer and produced a folded sheet of paper. She pitched it over to Troy.

Troy didn’t move.

“Read it!” Myrtle demanded.

Troy opened the pages. It was a bank statement. A bank statement for First Baptist.

“Now, I know you’re no financial wizard, so I’ll direct your eyes to transaction 31 for last month,” Myrtle said.

Troy turned to the second page, where LOUIS VUITTON was posted beside a charge for $6,189.73.

She didn’t say anything. She dropped the paper and sat down in the chair before Myrtle.

“I thought so,” Myrtle said wickedly. “Now, we talk.”

“What do you want?” Troy said, but this time her voice was fragile, broken. She’d planned to make the deposit into the account before anyone noticed or could complain about the purchase.