Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,44

am referring to. “Nina? Nope, she’s a KGB agent now! A spy amongst us.”

Mika shoots me a quizzical look.

“She works in Quality Assurance,” I explain.

Hmm. Perhaps that’s why my last few monitors have been less than stellar. That KGB spy is probably monitoring my calls. We have never jelled, and we harbor a mutual dislike for each other, so maybe now it’s payback time. At my expense.

All of a sudden, I hear a shrill peal of laughter from the Bob-Nina table. Whirling around, I eye the pair with revulsion. Bob reaches across the table and fondles Nina’s blowfish lips; she reciprocates by suckling his sausage fingers.

Ugh! What the hell was that? Bob is a total man-whore. And Nina is a total she-slut.

Consumed with repugnance, I feel a surge of outrage on Kars’ behalf and on Bob’s wife behalf. That three timing bastard! For all I know, Bob probably has a harem of women stashed somewhere.

Truong, just as sickened by the sight of Bob and Nina, raises an eyebrow at me. A perfect arch. I raise mine right back.

Meanwhile, Mika is whopping down his cheeseburger, totally oblivious to this whole exchange.

It’s been three weeks since Karsynn’s jaw surgery, and I marvel at her tenacity. Eating is still painfully uncomfortable, yet she manages without complaining.

For breakfast today, Kars is having basil scrambled eggs.

We ditched the Ensure diet two weeks post-surgery.

Well…I ditched the diet much sooner, but Kars doesn’t need to know that.

“So,” I say cheerfully. “You’ll be back to work next week?”

“Uh-huh,” Karsynn confirms. “I’m just dying to get out of the house; I never thought I’d be excited about going back to the call center purgatory.”

Janis reaches over my shoulder and pours me a fresh cup of coffee. “I think it’s too soon. Her wires are out, but it’s still a bit hard for her to talk, especially for eight hours straight.”

“Mom, please. I’ll be fine,” Kars whines and promptly changes the subject. “So what’s new at work, Maddy?”

I sip my coffee. “Nothing much really. Truong is still obsessed with Mika; he flirts with him shamelessly. Oh yeah, and he calls him Mikquisha.”

Kars chuckles and bits of basil scrambled egg spray out of her mouth. “And what about you, Maddy? You still in lurrrve with Mikquisha?”

I toy with my coffee mug. “Even if I like him, I don’t think he likes me in that sorta way.”

“How do you know if you don’t ask him?” she implores.

“Ask him? No, I could never. Plus if he likes me, surely he would’ve made a move by now. But no. Nothing so far...”

“Hullo? It’s transparently obvious he’s into you. I’ve seen the two of you together; you’re both so sickeningly cute it makes me want to gag.”

I shoot her a ‘yeah right’ look.

Kars forks a mouthful of eggs. “Are you still tutoring him?”

“Uh-huh. Once a week, without fail. You know, I really don’t do much except edit his papers and suggest books for him to read. And there’s hardly anything for me to edit. All I do is tweak his punctuations. A semi colon here, a comma there. Seriously, I’m just dotting his I’s and crossing his T’s.”

Kars eyes me suspiciously. “Hmm. Then why are you still meeting up for tutoring sessions?”

“I’ve mentioned it a couple times.” I shrug nonchalantly. “But he insists he still needs my help.”

Kars waves her fork in the air. “See! That’s a good sign.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I breathe out a weary sigh. “I just feel like that geeky girl in high school who he only sees as a tutor, not the cute cheerleader he takes to the prom.”

Kars rolls her eyes. “Stop it! You’re starting to sound like a Taylor Swift song.”

We exchange silly grins across the table, then we burst out singing You Belong to Me, crooning the best parts. Sometimes I think Kars and I are distant descendants of the African Zulu tribe. We randomly burst into song, and for some inexplicable reason, we make strange noises with our tongues, like Ali Li Li Ayi Ayi Ayeee Ayeee. Just like the Shaka Zulu tribal women.

When we’re done singing, clapping and making tribal sounds, the entire kitchen table is covered with a smattering of basil scrambled eggs.

Janis tuts and wipes the surface with a rag, shooting Kars a parental look. “Honey, you don’t need to be singing in your condition.”

Kars brushes off her concerns with a wave of her hand. “So, Maddy, how’s Ingeborg?”

Gingerly, I pluck a sliver of basil out of my hair. “She’s doing good; she’s