Janaé Frank Escape Tiffany Ball

Escape

Janaé

Frank

Trigger Warning: this story depicts sexual harassment and assault.

Fight or flight is overrated. Fight leaves you with innumerable bruises. Flight leaves you safe and alive. I reassure myself that I am, indeed, doing the right thing as I head into the office at 12:02 a.m. to do exactly what I always do - run.

I mean, it’s not like I wasn’t going to have to pull an all-nighter for the accounting firm anyways. I am simply choosing to do so from the comfort of my office.

Numbers. My typical go-to distraction. When I was a little girl, I would count in my head to keep myself from crying or to drown out unwanted noise. Now is no different. As I make the short trip to my office building, I think solely about numbers.

my job so much; I’m surrounded by numbers. I work as an intern for a company called XERO, and basically, I do payroll for the entertainment industry. It is a stressful job. Very stressful. So stressful, in fact, that I can completely lose myself in my work and not worry about my home life or any other problems I have.

We have quite the mutual relationship. XERO uses me like a labor slave and I use it to run away from my problems.

I pull into the parking garage and hold my badge up to the scanner. Everyone thinks I’m an entitled, spoiled brat for having such a competitive intern position, especially my classmates. They tease that if it weren’t for my prestigious parents, I wouldn’t have the job at all. Perhaps they’re right. With my background, I certainly wouldn’t be enrolled in one of the most famous prep schools in the country, nor would I have such a cutthroat internship for XERO. I suppose that’s why I don’t mind

Nonetheless, I worked my ass off for this position. And I am still working my ass off for this position. And if it is only because of Mr. and Mrs. Grant that I have this position, it is perhaps the greatest thing they’ve given me in the entire 8 years I have been with them.

I have finally found a way to deal with Mrs. Grant’s raging escapades without actually being in the house. Likewise, Mr. Grant often spends weeks away on business or he’ll sleep in his office. He loses himself in his work, and I have followed suit. It seemingly works for the both of us.

Is it healthy? Probably not. But it works.

As I walk into the deserted building, I feel more at home than I ever have walking into the house where I live. Most teenage girls would be terrified to be walking down the dimly lit hallways of an empty skyscraper at midnight. I, however, am not most teenage girls.

I come to an abrupt halt as I notice that there is a bit of illumination coming from the finance office. Cautiously, I open to glass doors to find that there’s someone else here. From the looks of it, it’s my boss.

Great, just when I wanted to be alone.

Still, I prefer his company to that of my own family, so I walk quietly over to my cubicle and plop my bag on the top of my desk. His office has a door, so I’m not sure if he saw me come in or not. I decide not to bother him; it’s not like I want to be It doesn’t take me long to lose myself into a world of numbers, and I welcome the distraction with open arms. Of course, having noise cancelling headphones certainly helps. Even when I notice movement from my boss’ office, I don’t take my mind off of my work.

Finally tearing my gaze from my dual monitors, I find my boss standing in front of my desk. I pull off my headphones and blush. It’s not that I meant to completely ignore him. “I’m sorry about that,” I mutter.

He chuckles and gives me a nonchalant wave. “Don’t worry about it. I got up to go to the toilets and was surprised to find that I have company. What is it, like, one in the morning?”

Again, I cringe as I glance at the time on my computer screen. 12:46 a.m. Definitely not a time a teenage girl should be at work. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t seem upset.

“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “Why don’t you join me in my office for a bit? There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Following behind him into his office, I give him a quick once-over.

He’s still in his typical work attire, a well tailored suit - minus the tie, which means he’s probably been here for a while.

Without looking at me, he gestures toward the couch. “Sit, for a moment, and I’ll be right with you.”

He finishes typing something on his computer and looked at me with his fingers interlaced on his desktop.“You, my dear Angel, are an excellent worker.”

My name is not Angel. My name is Angelica.

Still, his words are nothing new to me, so I simply nod my head. Ever since I began working here about 6 months ago, he has commended me on the amount of time I’d dedicate to doing my work.

Never once have I complained about the overtime or the rushed deadlines. I complete every single task on time, and I always greet everyone with a smile. Often times, my coworkers even get me to help with their deadlines because they know that I will do so without complaint. I am the perfect little intern.

I can see now, in his cheeky gaze, that he believes my extended efforts have been some attempt at striving to impress him. Perhaps he thinks I am working this hard to achieve some type of promotion, to kickstart my career while in my last year of high school. Truthfully, though, I wasn’t thinking of him or this company in the slightest. In fact, I wasn’t thinking of anything at all which is why this job is so great.

Typically, his assumptions would be correct. I always work twice as hard at everything. I submit every assignment early, complete extra community volunteer hours, always obey curfew, study twice as much as my classmates. I have already submitted all of my college applications with every extra curricular possible to ensure my entry. And, now, I have this internship to add on to the never ending list of reasons why my peers hate me and adults praise me.

But people often mistake the reasons for my work ethic. It’s not to impress others or even to achieve some level of self gratification. It’s not out of selfish nor selfless gain, and it most certainly is not out of want. It’s out of necessity.

I have to work twice as hard at everything to prove my worth. I was not born into this sort of lifestyle. I was born to a mother who did not consider herself to

be worth anything, and I have inherited that same attitude through genetics. When she took her own life, I was forced into the foster care system until Mr. and Mrs. Grant came along. Though they are not the ideal parents, they have given me a roof over my head and endless provisions that would have otherwise been refused to a child of my caliber.

So, yes, I work my ass off. But it’s not because I want to. Not one aspect of my life is controlled by my own personal want.

I do not respond verbally, however. There’s no sense in explaining any of this to my boss. I suppose he takes my silence as an invitation because he grins as he stands up and walks slowly over to where I’m sitting. “I’d like to see you go far in life, which is why I am willing to work with you personally to advance your career.”

I have no interest in advancing my career in this company. I simply want to make it out of high school alive with as little bruises as possible.

He gets up and perches on the edge of the sofa, angling himself so that he’s directly across from me. He looks at me slowly, eying me from my battered leggings to my wild hair. It’s one of those really slow, really obvious looks. The look of a man very blatantly checking you out.

I am extremely uncomfortable.

Finally he speaks, and I am even more uncomfortable. “You’ve done a lot for this company. But I’m going to need more.”

As previously mentioned, I have given a lot to this company to which I have absolutely no personal attachment. I’m no fool. I know exactly what else he wants me to give. Still, I pretend that I don’t.

“I don’t even know what more I could give.”

I am a young, slightly naive African American woman sitting in front of a very powerful Caucasian man being sexually harassed. I know what will happen if I refuse him, and he is blissfully aware of it. So, my attempt at diverting his advances are futile.

He reaches forward and places a hand on my knee, his wedding band prominently shining around his ring finger. “I could think of a few things.”

The fact that he is coming on to me does not surprise me in the slightest. He perfectly fits the criteria of the “married but feels

I cannot lose this internship. I’ve worked too hard for this. I can’t even imagine Mrs. Grant’s response were I to lose the one thing I’ve accomplished that she can actually brag about. No one will believe me were I to report him. If he’s hitting on me now, I’m sure he’s done it to other women in the past.

Again, he takes my silence as an invitation. I watch, emotionlessly, as his strangely smooth hand continues up my leg. I divert my eyes to the wall, but the smiling faces of his family portrait seemingly glare at me. He follows my line of vision and sees the photograph of his smiling family - a beautiful, blonde wife and two adorable little girls. Still, he does not take his grimy hand off of my thigh.

“It’s not like that at home. It’s never that happy. All she does is fuss and complain about more money. I never even get to see my own kids. They’re always with the nanny.”

I know what he is trying to say. He’s, in effect, saying that you can’t break what’s already broken. I suppose that’s why his advances take little toll on my emotional Suddenly, though, I understand why he’s here at one in the morning with his slimy hands on the legs of a 17-year-old girl. He is escaping. Just like I have done. Just like I am doing.

He is escaping, just like me. He knows it. I know it. Yet, his hand slips into the waistband of my leggings. I do not move his hand away.