This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,81
focus.
Alan turns up his nose when I offer him some snacks. “What is that, rabbit food?” He breaks his yoga poses to scratch his elbow, or behind his knee, or (once) at his butthole. But he fidgets with the rainbow-colored pillbox, opens the Monday compartment, and pops two tablets like they’re M&M’s.
I’ll take it.
This Is My Brain on Interviews
JOCELYN
Exactly forty-eight hours after I submit my application, I have a heart attack.
I log in to my e-mail at lunchtime to see if our contact at MVCC has come through with our query about providing food for the student activities fair, and I actually feel chest pain when an e-mail from [email protected] pops up. The subject line is: “Request for Interview.”
I look so stricken that Will is immediately concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Mute, I flip my laptop around to show him the e-mail. It only takes a few seconds for him to break out into one of those smiles of his that I love so much, the kind that are so radiant, so focused on me that I have to look away.
“I knew the admissions committee would love your essay!”
I bite my lip, and it stings a little, so I know I’m not dreaming. Okay, so I’ve jumped through the first hoop. I’m still a long way from a scholarship. “It’s only an interview,” I remind Will, and myself. “They didn’t say how many they offered. They could be bringing in everyone.”
“But it shows that they’re interested at least. You’re not even a little proud?”
It’s a tougher question than it should be. It’s a relief to not be rejected, but I’m already stressing out about what I’m going to wear and imagining how badly I’ll flub their questions. It’s hard for me to envision any scenario other than one where they realize the minute I open my mouth that I’m not B-school material.
I haven’t said a word, but all of a sudden Will nods, as if he understands. “Did I ever tell you how I felt when I got your e-mail to come in for a job interview?”
“No.”
“Kind of elated. And kind of like I wanted to vomit.”
“That pretty much sums it up,” I say.
“You know who’s sickeningly good at these kinds of things? My sister. Can I ask her if she wants to help you prep?”
Aaaand now my anxiety is replaced by a different kind of panic. Will has met every single one of my immediate family members and my best friend. But I’ve yet to meet anyone in his life. On the one hand, it’s thrilling to know that he wants me to meet his sister. On the other hand, it’s basically another interview, except this time it’s not some college administrator who I’ll never see again if they reject me; it’s the person who has known Will as long as he’s been alive, who he’s probably closer to than anyone else.
I am so screwed.
“It’s about time you and Grace met. You kind of remind me of her, you know. Both of you have that older-sister-who’s-always-cleaning-up-after-their-screwup-younger-brother vibe.”
I scoff. “You? A screwup? Please.”
“Everyone’s a little screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it. Grace, for example. She’s always given me good tips, even if I can’t always implement them.”
It’s a measure of my terror that I’ll crash and burn in my interview without some serious coaching that I finally say yes.
The day I first talk with Grace, I wear the outfit I threw together for Will’s interview. It was her idea to have our meet-up be a run-through of the real deal.
Since I’ve already been to the Domenici house I don’t feel the same level of intimidation that I did before, but it’s still a nerve-racking decade before Grace opens the door.
“Hello, Jocelyn. I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.” She reaches out her hand and I do my best to avoid the “limp noodle” grip described by Forbes.com as implying a “weak inner-being.” When I was reading up on good first impressions for interviews, they talked about the perfect handshake, and they could’ve been describing Grace. Within two seconds (confident posture, direct eye contact, smile, firm-but-not-too-firm pressure) she gives off the impression of being competent, trustworthy, and likable.
It’s kind of annoying.
Grace is a little taller than me, though not as tall as Will of course, and slimmer. She’s wearing a blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves that shows off bangled wrists. Her skin tone is a shade lighter than Will’s, and she’s rocking a gorgeous Afro.