throbbing, and my swollen feet are pulsing with pain. Those boots were made for walking…not running.
I can’t even blame the other interviewees for their snotty attitude. When I stepped into the Hudson’s elevator, I was confronted by a crazy bag lady, and I shrieked in horror before I realized I was looking at my reflection in the mirrored walls. My face was tomato red, my smoky eye makeup melted into raccoon rings, and my hair had exploded into a giant frizzball. My sweat-soaked dress clung to my body like Saran Wrap.
Instead of giving up and going home like a sane person, I limped into the waiting room – five minutes late. Wincing, I gave my name to the secretary.
The interviewer, Thérèse, came out to greet us. She’s the head of the personal shopping department. A reed-slim woman who looks to be in her sixties, she stood there in the doorway of her office, effortlessly chic with her shiny gray bob and a pink Chanel suit. She took one look at me and swiveled to the girl to my left, a brunette with hair that flowed down her back in beachy waves.
I was already on thin ice after sleeping through the last interview. I had zero room for error – and here I am, showing up late and looking like this. If this had happened to anyone else, it would have made for a hilarious anecdote, but I’m sitting here trying not to cry. I Winona’d it – again.
After chatting with the brunette for half an hour, Thérèse came out and called the beautiful Asian girl to my right. When she was done talking to her, she called on the handsome, goateed Indian man sitting across from me.
My appointment was for 9 a.m. It’s 11 a.m.
My phone vibrates, and I glance down to see a message from my mother.
Hey, peach-pie! Did you get the job? Of course you did. When do you start?
It’s accompanied by a few rows of smiley faces, angel wings, champagne bottles, and balloons, and, for some reason, a little alien head and a castle. I regret few things in life, but teaching my mom how to use emojis is right up there.
I quickly tap out a text.
Not sure yet! I hope so!!!! Love you!!!
Ever since my mother’s cancer diagnosis, I’ve been relentlessly cheerful when I talk to her and my dad. Everything is fine! Everything is great! With exclamation points! And hearts and flowers!
Everything really is fine, all things considered. Dropping out of school to help care for my mom was a small price to pay to see her getting well. My parents are still financially reeling from the medical bills, trying to hold on to our little farm, but the most important thing is, she’s alive and the cancer is gone. How can I complain about anything, ever? I feel guilty that I’m stressing about anything at all. My credit card bills, my failure to make headway with my career – it all shrinks in significance when held up against the dizzyingly fearful threat of losing my mother.
This job would not only have finally given me entry into the fashion scene, and given my parents long overdue bragging rights, it would have solved all my money problems. Not overnight, but I would have been able to comfortably pay my bills and put away a little money in savings every month. And now, thanks to that cab-stealing weasel, I’ve got about as much chance of landing this position as I do of growing a third boob.
The door to the office swings open, and Thérèse steps out, along with the third interviewee.
“I want to thank you for coming today,” she says. “You all are excellent candidates.” She’s not making eye contact with me. “As you know, this is a very competitive position. We’ll review your applications and contact you all by the end of the week.”
My stomach squeezes in on itself, and I blink away hot tears of humiliation. She’s not even going to interview me.
The other three exchange quick smirking glances, shooting me scornful side-eye looks. They smile as they stand up and shake her hand, one by one. I hang back, marinating in shame, and wipe my hand on my sweaty dress before I go in for a quick, damp handshake. She grimaces before accepting my hand, and drops it quickly.
“Well! Good luck with all your endeavors.” She says with a small, brittle smile. She walks us down the hall towards the elevators. She probably wants