Oh my! If the problem was my appearance, I could improve it. If only I could get a job, if only I had money, I could get a haircut and buy some new clothes. If the problem was lack of experience, well, all I can say is that everyone has to start somewhere, but who would be willing to give me the first chance? Of course, part of the problem was my own fault—I should have tried harder at school instead of worrying about what others were saying about me.
In the second office I visited, they said they’d recently filled the vacancy, but as I was leaving I heard someone comment, “Linda Jones thinks we’re a charity.”
Someone else mentioned, “I know that girl.” Recognizing the voice, I froze. He was sitting near the door. “We attended the same school. She’s completely insane. She sees strange things... giant birds or something like that.”
Someone else joked, “Maybe she plays too much Dungeons & Dragons.”
They laughed and I closed the door, feeling completely humiliated, even more so because I really was a fan of Dungeons & Dragons.
In Berlin, I thought I’d be free of my past, but I should have known that there was a high probability of finding former Groveton students there. If I had known that Pete Dawson would be in that office, I would never have gone there. He would be forever etched in my memory as the one who had awkwardly kissed me behind the gym and then told everybody at school that I was a bad kisser. Saying that a girl doesn’t know how to kiss was the same as killing her socially. Well, I was definitely “dead and buried,” but being the insane girl who could kiss well would have been a little better than being the insane girl who kissed badly. Indeed, to me that was social murder committed twice. At least this sad chapter of my life had served to wake me from my first romantic dream. I should have known that the most popular boy in my class would not be interested in someone like me, unless it was a joke.
I left the office disappointed, but I was determined not to give up looking for work. I knew it would be difficult since the county was still struggling to overcome the crisis of the Wausau Paper Mill shutting down, exacerbated by the global crisis, but I couldn’t let it get me down. I no longer had that right!
Meanwhile, I tried to get closer to Mrs. Jones’ daughters, but I was unsuccessful. They disliked me from the first moment their mother announced that I would be living with them for awhile.
The days dragged on. I started doing volunteer work, hoping to eventually be hired. I also took odd jobs—cutting grass for Mrs. Jones’ neighbors, taking some idle dogs for walks, babysitting; however, the odd jobs were becoming more scarce. How many lawns were there to be mowed? Not many...and I was competing with younger and more agile kids than I, who wanted to save a few bucks during the school holidays.
To make matters worse, the eldest daughter of Mrs. Mortimer (the Joneses’ neighbor for whom I worked as a babysitter), was Pete Dawson’s current girlfriend—another one of the twists of fate working against me. The trouble with living in a small community is that everyone knows each other. I saw Pete leaving the house one Friday evening. He saw me in the backyard, playing with his girlfriend’s little boy. Dawson gave me a smile that said, “I know what you did last summer...” and the he left. The next day, Mrs. Mortimer called me to pay for my services and then dismissed me—permanently.
The dogs’ owners also decided that they didn’t want me to take their pets for walks anymore. It was frustrating and nerve-wracking for me to be haunted by the past and the lack of opportunities. Without any odd jobs, I couldn’t save any money. I spent my time walking aimlessly around town. At that point, the only positive thing was that I already knew the layout of the whole town and I could walk anywhere with my eyes closed.
One unusually sultry night, I was from halfway between the house and the garage when I overheard a discussion which was taking place in the Joneses’ kitchen. They probably thought I’d already gone to my room, so they spoke without reservation.
“Come on, Mom, why do you continue to support this girl?”
“Melissa is a good girl, honey. She’s polite, kind, honest, helpful...”
“Humpf! I don’t know about that. I’ve noticed some things have disappeared from my bedroom and that’s never happened before.”
“Don’t say such a thing, baby. That’s a very serious accusation!”
“I’m still not sure, but when I am, you’ll have to do something.”
“Jenny’s right, Linda. How could you bring this troubled girl into our home without consulting us?” Mr. Jones asked in a disapproving voice. “It’s not just her mother’s notoriety, I’ve heard that the girl is unstable—the kind you can’t trust. Maybe that’s why she can’t get a job. The Reverend Merritt was wrong in keeping a child with mental disorders among healthy children. He should have sent her to a specialized institution while there was still time. Now, look at her.”
“And what would have happened to her if I hadn’t offered a roof over her head?”
“It’s a social problem—a government problem, not ours.”
“But...”
“She cannot remain with us indefinitely!” he interjected, with Jennifer’s concurrence.
A short silence followed, before Mrs. Jones spoke. “As far as I know, Melissa has had no crises since she was eleven. I believe that she’s overcome her problems and she’s completely harmless.”
“Harmless...you willing to guarantee that, Linda? Are you absolutely sure that you aren’t putting our kids in danger?”
Her silence shouldn’t have hurt, but it did.
“It’s not going to be for a long time, Bill.” Mrs. Jones sighed. “I’m sure Melissa will get a job. I’ll help her find one. Maybe you can get her a job where you work!”
“What? Do you think I’ll take responsibility for this girl and put my own job at risk? If she does something, how will I save face? Don’t even think such a thing!”
I walked on tiptoe, hoping to reaching the garage without being noticed.
“Melissa’s taking too long to get settled and find a job,” Jenny insisted. “Is she doing slacking off? It seems to me that she’s not trying hard as she should be...”
I didn’t want to hear any more. I ran, praying that the gate didn’t creak. My heart was in my mouth when I reached the safety of my bedroom.
An illusory sense of security was coming to an end. What I should do? I felt cornered. What hurt most was knowing that the girls were willing to defame me in order to get rid of me. If a rumor about a theft spread all over town, I’d never be able to get a job. Crazy and a thief... the daughter of a woman who fled, leaving her daughter and her debts behind. Great! They weren’t missing anything.
I needed find a way to get out of the Joneses’ home before the situation got worse, but going back to the orphanage was not an option. People would wonder what had happened. And, if I went back, the chances of getting a job would even slimmer. Dailey’s Crossing was a small, closed community. A “marked” person like me would have to have a scarlet letter emblazoned on her forehead and live in a remote cabin like Demi Moore...Tallulah or Scout in the movie. Whatever!
I got no sleep that night. I tossed and turned in search of a more comfortable position and a solution to my problem. I saw the sun come up, yet I still hadn’t resolved either of the two problems. I decided to take off early for breakfast because I didn’t feel strong enough to face the Jones girls or Mr. Jones without revealing my grief. I was relieved that they always get up later.
As usual, Mrs. Jones was awake, preparing breakfast. Quietly, I approached and started to help her. I don’t know if my perception was affected by the discussion I’d overheard last night, but I felt a new tension in the air. She was not looking me in the eye, which didn’t bode well.
I pursed my lips. I plan to leave early today,” I announced while putting the plates on the table. “I want to visit a firm that is just getting started in the town. I hear they need a whole new staff. I’ll also distribute some of my CVs around.” I thought about how great my CV wa
s—so varied! It’s one paragraph—employers will think it’s hilarious.
She nodded without looking up from the coffee pot. “Have you received any response from other places? About your CV, I mean...”
“Not yet.” My voice failed.
She nodded again, this time giving me a smile that seemed forced.
“Well, good luck!” She stood up, but her eyes remained downcast. “I need to change my clothes and get to work.”
Yeah, I’m going to need all luck I can get! I thought as I was gathering up the dishes and putting them into the dishwasher.
A few minutes after Mrs. Jones left the kitchen, I returned to my bedroom to take my usual cold shower. I was worried about my appearance. I spent several minutes trying to get the best possible look for the job interview.
As I left by side gate, I noticed Bill Jones and his daughters getting into the car. They gave me hostile glances and then ignored me, talking excitedly among themselves. He put the car into gear and pretended not to see me passing in front of it.
Of course, it was too much ask him for a ride to the interview location. I dared not approach them.
Fifteen minutes later, I entered the two-story building where candidates were to be interviewed. All over town, people had commented that this would be a great boost to the local labor market. I hoped that it would be the solution to my problems too.
The building was undergoing renovation, probably for the firm that would soon be established in Berlin. The front rooms had floors covered with old newspapers and the smell of fresh paint permeated the air. Apparently, only two rooms down the hall were equipped to use for the interviews. I followed the sound of voices coming from there.
As I made my way along the hallway, I spotted a small sign that said “Restroom” and following an impulse, I ran in. My heart seemed ready to leap into my throat. It was a few minutes before the appointed time, so I tried to concentrate on what I would say during the interview. I really needed to make a good impression on the recruiter. I breathed deeply several times and looked at my reflection in the oval mirror. I’ll get it! I’ll get it! I washed my face and straightened my hair, trying to calm down.
I was thinking positive, with a firm intention to land a job. When I entered the makeshift reception room, I felt my confidence wither a little as soon as I saw the other candidates. I realized that a man was separating people according to the job profile intended or the qualifications presented in the curriculum. Three young men were sent to a different office and two others were escorted into the next room.
I slowly approached the man in charge. He briefly glanced at my CV, but gave no indication of not liking what he read. He motioned for me to remain here and then he gave me a nice smile and invited me to sit. I looked around at the other girls. Most of them were looking at the floor or staring out the window, which gave me a chance to analyze them without their noticing. All of the girls had a nice appearance and were very well dressed. I was worried because compared to them, I was at a distinct disadvantage. It was ironic—but I had drawn the conclusion that to get a job, you had to make it look like you didn’t need it.
As soon as the young men left the room, an older man appeared in the doorway and began to call us, one at a time in order of arrival. There were ten girls waiting in the reception area and since I was the last to arrive, I knew it would take a while.
It was almost mid-day when my turn came. The man who interviewed me was very nice. I felt comfortable with him, even when looked at my CV and said truthfully that my lack of experience didn’t work in my favor. He was so gentle with me that I was able to organize my mind enough to justify why the company would win with my contracting. He became convinced that I was a hardworking person.
That was the first big news of the day: I had won the first round. The final interview would take place in the afternoon. That’s when the candidates would talk with someone who would make the final decision.
I left the building so happy that I didn’t even notice the heat or the bright sun. I decided to have lunch at a nearby diner, where I stayed as long as I could and then I took a walk around the block, returning to the building at the appropriate time.
Again, I look for the restroom to wash my face and straighten my hair. I absurdly believed that this ritual had brought me luck this morning, so I didn’t want to overlook any detail at this stage of the game! I took a deep breath to calm myself and went back to the reception room.
This time the place was almost empty. There were only two girls sitting by the window. I walked up and sat down in the empty chair between them. I waved, but neither responded—not immediately anyway. The girl to my left had nodded her head slightly. She was a good-looking young woman. She wore a dark blue coat, a slight amount of makeup, and she wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. Perfect...not even one hair out of place. I grimaced with disgust at the same time I made a discreet inspection of my old jeans and black T-shirt. The girl looked so... sophisticated, while I looked so... messy. Ouch! It was obvious that she’d had the opportunity to go home and change clothes.
To my right, the other candidate was wearing a costume—more informal, but no less fashionable: black, low-waist pants, a purple blouse with frilly neck, attached by a flashy belt, and a black suede vest to complete the supermodel look. Her hair was a sideshow—silky, shiny, voluminous, and well-cut... almost like Farrah Fawcett’s in Charlie’s Angels.
Subconsciously, I put my hand on my hair, trying to straighten it with my fingers. Compared to hers, my hair looked like a witch’s broom. Over the years, I had cut my hair myself so there were a lot of split ends. The only attractive thing was its color. If it was cut properly, perhaps its golden light brown highlights would be more noticeable.
I noticed that “fashion girl” didn’t try to hide her amusement while openly evaluating my appearance. She was probably thinking that she get the job and she was probably right, but I was still perversely hoping that the interviewer would be a very vain woman who didn’t want another beauty to eclipse her. Or, if the interview was a man, I hoped that he had no interest in the opposite sex. My God, how I needed that job!
I was startled when the door opened and someone called the “bun girl.” She was inside for about ten minutes. When she left, she seemed downcast. If she was downcast, just imagine how I would feel in just a few minutes! The man reappeared in the doorway and called my name. He was impatient. I jumped up and walked into the room.
I immediately noticed that interviewer could not have been more than thirty years of age. He looked like one of those old car dealers you saw on TV—the brush haircut with matching vest and bow tie. While he circled the table, he made an abrupt gesture for me to sit. I swallowed. Where was the kindly man who had encouraged me to participate in this second round? He liked me...I preferred to be dealing with him than with the arrogant young man who now faced me. He stared at my half-page CV and grimaced.
How did Albert let this pass? he said to himself, loud enough for me to hear without worrying whether or not he was being rude.
He picked up the previous candidate’s CV which had a with few more pages than mine and weighed both on the palm of his hands. Apparently, he liked theatrical antics to demonstrate his point of view. I tried to swallow the urge to say something insulting or outrageous.
“What led you to believe you would be hired by this firm?”
“My willingness to learn and do a good job,” I answered quietly. Anyone who looked at me would notice that I was about to cry.
“Hmmm...” He raised an eyebrow. His gaze lost a bit of its cynicism and now reflected feeling sorry for me. “And how would you do this work well?”
“I know how to use all major computer programs. I am a well-educated person and I get along well with other people well.”
He sighed.
“I am creative, too. I can draw, I can color handle... I can improvise. I’m organized. I understand how to prepare and maintain files because I noticed how the t
utors did it at the orph... I cleared my throat before correcting my faux pax... “the institution where I worked as a volunteer.”
He sighed again.
“To be a secretary or a receptionist, it is not enough. You have no proven experience record.” He tapped lightly on a sheet of paper from my resume as if to prove what he claimed. In addition, you must dress well and have a good presentation.
I sighed, defeated. Now, I had nothing to lose, so...
“I guarantee to you that I’ll dress well, if I have a decent salary every month end.”
He laughed. “There’s logic in your reasoning.” He became serious again. “But I have no time to train you or to wait thirty days while you get up-to-speed. I need someone ready to ‘fit in’ immediately.
I got up. There was nothing else to say. “I’m sorry for taking your time.”
He escorted me to the door and called the last candidate. I didn’t stay to know the final result—that probably the job would be “Farrah Fawcett’s.”
I had blisters on my feet because my shoes were not suitable for long walks. I’d acquired my ballet flats...actually my entire wardrobe, while living at the orphanage. They were so worn that I’d worn a hole completely through the sole of the right shoe. My foot hurt like hell! However, by far, they were the most beautiful and elegant shoes I ever had.
Despite the pain, I continued walking until I reached the Jones’ yard, all the while muttering to myself. What I needed was a hot, relaxing bath, but unfortunately, I’d only be able to have part of my wish—the bath...and it be a cold one.
A cold breeze was blow and I needed to hurry. Would anyone be upset if I entered the house to get some shampoo?
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