by Julie Olivia
“That isn’t how it works, chica.”
“Yeah, I know. But I put my heart and soul into that house.”
“Well, even that beautiful house couldn’t save your relationship, I’m afraid.” Ramona exhales, pulling away and scanning me up and down.
Wes shifts some items in the back of the truck and calls down to me, “Sorry he’s a cheating asshole, Grace.”
I shrug. “Any surprises there?”
“No, not really,” Wes responds without skipping a beat, and a weak smile pulls on my lips. “He wore a flipped-up collar”—Wes hops down from the back—“who does that?”
“Joe,” Ramona and I chorus in response.
Thankfully, it has no edge to it that could instill some form of confidence in the human being attached to the name.
Ramona runs her hands through my thick red locks and cringes. “Geez, you look like you haven’t washed your hair in a week.”
“Rude.” I laugh, then run my own hands through the knotted mess, which halts my sense of humor. Yeah, okay, it’s been a couple days… “I was gonna do it today.”
“That’s what we all say,” Ramona says, touching her flawless curly black hair.
I narrow my eyes. My gingery red hair betrays me every time I so much as sweat for a minute like it’s shouting, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Girl with unwashed hair!”
“Hank was supposed to remind me,” I mumble. Dog traitor once again! “And hey, this doesn’t have to do with Joe!” I say, defensive the second I get a side-eye of pity from Wes. “I’m over him.”
“It was a long time coming,” Ramona says with a reassuring head nod, looking away from me.
Although her face was turned away from me just so I honestly can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. She knows her expression will give her away every time.
“It was!” I call up to her as she hops on the back of the truck to grab a box and hand it down to me. “I think.”
I am over Joe. I’m pretty sure. Listen, after months of not sleeping together, it’s like the post-mortem had come and gone, and the only thing I had left to focus on was getting the heck out of there as soon as I could before my soul ripped apart even more.
Lesson to all ladies: Love is a lie. Men will find some way to seek out other women. Let’s all just get dildos and call it a day.
“Fuck him,” Ramona shrugs then laughs. “Well, don’t, but… screw him.”
“I get your point.”
We spend the next few hours going up and down the staircases to my new second-floor apartment with everything from living room side tables to a decorative giraffe that has wide eyes and kind of makes me uncomfortable.
“No,” I say, shoving it into her arms the second I pull it out the box. “Absolutely not. Either you take it back or it will be going in the kitchen cabinet before I find it in the doorway of my bedroom at two in the morning.”
“Oh, we got that in Africa!” she says clapping her hands together. “It’s some tribal…”
“Yep, gonna cut you off there.” I shake my head.
“Guess we won’t be using the camera we installed in there.” Wes winks at me.
Ramona sighs. “So much work down the drain.”
I place the box I’m carrying down next to the crisp black new TV. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t just hand-me-downs.”
Ramona and Wes cringe at each other. They try to hide it, and I know they’re being nice.
“I’ll take you to some fancy restaurant,” I say. Well, given that my bank account statement nearly made me sob, I’m not sure that’s a great idea—even if my pride is bleeding at the thought of being a charity case.
I’m sure they can see the hesitation, though, and I want to kick myself for my emotions showing on my face so easily. The last thing I want is for them to feel bad.
“Just pizza works for us,” Wes says. “No need to bother.”
“I’ll at least order a really fancy takeout pizza,” I offer. “None of that commercial chain-restaurant stuff. I’ll get real classy.”
“Perfect!” Ramona says with a hand clap. “Pineapples too, please!”
“Girl, you know it.” We high five as Wes groans.
That no-good pineapple pizza-hating man.
“So, how are the interviews coming along?” he asks.
I groan. “On a scale of one to natural disaster, it’s about a hurricane of a billion killer whales. There’s only been one so far, actually.”
The interview was for a company looking for printing press operators, which I am definitely not. Screen printing classes were never my forte, as I’m also the kid that screamed when I touched glue during arts and crafts in preschool. How I pursued and loved paints instead, I’ll never know.
Given a fight or flight situation, such as, oh I don’t know, my horrible unemployment dilemma, I like to think my redheaded tenacity has always guided me in the right direction. I am a fists-up, bring it on, baby! fighting kinda gal. When I settled for a simple customer service job—which eventually developed into a collections role—my days were filled with “Please pay your balance or else your account will be on hold,” statements and I decided after five years of that junk, all I really wanted was to pursue my true passion. I quit my collections job, instantly upgraded my resume, took some new designs I’ve been perfecting and some old paintings from college (conspicuously erasing the year I actually created them), and then sent out my portfolio to the world.
“Ian said they’re hiring over at his job,” Ramona says, placing a papasan down. “A design position, actually. I think they just promoted someone and need a replacement.”
Ramona’s older brother Ian is just like her: Successful, incredibly in tune with health and working out (which, admittedly, I need to get better at), and bit of an asshole. But like, a lovable asshole. Needless to say, we actually get along quite well.
“I’m willing to take any interview at this point,” I say, lugging in a box filled with who-knows-what.
“Oh yeah,” Wes chimes in, “he’s at Treasuries Inc.”
“Treasuries Inc.?” I gawk, almost tripping over the threshold and knocking into Ramona. “Treasuries Inc. as in the upcoming marketing firm? The marketing firm we went to that mixer at? The one where they were all like, ‘Yeah, every Friday is Beer Friday because we’re super cool and hip?’ The start-up culture-beast darling of the city, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try my shot at it? That Treasuries Inc.?”
“Holy overload of information, Batman.” Wes laughs. “How much stalking have you done on that company?”
“Don’t even get her started.” Ramona rolls her eyes.
“How are you just now telling me about this?” I’m almost offended this is the first I’m hearing about the opportunity. How could she! Withholding information from your best friend is a federal crime!
“Get your panties out of a wad,” Ramona says. “I already told him you’re interested.” This elicits a slow grin to spread across my face as she starts mocking my missing reaction. “Thank you, Ramona. You’re such a wonderful friend. Oh, no, you are, Grace. I’m happy to be of service.”
I bolt toward her and jump into her arms, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“We got you covered,” she laughs.
My head is swimming with possibilities: A place with a future. A place where they give promotions. An actual design gig in some cool, trendy job with progressive people who probably eat kale salads and do hot yoga. I’d kill to be one of those people. Literally, murder someone.
I decide right then and there the position that “may or may not exist” is totally mine.
2. Grace
A typical Thursday night. Yet instead of lying on my empty apartment floor, I’m relaxing belly down on my mom’s couch, laptop propped against the armrest, Hank chilling on the other side. His paw hangs off the end and twitches as a result of his deep sleep. I feverishly sift through my emails—ignoring those from Joe—an
d refresh the page over and over before realizing just how desperate I seem.
Ramona’s brother, Ian, must have been feeling gracious a couple weeks ago when she sent him my resume. Two days later, Ian sent me an application, which I’d like to say I completed in record time. Instead, I spent two more days mulling over how to word my cover letter, fretting about which art to put in my portfolio, and taking maybe a bit too much time on my signature for the paperwork itself. First impressions are everything; I don’t need my calling card looking like a crayon doodle.
Though maybe that’s “in” now? Design trends are so weird.
“Will you get off that laptop for one second and help me?” Mom asks, holding a slightly threatening knife and waving it over as an invitation to join her in the kitchen.
My mom has the same flaming red hair, thin figure, and short fuse that I have, so it’s no surprise where I got it all from. But at her core, she is the loveliest woman alive, trust me.
“Are you finally gonna use that kitchen of yours?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and sticking out my tongue.
Her own eyebrows raise up as she points the knife at me once more. “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, missy,” she says. “And yes, I refuse to let this house go to waste.”
I definitely inherited my love for redecorating homes from Mom. She’s spent years since my dad passed away redoing the entire house. She pulled up the carpet, stripped the paint, and spent way too much money on an entirely new kitchen, despite her rare desire to actually cook.
“I’m sure the kitchen appreciates the love,” I snark, and she shoots me another menacing look.
On the flip side of the equation, my mom and I have always butted heads. We’ve always blamed it on our red hair. We said we’re feisty and fire doesn’t mix well with fire. Whatever that means. It’s cooled down since I’ve gotten older, but I was mostly just a little shit of a teenager. Teachers always commended my parents for raising such a lovely girl, but that’s just because I saved all my angst for my parents.
What was it that Usher said? Lady in the streets, complete heathen she-devil behind closed doors? No, that’s not it…
I was a force to be reckoned with. At least I thought I was. Mostly I just stayed out at friends’ houses until four in the morning—especially once I’d gotten my beat-up old Volkswagen; a car I still drive to this day. My parents were obviously worried, but I was just so damn cool with my car.
Yeah, I still cringe thinking about it, too.
Bless my mom for still being with me today.
I close my laptop and walk across the open floor plan to the kitchen island where I pull up a bar stool and lean my elbows on the counter. It’s the one part of the kitchen that doesn’t quite match her more modern décor. I run my hands along its scarred wood surface and memories of Dad wash over me. I used to sit on it and watch him cook here. He never really said much, but occasionally, he’d throw me a homemade French fry or two while I doodled. I miss being near him; I’m glad she kept the island.
“So, what’s on the menu?” I ask, reaching to grab a piece of a sliced cucumber. She bats my hand away.
“Tacos.”
“Ooh yum.” I say, wiggling my shoulders. “And why tacos this time around?”
“They seem easy,” she says with a sigh. “If I’m going to learn, I’ve got to start simple, right?”
“Well, it’s good to know that after renovating everything that can possibly be renovated, you’ve decided to conquer the art of cooking,” I say, trying my hand at stealing another slice; she catches me again. I laugh and she winks.
The kitchen shelves are lined with cookbooks containing lofty recipes, but unfortunately for me, when she’s normally done cooking, the outcome isn’t nearly as appetizing as the pictures.
In our small lull of silence, I start to get itchy with anticipation of hearing about the job again. I unlock my phone and look at my emails, pulling the screen down to refresh.
“Leave it alone,” Mom says with a chuckle. “If you get an email from them, you’ll get an email. It won’t go anywhere.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say through a heavy exhale. “But I’m not exactly the most graceful person.”
With her mouth half open, I know my mom is about to make some clever come back about how “Grace is always graceful,” but I point at her to stop before she can start.
“The HR person asked how I handled stress and I totally lied,” I say.
“Did you say you handle it well?” my mom asks, still chopping. Why is she asking if she knows the damn answer?
“Yeah.”
“Definitely a lie,” she says without missing a beat. She tries to wink at me again, but I twist my mouth into the corner, undeterred by her teasing.
“Well, the creative director and I talked about my history in design and eventually discussed my ambitions,” I say. “I think that’s where I nailed the interview.” While I say this, my anxiety gives me a thousand reasons as to why maybe I actually didn’t nail it.
My mom lets out a small breath of air. “Wait, do you remember that time you wanted to go to that concert… oh, what was it…”
“The Backstreet Boys?”
“Yes!” she says, throwing her hand in the air. “Backstreet Boys. And you insisted your father buy you tickets.”
“He didn’t.”
“Well of course not. You were six. But you being the spunky girl you are, off you went! Backpack full of stuffed toys and one peanut butter sandwich. You were determined to make it to that concert.”
“Blindly walking in no direction at all,” I comment with a smile. “Not much has changed.”
“Yes, but I firmly believe that if you put your mind to something, you will do it. It may not be this company, but you will be a designer.”
My mom has always been a glass half-empty woman, and my dad was the family optimist. When he passed, I think his positivity somehow osmosed into her and now her sunshine and rainbows outlook on life is like a full glass of water I could drink in every day.
We exchange smiles and she returns to chopping. Me, on the other hand, I can’t help but whip out my phone again.
“In my day, we had to wait on calls and if we missed it, poof, you missed it.” She nods matter-of-factly before slicing into a cucumber—nearly chopping her fingers off. She’s still learning.
“Mom, you know I lived during those times too, right?” I say, putting my phone down after another glance yields zero responses.
“Millennials don’t know how good they have it,” she continues, pretending I didn’t say anything rational at all. “And will you please grab that pepper and help me out?”
I lean forward on the counter to withdraw a knife from the block and scoot the green pepper toward me. But before I can even start, my phone buzzes. I look down to see an email from a sender using an address ending in treasuriesinc.com.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, ignoring Mom’s immediate reply of “Language, young lady!”
I gulp—almost a cartoony sound that makes my mom’s disappointment in my choice of words switch to excitement.
“Well, are you going to open it?” she asks.
“Just… give me a second, Mom,” I say.
I stare at the unopened email, trying to come to terms with how let down I will be if it holds bad news. Taking a deep breath, I click the message.
Grace Holmes,
We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Designer with Treasuries, Inc. Attached, you will find your offer letter and background authorization form. Please complete and return both documents to our HR Manager, Nia Smith. She is copied on this email.
We look forward to working with you.
Regards,
Cameron Kaufman, Creative Director
The biggest childlike grin spreads across my face and my fingers go from shaking to practically dancing off my hands.
“Mom!” I scream, causing my poor old, sleeping dog to bolt upright on the couch, wide awake. �
��I’m in!” I jump up, run to my mom, and grab her hands. “I’m a designer!”
“That’s fantastic!” she yells, joining me as I jump up and down in excitement. “See? I knew things would turn around for you.”
I smile and rush over to my phone to look down at the email once again and read out loud, “Regards, Cameron Kaufman.”
“Who is Cameron Kaufman?” Mom asks, returning to her haphazard vegetable cutting.
“I think he’s the guy they just promoted?” It’s a question more than a definitive answer. “I don’t know. It says ‘creative director’ in his signature, but I definitely didn’t meet with a dude named Cameron.”
It’s impossible to forget the old man who actually interviewed me. I think he could cough dust into his handkerchief.
“Sounds proper,” she says.
“And professional,” I muse, looking down at myself and realizing I haven’t changed clothes in a couple days… nor have I showered.
“I need a new outfit,” I say, and Mom squeals.
Clothing is the only thing she hasn’t had to revamp in her life because her style has always shifted with the times. In seconds, she’s redirecting me on my phone to some fancy online shop.
The clothes are strictly within a price range that starts with a fifty dollar minimum (because hey, I can totally support that now), so we buy the exact well-tailored outfit the model is wearing on the front page from their “#GirlBoss” collection. I look down at my own shirt and realize that “#GirlBoss” sure beats the hot pink “#BlessThisMess” shirt Ramona gave me.
The website’s cart reads well over a price range I can afford, and the price is bumped even higher when I select two-day shipping. But the spiffy suit just screams, “I have my life together!” so I click “purchase,” ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that knows I spent too much, and scoot myself back into the bar stool.
Mom begs me to “please finish cutting the darn pepper, Grace!” but I just keep smiling while I look at the email. While I may not know much about clothing, budgeting, or helping in the kitchen, I do know one thing: This is my new start.