Smothered

by Autumn Chiklis

  Dad is so pissed. This is the second time this summer a Hansen woman has been detained for questionable behavior. He’s so mad that he’s completely revoked the offer to rid me of Find My Friends, seeing as I “clearly still need to be monitored.” This is the worst beach day of my entire life. Even worse than the time I got hit by a rogue boogie board and had a chipped tooth for five days. Ugh.

  * * *

  JULY 30

  * * *

  Tiffany Swan

  @TiffanySwan

  When your dressing room stalker turns out to be @SoCalSoVal’s older sister! Val is such a sweetie, and her mama is just fabulous! #funny

  * * *

  Month Four

  Endless Summer

  AUGUST 1

  Email

  From:

  Holistic Public

  To:

  Eloise Hansen

  Subject:

  Application Results

  * * *

  Eloise Hansen,

  Thank you for applying for an administrative assistant position at Holistic Public Relations. We appreciate your interest in our company, and in a healthier, more wholesome community. The application process for Holistic is very competitive, and unfortunately, we’ve decided not to move your application forward.

  Holistic Public will be advertising more positions in the coming months. We encourage you to apply again if you see a job posting for which you are suited at a later date. We wish you the best of luck with your professional endeavors.

  Regards,

  HR, Holistic Public Relations

  * * *

  11:42 A.M.

  * * *

  Oh, look! There it goes! The last of my self-esteem, flying headfirst out the window along with my dignity and any semblance of self-worth!!

  I can’t believe it. A flat-out rejection? How could that be?? I was absolutely positive I’d get this job!

  Maybe I’m missing something in the email? Maybe I just think it’s a rejection, but really, it’s an acceptance in disguise??

  11:43 A.M.

  * * *

  No. It’s still a rejection. Even after the twelfth time reading it.

  This is so humiliating! I can’t believe I didn’t get so much as an interview to a company that sells veggie chips. Tyler and his bosses are all probably sitting in a fancy corporate conference room somewhere, sipping goat juice out of fancy, corporate goat juice mugs, laughing at the silly nerd girl who dared to apply for an entry-level office position without a decent Internet presence while not being a size 2. UGH.

  Hold on, I’m getting a call.

  11:44 A.M.

  * * *

  OH MY GOD. DON’T PANIC. IT’S TYLER JACOBY.

  What do I do?

  Should I answer?!

  I don’t think I should answer.

  What on earth would I say to him, anyhow??

  “Oh, don’t worry, Tyler! I’m fine! I’ll just continue spending my days trapped in Mother’s house like feminist Rapunzel, getting topknot tutorials and passive-aggressive comments about my ever-growing unibrow!”

  Unless …

  Of course! There must have been a mistake. A clerical error; a contact mix-up! Why else would he be calling me on a Saturday morning? I bet he’s calling to correct the unfortunate blunder, assuring me that whoever’s responsible has just been fired, and that I will be filling his/her position starting first thing next week. HOORAY!

  11:51 A.M.

  * * *

  SCREW YOU, TYLER B. JERKFACE.

  “Hello?” I answered after three and a half rings, trying not to seem too eager.

  “Lou! Thrilled you picked up. It’s Tyler here. From Holistic Public.”

  I cleared my throat and sat upright, putting on my best “professionally indifferent” voice. “Oh yes. Hello, Tyler! So lovely to hear from you.”

  I leaned forward on the edge of my seat, eagerly awaiting the upcoming apology: I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Hansen. Can you start on Monday? Your desk will be right next to the snack table!

  “Listen, hun, I’m sorry this didn’t work out…”

  Would you prefer your pens to be ballpoint, or—wait, what?

  “… It’s tough, I know, but you can’t take these things personally. It’s the nature of the marketing beast, babe! And as long as there are no hard feelings—”

  “Hold on…” I interrupted, my feeble brain finally catching up, “so just to clarify, you’re saying I didn’t get the job?”

  *Cricket. Cricket. Cricket.*

  “Did you get the email?”

  I looked down at the opened email on my desktop. “Er … no?”

  I heard Tyler blow air through his closed lips, like an old dehydrated horse. “Then I hate to break it to you this way, hun, but it’s a no.”

  I bounced his words around between my ears, desperate to find the order in which I’m offered an administrative assistant position and an explanation for this awkward encounter. But all I could hear was:

  … it’s a no.

  No!

  No?

  No.

  Noooooooo.

  NO.

  “… but I have to tell you, Lou—you are SUCH a superstar. Really! I read your brand concept, and it’s genius. Genius! The third Hepburn? Gold!”

  Hang up. Hang up on him, Lou. You don’t deserve this kind of pity. Why should you have to listen to this half-wit sad sack, smug-face, good-for-nothing—

  “So when I saw ‘overqualified’ on the HR report, I can’t say it surprised me, but it’s still disappointing nonetheless.”

  —deadbeat pretty boy … WHAT??

  My mouth bobbed open and closed for a whole minute, like a fish gasping for water. “I—I’m sorry?” I managed, voice cracking.

  “I know, I know—it’s an annoying policy, and legally I’m not supposed to be telling you, but I figured you’re Lisa’s lady, so you’ll keep it hush-hush, yeah?”

  “Hold on, you said I’m … what did you just say I am?”

  Tyler let loose a few coughs before answering. “Oh. You’re overqualified, hun.”

  I heard the pitter-patter of pug paws creeping up the hallway, which meant Mom wasn’t far behind them. Shit.

  “Overqualified?” I repeated flatly, the word tasting sour in my mouth.

  “You know, too damn good. Better elsewhere. Overdressed for success. The company can’t have you dumping us for some other job!”

  “… But I don’t have another job.”

  Tyler chuckled lightly. “Ah, but you will, sweetheart, and we can’t have you breaking our hearts once you do!”

  Is this a prank? This has to be a prank. No, this is worse. This is the Twilight Zone. This is the parallel universe that Dr. Richmanson wrote his third book about.

  “So…” I started tentatively, “you’re not giving me an interview … because I might quit for a better job that I don’t have yet?”

  I heard him inhale sharply and hold it, as I’ve seen Jett do a million times. Oh! He’s getting high. Excellent.

  “See? Smart meets sexy.” He exhaled what was definitely marijuana smoke. I could feel Mom’s looming presence through the door, her ear undoubtedly pressed to my shaded window.

  “Anyway,” Tyler said, clearly not interested in what I might have to say, “if something more appropriate opens up, I’ll one thousand percent call you first. No question. And if you ever wanna grab coffee or talk shop, just shoot me a quick email. Sound good?”

  I could hear his obnoxiously white smile through the phone. I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. The pugs started scratching at the door, and I heard Mom’s gentle shhh from the other side.

  “Sure, Tyler,” I conceded, my shoulders slumping forward.

  “Great! So glad we had this chat. Best of luck to you, hun! Ciao.”

  The phone beeped twice, ending the phone call, and I let my head fall onto my desk with a thump.

  Mom finally opened my door and poked her head inside, as though she had
n’t just been eavesdropping. The pugs pushed their way into the room and sat down on my feet.

  “I didn’t get the job.” I groaned. Mom gasped in feigned shock. “What? NO! What do you mean? What did they say??”

  I kept my forehead on the desk, not wanting to look up at her.

  “They said I’m overqualified,” I repeated blankly.

  “Over-what??” Mom yelled, this time genuinely outraged. I let out a low moan as she started pacing back and forth furiously, shifting into Mama Bear Mode.

  “But that’s ridiculous! That’s absurd! What kind of stupid excuse is that supposed to be? Overqualified. Please! I didn’t send you to Columbia for you to be overqualified! What a schmuck that Tyler is. You know what? I’m calling Lisa right away and telling her that—”

  “No, don’t!” I said, lifting my head an inch off the table. “He wasn’t even supposed to tell me. Just … leave it alone.” I let my head slam back down on the desk too quickly. “Ow.”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom sighed, tenderness softening her voice. She walked behind my chair and gently wrapped her arms around my hunched body, enveloping me in a tight cocoon. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she cooed, giving me a kiss on the nape of my neck. “Rejection always hurts. But they’re missing out on someone brilliant. It’s their loss, baby. I promise.”

  I pulled her arms tightly around me and closed my eyes, surrendering to the hug. I took a deep breath in, my disappointment fading slightly as the pugs licked my feet in support.

  “Thanks, Mama. I’ll be okay.”

  Mom gave me one last squeeze and a kiss before letting go. I sat back up and rubbed my throbbing head.

  “I just don’t know what to do,” I said hopelessly. “I have no direction. And without a direction, I can’t get a job. And without a job, I can’t make money. And if I can’t make money, how am I supposed to move out of the house?”

  The instant the words left my lips, I regretted them. Excitement glimmered in Mom’s eyes as the realization dawned on both her and me:

  “Well, Lulu,” Mom started, “the good news is, you always have a place to live! Your laundry is taken care of, you have free food, you have full access to my wardrobe. There’s no hurry to leave! In fact, this could be a good thing for us!” She giggled, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

  I raised a finger in objection. “Wait a second … us?”

  “Oh, shoot!” she yelped, checking the time on her phone. “I forgot, I’m supposed to meet Susan at yoga! Sorry, Lulu, but I have to run. We’ll talk about this more later, okay?”

  I raised my hand higher.

  “Okay, sure, but about the ‘us’ thing—”

  “It’s all going to be okay, sweetie!” Mom assured me as she spun around to leave. “Take as long as you need to recover. There’s no rush! You can stay here forever!!” She gave a little wink and ran down the hallway, the pugs trailing behind.

  … Forever??

  The word echoed in my head like some sort of trippy demonic hallucination. Images of me at fifty, sitting in my bedroom as eighty-year-old Mom picks out an outfit for my first colonoscopy, are flashing before my horrified eyes. Oh god, I have to get out of here!!

  What day is it? August first?! Shit! Where did the dreaded time go? Only two more months until my updated self-imposed move-out deadline, and I still have no job, no apartment, no prospects, and no clue.

  Back to square one. Freaking fantastic.

  * * *

  Val

  AUGUST 2

  8:10 A.M.

  * * *

  Woke up in a full sweat from a hideous nightmare in which I’m being chased by Tyler Jacoby and Dr. Richmanson into a jail cell made of nail files and round brushes, only to realize that my eternal prisonmate just happens to be my topless mother. Decided I’m not going to sleep ever again.

  8:25 A.M.

  * * *

  Just stepped onto the scale for the first time in over a month. Then stepped off, removed all articles of clothing and stepped back on. Then stepped off, did twenty crunches, and stepped back on. Ugh. Does rejection make you retain water? I bet it does.

  8:39 A.M.

  * * *

  How am I out of fresh underwear? Doesn’t Rosa do my laundry? Or do I spend so much time locked away in my room that she forgot I’m even here?? Ugh again. I could borrow a pair of Mom’s or Val’s … No, that won’t do. The admission that I’ve been reliant on someone else to wash my own panties is too shameful to be uttered aloud. Also, I hate thongs, and that’s all they seem to wear.

  The only reasonable solution here is to go to the mall and buy some new pairs.

  8:46 A.M.

  * * *

  After some digging, I managed to find an old pair of booty shorts from my brief stint in middle school volleyball, which I’ll be wearing to the mall instead of underwear. They’re much, much, much too tight, but it’s better than going commando or wearing inside-out granny panties or, god forbid, whipping out the dreaded Spanx.

  9:15 A.M.

  * * *

  Crisis averted. Found a pile of my freshly folded underwear in a basket by the front of the house. Bless you, Rosa! I will never take your work for granted again.

  Huh. I wonder what Rosa thinks of my family? Dad’s never home, Mom walks around all day in a bathrobe, occasionally covered in bruises and/or bandages from various surgeries or Botox … Does she think we’re battered? Gravely ill? Victims of domestic abuse or a tragic disease that keeps us at home in pajamas?? Curious.

  7:50 P.M.

  * * *

  Useless, useless, useless. I can’t believe another whole day went by, and the only productive thing I did was organize my newly washed unmentionables by color and cheek coverage. To be fair, Mom kept me plenty busy, constantly asking for help with every home appliance we own:

  “Lulu, could you help me turn on the TV?”

  “Sweetie, why isn’t the garbage disposal working?”

  “Why is the dishwasher making that noise? Should it be making that noise??”

  “My computer is doing the little rainbow spinny thing and it won’t stop. What? What’s wrong with keeping thirty tabs open??”

  Oh, well. I guess we’re all entitled to a lazy Sunday … but tomorrow is when I officially get my shit together. No more excuses. It’s Monday, and Mondays are the perfect time to refresh and reboot.

  AUGUST 3

  Mama Shell

  * * *

  11:37 P.M.

  * * *

  I hate Mondays. Everyone goes off to work but me, stuck watching two hours’ worth of TED Talk videos about productivity and “living your best life” while choking down an algae shot Mom bought with a ginger slice to “aid my digestion and prevent bloat.” Ugh.

  I’m just salty because of tonight’s airing of The Bachelorette, which thankfully has reached its season finale. Somehow the Red Hots will have to suffer through two whole Bachelor-less weeks before the return of Bachelor in Paradise, which is sort of like the original, if it were on steroids soaked in vodka.*

  Seeing as tonight was the big climactic finish (THREE HOURS!!! Most people can’t sit through a Shakespeare play if it hasn’t been cut down to two! What is wrong with humanity?!), the ladies each dressed as the profession of their favorite contestant this season. Susan sported a zookeeper outfit for an “animal lover,” Lisa wore an apron and gloves as a “former oyster shucker,” and Stacey kept it simple with the hat and wand of a “magic enthusiast.”

  Mom borrowed Val’s old Coachella outfit for “music festival roadie,” which consisted of ripped jean shorts, a lacy white crop top with a plunging neckline, five different chokers, and a flower crown.

  The Red Hots gathered eagerly around the TV on our bedsheet-covered couches, all screaming and laughing and weeping and cheering as the artificial drama unfolded before them. Just as the Bachelorette was selecting an impressively large diamond ring for her future ex-fiancé, Susan slammed a hand down on the arm of the couch and gasped. “Lou,
” she said excitedly, “you should be the next Bachelorette!”

  Rosé shot out of my mouth and nose, spraying the sheets and burning holes in my sinuses.

  “What??” I exclaimed, trying not to choke from my spit take.

  “Oh, come on, you’d be so great!” Susan insisted. “You’d be, like, the quirky, self-aware girl!”

  “Yes!” Stacey agreed, her top hat bobbing as she nodded. “They’d fly you all over the world, and I’m pretty sure they provide your whole wardrobe!”

  “Um—thanks, but no thanks.” I dismissed the notion immediately, my pride cringing at the very thought.

  “Why not?” Mom asked, crossing her arms and legs. “Have you seen the men on this show? Of course you wouldn’t have to marry one, but it’s great exposure.”

  I closed my eyes to keep from rolling them.

  “Mom, I don’t need exposure. Or a fake engagement. I need a job.”

  Lisa snorted. “Honey, have you seen our outfits? You can turn anything into a job these days. And exposure is just the key.” The ladies all murmured in agreement.

  “You know, my nephew was thinking of doing The Bachelor,” Susan casually slipped in, “but then he was offered the medical reality show. By the way, he’s moving to LA soon. Just saying.” She winked at me. I forced a smile and took another long swig of rosé.

  “See? Even doctors are celebrities now!” Lisa proclaimed, waving her oyster-shucking knife around. “I’m telling you, Lou, just post a picture of your hoo-ha online and you’ll have three job offers by the end of the week.”