Twelve Months of Awkward Moments

by Lisa Acerbo

  “But what about all your birthday money? Plus, you worked all summer,” my mom says.

  “I tried to save, but I need a little fun, too.” I wish she could see the sincerity on my face.

  “You can have fun once you graduate and get a job.” Her voice rings in my ears.

  “Mom, please.” She couldn’t see my hand ball-up into a fist, but I hope my voice conveys the same emotion.

  “I know.” Deep sigh on her end. “Money is tight right now. I’ll put what I can in your bank account.”

  “Thanks.” This time, I hope she can read the smile on my lips. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.”

  * * * *

  For the rest of my Public Speaking class, I make a list and a plan, while multitasking and taking notes. People are presenting, and the professor posts the PowerPoint notes online, so I’m not too worried about missing anything. I do a pro and con list about finances and create a budget. Even with my mom’s additional contributions, all my lists lead to the same outcome. I need a job, and by the end of the semester, I’m determined to find one.

  * * * *

  I spend one hour a day during the next few weeks organizing my resume and cover letter, searching for jobs, replying to ads, and waiting. There’s lots of waiting, additional stress and concern, and little success, but finally…something.

  It’s late when I click off my computer after a compulsory hour of continued job searching. I raid my closet, clothes organized by color and purpose, happy to have a job interview tomorrow. I want—no, need—to act professional. There aren’t many options. I settle on black dress pants and a neatly ironed green shirt that would hopefully reflect the green flecks in my otherwise maple syrup-colored eyes.

  Before I go to sleep, out of desperation for a social life or maybe just boredom, I search Tinder. Tanya had matched me up with a couple guys, so there is a chance of a date soon. Most guys on Tinder are only swiping for the hook-up, though, so I’m not too enthusiastic. I text Kyle and Rickey. Tanya is out for the night, so I text her, too, letting her know that I have to wake up early for a job interview.

  “Be safe,” I add in all capital letters.

  “Hey.” A text come through from a strange number I don’t recognize.

  “Who is this?” I type back.

  “Jace. I had to change my phone number. How have you been? Miss you.”

  I don’t reply. Instead, as my heart stumbles, beating way too fast, I double- and triple-check all the doors and windows, making sure all the curtains are closed. Fear and paranoia to comfort me, I snuggle under the covers, leaving the light on.

  I fall asleep sitting up, after hours of the worst possible thoughts screaming through my mind. Anxiety isn’t a knot. It’s a freight train.

  Not Jace. My wishes for a social life feel like bad karma come to kick my ass.

  Please, anyone but Jace.

  The alarm clock ignores me the next day, or maybe I forgot to set it. Either way. Bad. I rush to get to my early morning job interview. I quickly shower, drink a gallon of water to rehydrate myself after stressing myself into a state of deep dehydration, and toss down a cup of coffee for energy. I smooth my brown curls, throw on the outfit I prepared the day before, and apply some make-up.

  At the car, I notice something tucked behind my windshield. I pray it’s not a campus ticket. I can’t afford it. I unfold the sheet of paper and read the word scrawled unevenly in all capital letters.

  BITCH.

  Hands shake. The knot inside grips so hard, I ache. My heart pounds as I search the area to locate anyone who might be watching, waiting to gauge my reaction, but the parking lot is clear. There’s no one around, and the only sound is a faint Bob Marley song coming from a distant window.

  I’m overreacting. Right? Determined to beat the sudden onslaught of fear, I take three deep breaths. Someone probably put the note on a random car. I crumple it up and throw it to the ground. In the back of my mind, I realize I’ve done this before. The note in the door. It makes me uneasy as I slide into the driver’s seat and start the car, but I keep telling myself it’s my imagination. It can’t be Jace. He might be possessive, but he’s not crazy.

  Using my phone GPS, I make my way to the address for the interview that I wrote down on a scrap piece of paper. Of course, the gods hate me. Traffic is insane as I weave in and out of the bumper to bumper line of cars of Route Eighty-Four. And all that water and coffee, which I assumed was a great idea, churns in my stomach and then lower every time the car hits a bump in the road. I wedge my thighs together to stop the growing discomfort. No one can really explain the angry feeling your body has when needing to pee while being stuck inside a moving car facing endless stop and go traffic.

  “Hallelujah,” I shout out my window at no one in particular as I cruise into the parking lot.

  Two-twenty-five Westport Avenue is a tall, square, non-descript building that is home to a variety of companies. Nothing I see is encouraging. This place is as lifeless as my social calendar.

  I’m applying for a receptionist position at a physical therapist office. Stress has left my stomach upset, my head throbbing, and my bladder full. I need to find the restroom to both relieve my need and gulp down some headache medicine. I bolt up the concrete stairs on the sunless, November day, and enter the dingy white-walled lobby. A large white sign directs me to the Quest Physical Therapy office on the second floor in room B-Two.

  I hurry up the flight of stairs and search for the restroom. There’s a men’s room to the right and ladies to the left. I stop, dumbstruck.

  “Out of order” is written on the women’s room door.

  Seriously? I glance at my watch. Less than five minutes before my interview. No time to run downstairs. Chance the men’s room? What’s the possibility someone would be in there?

  I open the door and glance around. Nothing. Safe. I slip inside, and I’m about to enter a stall when a man exits the one next to me. A noisy flush sound swirls behind him. Tall, manicured, in a chalk gray polo shirt and khaki pants, he stares at me.

  I stammer my reply. “Sorry. Girls’ room not functioning. Thought this was empty.”

  His eyes fill with mirth. “Don’t let me stop you.” He shuffles to the sink.

  I really have to pee. What are my options? I sprint toward the empty stall, watching his broad shoulders as he washes his hands. He eyes me in the mirror. I send him a weak smile before I close the door.

  I pull down my sensible interview panties and wait. I can’t go knowing he is still in the room. I want to hear him exit out the door. Tense seconds tick by, but they feel like minutes. My bladder screams for relief as the water faucets shut off. The paper towel dispenser releases its crunchy square. Finally, the bathroom door opens. I wait until it slams shut. Relief. It’s a long time coming.

  After, I quickly wash my hands, swallow my headache meds, and check my hair and teeth, not wanting to linger in the little boys’ room and encounter another stranger. I peek at my phone. One minute early. A few deep breaths for courage as I march down the short hall before I enter Quest Physical Therapy. A manicured blonde receptionist sits behind the desk. She stares up at me inquisitively when I approach.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  “I have an interview with…” I scroll through the notes on my phone. “Brice James, or is it James Brice?” I’m suddenly confused.

  She doesn’t help me out. “I’ll let him know. Take a seat, please.”

  As I wait, I scan the room. Feeble old folks using walkers and canes sit next to super-fit athletes harnessed into walking casts and recuperative braces. A few middle-aged men and women with various ailments fill in the crowd. An office door opens.

  Gray polo man enters the room.

  Shit! I want to shrink, disappear into my seat, and melt away. But then I realize lots of people probably work here. It’s a large physical therapy office with several practitioners. What is the chance he’s in charge and hiring?

 
; “Danielle?” he asks.

  I stand, swallow the knot threatening to choke me, and shake his hand. At least I am sure it’s clean. I’m mortified, and he is having a hard time keeping back laughter.

  I should run, but I don’t. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about before.”

  A chuckle escapes. “Don’t worry about it. Join me inside.”

  I follow him into his office. It’s small and cramped, with manila patient folders organized in neat piles on his desk. I like that.

  I can’t help but swallow loudly before he asks the first question.

  “Why do you want to work here?”

  I expected this question and give a standard answer. “I think it will fit well with my science major, and I’m interested in how the body recovers from trauma. Plus, I love people.” I have to hold back a giggle at such a blatant lie.

  He nods and jots down some notes. “Cat or dog?”

  “Excuse me?” I’m not sure I heard the question right.

  “Would you rather own a cat or a dog?”

  I’m not ready for this one, and I feel the heat rise to my neck. I think about Bitsy at home with Mom and Snuggles at my apartment. “Can I say both?”

  “Most people have a preference.” He peers at me.

  “I love my dog, but I couldn’t take her to school. My cat, while not the friendliest, has really won me over. I can’t decide, but I have enough compassion and love for both.”

  He nods again, and I think I won him over.

  “Thank you for coming in.” He stands and extends his hand.

  I guess I answered wrong. My smile fades as I reach for his hand.

  “Can you start next Tuesday?”

  #agoodfirstimpressioniseverything

  * * * *

  The next day, my successful job hunting has left me feeling emotionally better, but the recent stress hasn’t helped me stay healthy. It’s early when my phone rings. I’m getting dressed, pulling my boots on over leggings.

  “How are you?” Mom asks after I say hello.

  “I think I’m getting sick. I’m all stuffy and losing my voice.” I cough into the phone.

  “Get some dicks.” She sounds as if she is buried under a pile of snow. “It always helps me when I’m sick, which I am now.”

  A long pause on my part. “Excuse me?” My mom could not have said that.

  She shouts. “I said…get some Vicks.”

  “Oh, Vicks vapor rub, for my cold. I heard something else.” I wonder if I should explain. Why not? “I heard you say get some dicks.”

  “Oh. Wow.” Silence lingers on the line between us. Mom takes a raggedy breath, coughs a little. Now I can hear her congestion. “I’m not sure that’s the type of advice a parent should give a child. Sounds more like something Tanya might say.”

  I have to chuckle. “Indeed, it does. Got a job yesterday.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She perks up because this means I won’t hound her for money anymore. “Where?”

  “At a physical therapy place. It’s run by this guy named Brice James.”

  Mom interrupts. “That’s a real name? It sounds made-up. No last name?”

  “That’s his whole name,” I tell her.

  “Hmm.” She gives a nasally sniff. “It might be a bad omen.”

  “It’s not an omen.” I’m mad she even believes that is a possibility. At least I got the job, even after the atrocious bathroom incident. To me, it’s a good sign. Brice James doesn’t judge me.

  “Did I mention that I’m seeing a psychic about Uncle Ed?” Mom suddenly pops off with this new tidbit of news. “I want to make sure he’s resting peacefully. It’s been a couple months.”

  I’m used to this line of thinking. My mom took me to palm readers and psychics for my entire life. For every therapist I saw, there was a reiki healer appointment around the corner. Old medicine, new medicine, alternative medicine, psychic medicine. All the same in my mom’s book.

  Fix Dani. Fix her life. Fix everything.

  “I hope it goes well.” Rather than dive into her mystic beliefs, I fill her in on my rather boring day and my rather tiresome classes. She yawns several times into the phone before telling me its nap time. I wish her well. “I promise to get some Vicks, not the other thing.”

  She laughs. I love my mom. Then I get ready for my four-hour training shift at work.

  The knots inside rule me. First day, and I’ve convinced myself the very nice Mr. Brice James will fire me. I need this job. Worried to near insanity, I get to work half an hour early, sneak inside without being seen, and thankfully find the woman’s room now functioning. I slip into a stall and attempt to pee to kill time and give purpose to my bathroom hideout, but mostly sit and try to compose myself. I’m a mess. But then, I’m always a mess. Nothing about this chaotic moment alone in the bathroom should surprise me.

  I repeat my mantra—I can do this, I can do this, I can do this—even as a nervous, worried tear slides down my cheek.

  More than anything, I just want something in my life to be easy, to work out right without making me crazy. Is that really too much to ask?

  My phone beeps. Two texts. One from Rickey, and one from Shami. I ignore them both and switch my phone to silent.

  That feels good.

  When I enter the office, shaking inside but smiling on the outside, I am determined to make this job work. I can do it.

  Two hours later, back hurting from being hunched over the desk, I glance up from the computer into the half-empty waiting room and stare. For my first day, it has gone as well as could be expected. Other than messing up some of the doctors and patient names and booking people on the wrong calendars, all is well. I haven’t been fired, so I take that as a good sign. Lucy, the blonde, perky, very pregnant receptionist who is tasked with training me, has left me alone to file some paperwork. She’ll be out on maternity leave for a while, and I’ll help cover her hours. Hopeful about my future here, a genuine smile slides into place.

  It’s the lunch-time lull. The two physical therapists and one trainer who share space have had a steady stream of arriving patients, and this is the first time I’ve had a break from asking patients to write their name on the sign-in form and take a seat.

  I’m starting to like this place as my nerves return to a normal level. Everyone who comes here has a different story. I pass the next few minutes wondering how the middle-aged woman who broke her knee ended up that way. I’m so in my own head that I don't hear Brice come up behind me.

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  I squeak and swivel in my chair. His eyes lock with mine, and my pulse jumps. For a moment, I wonder if he’s asking me to join him. I nod, unable to organize a sentence.

  He squints at his watch. “My next client is in an hour. I’m grabbing a sandwich at Portabella. What do you want?”

  I take a calming breath before answering. “A salad would be great.” I try to sound cheery, but I’m not sure I pull it off.

  He stands in front of me, expectantly. “It will probably be about ten dollars, right?”

  My cheeks bleed hot for thinking he was asking me to join him for lunch. I swivel away from him and grab my purse. “Right.” I find my wallet and hand him a twenty. “That’s all I have.”

  “I’ll bring you change,” he says, taking my money and heading out the door.

  #bossman

  * * * *

  For much of November, I sit in the stale office, answer phones, and smile at patients who yell at me because their bill is too expensive and they assume I can do something about it. I contemplate Brice in the most inappropriate ways, and he takes my money to buy lunch once or twice a week. Otherwise, our only contact is the casual glance of his hand against mine when he gives me something to file or a quick pat on the back for a job well done after a difficult client.

  I’m surprised and delighted when we work together the Friday night before I leave for Thanksgiving break. It’s late, and all the other employees have left to start their weekend
.

  When the last patient exits the door, and I send them off with a cheery, “Have a good night.”

  Outside the large windows, it’s dark, moon hidden behind clouds threatening snow. I decide to be bold. Maybe it’s the fact that I got one hundred and two on my last genetics test or that my hair falls to my shoulders in perfect waves after having the ends dyed red to cover the blonde. I head toward Brice’s office to ask if I’m needed. My real intent is to strike up a conversation about something other than cranky patients or what was available on the lunch menu from Portabella.

  I’m on my way to his office when I do a U-turn. A bathroom check is mandatory if I’m attempting a prolonged conversation or any conversation. I need to be sure my mascara hasn’t darkened into messy globs and that eye-liner is still on my lids, not raccooned under my eyes. I head to the restroom. A quick glance into the mirror and I realize my outfit and make-up survived the day well, but I begin to waver on my resolve. Maybe I should just go home?

  My phone buzzes, and I peek at the screen to notice a bunch of text messages. It’s like everyone needs me at the same time. Kyle and Tanya want to go out, and Rickey wants to discuss our latest assignment. I even read a text from Jeremy, whom I haven’t talked to in a while, begging for some help in Organic Chemistry. I ignore them all.

  Back in the office, my fearlessness leaves me. I bend to get my purse and head out, but then notice a shadow of light peek out from under Brice’s office door.

  The polite thing to do would be to say goodnight.

  My brown boots are the only sound as I slink down the fluorescent-lit, tiled hallway that always smells vaguely of old people. I open the door and, only after I do so, realize I forgot to knock.

  Brice doesn’t notice my entrance. He stares at a file, his usually perfect hair in slight disarray. He studies the documents on his pristine desk.