by Mina Bennett
"Haha," I agreed, halfheartedly. "So, I was looking for something during the day, mostly, although I can be a little bit flexible with nights..." After waiting a few moments for him to interject, it became obvious he wasn't going to. "What's the position?"
"Oh!" He seemed taken aback by the question. Some more papers rustled. "Well, we have a few options. Deli clerk...bakery manager...optometrist..."
"Well," I cut in, "I'm just looking for something entry-level. You know. I don't have an optometry degree." I laughed a little, but he didn't seem to get the joke.
"I can't seem to find your application," he said, after another long pause.
I was sorely tempted to ask where he'd gotten my phone number from, if that was the case, but I stopped myself just in time. "Well, like I said, you know, just something that doesn't require any special skills or training. So, you know, nothing in management. Or anything that requires a medical degree."
He didn't laugh at that one either. "Why don't you just come down for an interview? We can deal with all the details then."
"Okay," I said. "What time works for you?"
"How about now?"
I paused. "I can be there in...ten minutes?"
"Well, all right," he said, sounding irritated. Then, he hung up on me.
I had a distinct feeling that I shouldn't bother, but I decided to push through and go to the interview anyway. Maybe he was just in human resources, or something, and I'd never have to talk to him again. Worst case scenario, it would certainly be a good story.
So I hopped on my bike and rode down to the store, trying not to think about how much less time I'd have for riding if I actually did get this job. That didn't matter right now - what I needed was something to take my mind off of Marissa, and earn some money while I was at it. After I got to the store, I realized I had no idea where I was supposed to go, or who I'd even spoken to.
I coasted to a stop in the parking lot, then locked my bike to one of the columns out front and considered my options. I'd come all the way here - might as well give it a shot.
I had to wait for a while at the customer service desk before I could even talk to someone, but when I finally did, I couldn't think of anything else to say except:
"I'm here for an interview."
"Oh yeah?" The clerk smacked her gum. "With who?"
"He, uh...he didn't give me a name."
"Oh. Okay, I know who you talked to." She picked up the phone and dialed a few numbers, then waited quite a few rings for someone to answer. When they finally did, all she said was: "Get up here, you've got an interview. Yeah, an interview." She pressed the mouthpiece against her shoulder. "What time did you say it was for?" she asked me.
"Um - right now?" I hazarded.
"He says he was supposed to be here right now....I don't know...look, I can't do the interview myself, so you better come talk to him, okay?"
She hung up, finally, rolling her eyes.
"I swear," she said. "Sorry about that, he'll be with you in a minute."
"Great," I said, with what I hoped was a convincing smile.
After a while, I saw someone approaching the desk very quickly and meaningfully. He had a strange, unsteady gait, and he looked at the ground the whole time he was walking up.
Finally, when he was standing just a few inches in front of me, he abruptly met my eyes.
"So," he said. "You came in."
"Uh, yes," I said. "Is now a bad time?"
"It's always a bad time," he said, solemnly. Then he smiled. "Ha! I'm just kidding. Laugh when I make a joke. Come on, this'll be fun. Follow me."
Against all my best judgments, I did.
He led me into a small, cramped room with several dying plants, used coffee mugs, and piles of papers several inches high across every otherwise-unoccupied surface. The whole place inexplicably stunk of cat. He swept a pile of paperwork aside to clear an ancient brown office chair for me, and then took a seat on the other side of...what I assumed was a desk, under all that clutter.
Then, he started talking.
"Look, okay, this is your first job interview ever? I'm sure you're nervous, but there's no reason to be. I'm the best interviewer you'll ever have."
He smiled, and I smiled back, unsure if he thought he was joking.
"I see here you did well in your classes, so that's a good sign, of course. That shows you've got attention to detail and a willingness to work hard. Or at least fake it. Right?" He stared at me, then suddenly smiled again. "I'm kidding! Come on, laugh when I make a joke. You're making this more awkward than it has to be."
I forced a laugh, suppressing the desire to look over my shoulder and try to figure out if I was on a hidden camera show. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't apologize! It's fine. You're doing great. I was only half kidding, sometimes around here it's all about looking busy even if you're not. Me, I'm lucky, since I got to be a manager I can just hide out in here and pretend to do paperwork, but really I'm just watching Netflix. Don't let me catch you watching Netflix, though! I'd have to punish you!"
I managed a weak chuckle. His eyes looked like they were about to bug out of his head, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd been this uncomfortable.
"Just kidding, just kidding! I would never tell on you. Look, here's the thing, John."
I cleared my throat. "Jacob," I said.
He blinked. "My name's Andrew," he said.
"No, no, I know," I said, although come to think of it, I wasn't sure he'd told me. "My name is Jacob."
"What?" he snapped. "Yes! Of course. I know that's your name. Can we get back to the interview, please?"
"Please, let's," I grumbled, shoving my hands in my pockets.
"Tell me, do you smoke?"
"No," I said.
"Drink?"
"No," I said.
"Never?" He leaned across the desk. "Not even a little nip, now and then? You aren't one of those church kids, are you? Look, okay, I got nothing against religion, but you have to admit those people freak you out a little bit. You seem normal, so you must see it. Right? Right? Come on. Don't leave me hanging."
I couldn't restrain a sigh. "Is this going to be about a job, at some point?"
"This is all about the job!" he burst out. "How can you not see that? Everything is relevant."
"All right, well, I already told you I don't drink. And yes, I go to church. I don't think it would be legal to refuse to hire me for that reason, so I can't figure out why you'd ask in the first place, but yes, I go to church."
He was silent for a minute, folding his fingers together and resting his elbows on the desk. "Okay," he said. "Here's the thing. Some managers might be taken aback by the way you're talking to me right now, but I know some of the world's greatest leaders have been world-class a-holes. You know what I mean? Clinton, Mussolini, Zuckerberg. Sometimes being successful means stepping on people's necks, right? I know that probably goes against your religion or whatever, but it's just an undisputed fact."
He paused, waiting for a response.
"Okay," I said.
"Now, this might come as a surprise to you, but I'm actually really difficult to work for. A lot of the managers here are. It's just one of those things. You'll do well here if you can just keep your head down and learn how to say 'yes sir' even when you don't want to. It's like the army. In fact, I've had quite a few ex-military employees and they all say I'm the biggest hardass they've ever worked for!"
He seemed to be waiting for some kind of comment.
"Wow," I said, finally.
"All right," he said, looking irritated. "Now do you want this job, or not?"
"I don't know what the job is," I said. "You haven't offered me anything."
"Oh," he said. And then, after a longer pause, "oh. Listen - I'm going to have to call you, all right? The paperwork's all a mess here. I don't know if I'm coming or going. Why don't you go enjoy the rest of the afternoon, and I'll call you when I know something, okay?"
"Sur
e," I said. "Thanks a lot for your time."
I offered my hand for him to shake, but he didn't even seem to notice.
I ended up getting a good deal on a tube of Pringles on the way out, so the day wasn't a total loss.
***
When I got home, the house seemed strangely quiet. I took the stairs two at a time, calling out, "mom? Dad? Sara? Anybody home?"
Then, I pushed my bedroom door open, and saw my mom sitting in my desk chair.
Oh, crap.
"I got an interesting phone call today," she said. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me?"
"They weren't supposed to call here," I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else. "I only put it down as an emergency contact."
"Well they did. They called here. Asking about a job application." She was very obviously upset, and it was very obviously not just about my applying for jobs. But all the same, I felt horrible.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But how many times have we had this conversation now? And you always put me off, you always say you're going to try and find a way for me to take classes, and it never happens. I have to do this. I can't live here forever, and I'm not going to suddenly wake up tomorrow with a marketable job skill."
"Lying is never the answer," she said, her voice quivering. "Sneaking around is never the answer. I have to deal with enough of that from your sister, I don't need it from you."
"You have to let me grow up!" I shouted, much louder than I meant to. It hurt - I could see it in her face, and I immediately regretted it, even if it was true.
She was under so much pressure. Most of the time, she could keep it together. I couldn't even imagine the strength it took to smile through everything she had to endure. But I had to live my life. I had to be able to make a choice for myself, for once.
"I never wanted to stop you," she said, quietly. Her bottom lip was trembling. I so rarely saw her like this; even with things got bad with Sara, she usually handled it with businesslike efficiency. This was a side of her I hadn't encountered in years and years. I didn't know what I could possibly say to console her.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but almost frightening in its intensity. "I just wish," she said, "I just wish you showed even the tiniest bit of concern for your sister."
My heart plummeted into my stomach. "What are you talking about?"
"You're so blasé," she said. "I know you have to put on a show for your friends. But at least when you're at home, it would be nice if you showed her that you cared about her."
Her eyes were brimming with tears. I felt awful, and I knew that wasn't what she wanted, but the untold stress of the last few days, weeks, months, years - it was finally spilling over. I was desperate to say the right thing. Some magical phrase that would make everything all right. But there was nothing.
I was two years old when my mom went into the hospital, in labor with Sara. As much as I'd like to pretend to, I don't remember her back then. I have no idea how my mother acted before her daughter was born, and all our lives got turned upside-down.
"I'm sorry." My throat was getting thick, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd cried. "I don't know what you want. I stay home and take care of Molly every time you guys have to go into the hospital with her. I'd come with you if you didn't need someone to watch the house."
"I'm not talking about that," my mom insisted. "I'm talking about the everyday stuff. She needs to know that you love her. She needs your guidance."
"I don't know how to help her, mom." I was getting choked up, trying to hold it back. "If I did, I would."
"Things are hard for her." My mom let out a shaky breath. "You know that. She's trying, but she's struggling. Just you acknowledging her, letting her know you can see how much she hurts. It would mean the world to her."
"She hates it when people treat her like she's sick," I retorted.
"But acting like she's not doesn't change reality." No longer on the verge of tears, my mom just looked angry. I knew she was really angry at the world, not at me. Angry at what happened. Angry at God, even. But that didn't make this any easier. "I can't do this by myself."
"I don't know what you want me to do."
"I'm sorry," she said, after a pause. She was sagging a little, the exhaustion finally kicking in. "Jacob, I'm sorry. I know this isn't easy on you either. But you have to show Sara a little more concern. She might pretend that she hates it, and maybe there's part of her that does, but she needs you right now. Marissa isn't your concern. She's engaged to Mark, and I know - Jacob, listen." I was staring at the floor now, which I guess she took as inattention, but I was just embarrassed. "I know it's not easy. But you need to move on from that girl."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I muttered.
"Okay," said my mom, standing up and letting out a heavy sigh. "But please try to talk to Sara tonight."
"I will," I said. "I promise."
She hesitated for a moment, searching for the right words. "I know you're an adult now," she said. "I know I can't stop you from taking a job offer, if you want to. But I just want you to be happy, Jacob. That's all. I can't see you being happy like that. You've always been so good with your hands, with those bikes - I wish you'd pursue that."
"I'm going to," I said. "I want to. But right now, I just need something to get me out of the house a little bit. Get some money saved up. It's not going to be the perfect job right now, but I've got to start somewhere."
"All right," my mom said, quietly. "Okay. I just don't want to see you give up what makes you happy"
"I promise I won't."
And with that, she dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and left.
***
A few hours later, I tapped cautiously at Sara's door.
"What?" she responded, finally.
"Can I come in?"
There was a long silence.
"I don't know, can you?"
Sighing, I opened her door and stepped inside. Sara was sitting at her computer, clicking away intently on some kind of multiplayer world-building game that occupied most of her time these days.
"Hey," I said, sitting down carefully on the edge of her bed. My feet sunk into the protective padding that lined the floor around it. "How are you feeling?"
She made a noncommittal noise, never taking her eyes away from the screen for even a second.
These days, it was sometimes hard to separate her disorder from typical teenage behavior. But she'd always been like this. I knew she wasn't really sullen or resentful; it was just how she dealt with the world. People who didn't know her very well couldn't see it, but I could. The same defect in her brain that gave her the seizures also made it hard for her to cope with things that everyone else just took in stride.
Really, I couldn't imagine dealing with seizures even if everything else was perfect. I had no idea how she did it. But that didn't make her any easier to talk to.
As usual, I struggled to come up with a topic of conversation. I couldn't talk to her about Brandon's amusing college application struggles, because that would just remind her that her medical bills were the reason neither one of us would ever go. If I brought up biking, that would just be cruel. I couldn't talk to her about her games, because I didn't understand them.
Well, out of all the possibilities, at least the third one probably wouldn't upset her.
"Raiding?" I asked, using one of the few terms I'd picked up from her. She didn't get talkative often, but when she did, she could go on about her gaming adventures for hours.
She nodded.
"Stupid," she muttered, after a moment of silence. "Ever since they found out I'm a girl, they think I can't tank. Showed them."
I smiled. Even with only a vague understanding of what she was talking about, I could appreciate the sentiment. Anybody who thought my sister didn't have any fight in her - well, they had another thing coming.
"So, how mad was Mom about the whole job thing?" She was still staring at th
e screen, but I thought I could see her reflection smiling.
"Pretty mad," I said. "But she's probably going to let me keep it, if I can find one."
"Well, that's good."
"Maybe," I said. "The search isn't going well so far."
"Oh well, it'll get better. Everybody wants to hire a goody-two-shoes like you."
I had to laugh.
"Okay," I said. "Thanks, man. Good talk."
But she was already lost in her game again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marissa
When Mark first asked me over to his house for dinner, alone, I fully expected my parents to balk. But when I asked them about it, they seemed thrilled.
"Oh, how romantic!" My mom actually giggled a little, and I swore her cheeks turned pink. "That's so lovely of him to ask you over. There's nothing like a man who cooks, Mari."
I thought Martha looked a little concerned, but she just said: "I hope he knows how to make a good dessert. So many people do okay with the main course, and then they just drop the ball when it comes to the finisher."
I had no idea where she was getting this stuff.
Finally, my dad asked the question I'd been expecting. "He's having you over by yourself? Will his parents be there?"
I shook my head. "Just me."
"Have you ever actually met his parents, Mari?" Martha wanted to know.
"No. He told me..." I sighed. "He told me they don't really talk to him anymore. They're...not religious. They don't approve of his life choices."
My mom made a small noise of disapproval tinged with sadness. "How horrible for him to be alone in the world like that. No wonder he's thriving in our church." She smiled at me.
"Hmm." My dad was frowning a little. "Sounds like some drama's coming down the road with that one."
"Well?" Mom snapped, whirling on him. "What is she supposed to do? Turn the man down just because he's got a difficult family? That's not exactly fair."
"Still," my dad said, mildly, completely unperturbed by my mom's eye daggers. "It's something to think about."
"Don't you listen to him, Mari," my mom said, turning back to me. "It's ridiculous to worry about something like that, especially at this stage. Maybe his parents will reconcile with him someday and maybe they won't. Who cares?"
