It took most of the afternoon to get us to the employment office, and it’s about ten minutes before closing time when my number is finally called. I drag Shannon up to the counter, where a balding, middle-aged man on the other side looks tired and grizzled. And something about the way he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and peers at me suggests that he has less than zero patience by now. Even so, I smile innocently at him as I nudge Shannon forward and give her a look that says, You’d better get with it, lady, or you’ll be sorry.
After a long pause, she comes to life. Amazingly, she kicks it into high gear, and as I watch her performance, I think perhaps she could make a comeback as an actress after all.
“Hello there, Mr. Blankenship,” she says cheerfully, actually pausing to read his photo ID nametag, which is more than I had even hoped for. “I’m Shannon Stark, and this is my daughter, Maya. She’s just landed a sweet little job in one of the coolest boutiques on Rodeo Drive, and if you could just witness my signature on this work permit, we’ll let you get on with your weekend.” She gives him one of her coy, flashy smiles now. “I’m sure you’ve got some great plans too.”
Well, just like magic, he warms right up, and barely skimming the application, he nods, then watches with interest as she signs on the line. He does what needs to be done, and before I know it, we’re outta there.
Of course, as soon as we’re in the car, Shannon slumps down in the passenger side like a deflated balloon. “I’m dying,” she says dramatically.
“You’ll be home soon,” I promise. But thanks to the commuter traffic, it takes an hour and a half, and by the time I pull into our driveway, I feel like I’m dying too.
“Oh, we’re here already?” Shannon looks up at the house in surprise. She’s been asleep the whole time.
I get out of the car and don’t even wait for her. I feel a mixture of emotions as I stomp into the house. On one hand, I’m proud that I accomplished all I did today. On the other hand, I’m outraged that—thanks to my parents—I am doing some outrageous things. Like breaking the law by driving without a permit and lying about my schooling, and how about compromising my convictions by wearing leather?! I do all this just to survive—just so I can hopefully reach the place where I can be free of Shannon and her madness. Still, it is so not fair. But that only proves my belief that (1) life is not fair, and (2) it is not going to get better. So why freak over it?
Tonight I retreat to the attic to escape Shannon. This time I take a few survival things, including food and water, my laptop and sketchbook, and this journal. I’m amazed at how this journal is beginning to feel like a friend. Maybe Kim was right after all. Maybe it is therapeutic.
And when I checked my e-mail about an hour ago, I was surprised to see she had finally written me back. I can tell that her life has been a little crazy too. She tells me “in confidence” that her best friend is pregnant. Now that’s kind of shocking. Anyway, it seems that Kim has been helping this girl sort things out, and it’s getting kind of stressful. I feel sorry for Kim and think I shouldn’t tell her too much more about my situation. But she also encourages me to be in touch with my dad. I think she assumes that he is something like her dad—that he’ll care about me and want to do something to change my living conditions.
Well, that just shows you how someone’s personal perspective can impair their worldview. To be fair, I suppose that my world is as foreign to her as hers is to me. But it was kind of her to write. I decide to write back and act as if all is well. This girl has enough stuff on her plate without me adding my mess to the mix.
Speaking of messes, some people think that it’s messy to wash out and flatten cans, but recycling helps to keep the earth clean.
Maya’s Green Tip for the Day
So here’s the third green rule: recycle. That means you don’t just toss something into the trash because you’re done with it. Besides the fact that our landfills are overflowing, we’re also running out of some resources, like oils that are used to make plastic. So if you make an effort to separate recyclable products like glass, metal, plastic, and paper, we all benefit. Sure, this takes a little time, but isn’t the planet worth it?
Six
June 8
I’m only fifteen, and this was my first day at my first job. I should feel elated, right? Wrong. Deflated would be more like it. And tired. And my feet hurt. I mean, seriously hurt. Can wearing these stupid shoes do permanent damage to your feet? I asked Em about wearing flip-flops in the boutique, and she just frowned. No way would I ask Vivian. She’d probably slap me. Not that she’s violent, not physically anyway, but she is definitely mean.
Like this morning. A customer was perusing the summer dresses, and I was “trying to help her.” Actually I was standing around looking like an idiot. The woman—a petite, anorexic, fortyish blonde with wrinkly, tanned skin—wanted something special for a graduation party tonight. At first I tried to make some suggestions, but I could tell I was only irritating her. I could also tell I was being watched by Vivian. And since I wanted to appear useful and like I was worth the minimum wage I was earning, or hoping to earn if I didn’t get fired on my first day, I stayed close by. I held up some dresses that I actually thought might look nice on her, but she wasn’t buying. Eventually the skinny blonde left without making a purchase.
“You’re not supposed to prey on the customers,” Vivian snapped at me as soon as the shop was void of shoppers.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“Give them their space. Be helpful but invisible.”
“Invisible?”
“Stay out of their way!” Then she flitted off to the back room where I assume she smoked several cigarettes since I could smell smoke when I went back for a potty break.
So later today, when Em was on her break, I was attempting to take Vivian’s advice. I was trying to be “helpful but invisible” when three girls came into the shop. They were about my age, and thankfully I didn’t know them. They are the kind of girls who walk around with a serious superiority complex, acting as if their life calling is to make others feel as if they are dust beneath their feet. But putting all offense and personal feelings aside, I politely asked if I could help them with anything. This is exactly what Em does. But like most of the other customers today, they said, “No, we’re just looking.” Okay, they said it even more snootily than the women had. So I backed off.
At first I stayed a few racks away, pretending to straighten garments, putting the hangers a finger’s width apart, like Em had shown me. Then I went over to the counter and refolded a stack of Hermes silk scarves that had been messed up by a previous customer. The girls spent at least fifteen minutes checking out the shop, laughing and acting like the stuck-up brats they obviously were, and finally, to my relief, they left.
“Maya!” Vivian shrieked as she emerged from the back room. “You let them get away!”
“Huh?”
“Go and get them.” Vivian had a cell phone by her ear as she pointed at the door.
“What?”
“Go! Run out there, and get those little thieves, and bring them back here! Now!”
So without even considering how I was going to do this, and without remembering that I was wearing those detestable Gucci sandals that were already cutting into my toes, and without realizing that I would not be able to run and catch anyone, I took off. I got out onto the sidewalk and looked both ways, but those girls were nowhere to be seen. Like they’d vanished into thin air. I walked up and down the sidewalk, looking every which way, but could not see them anywhere. Finally I went back inside.
“Where are they?” Vivian demanded with the phone still by her ear.
“They’re gone.”
“You didn’t catch them?”
I held up my hands, like, Duh, do you see them anywhere on me?
“Never mind,” she said into the phone. “They got away.” Then she hung up and glared at me. “Did you know those girls?”
“No, of course not.” She didn’t loo
k convinced. “They really took something?”
“Do you think I’m making it up?”
“Well…no…”
“Why weren’t you watching them?”
“Watching?”
“Yes. Why were you up here behind the counter just standing around and doing nothing?”
“I was folding the—”
“Your job is to take care of the customers, Maya! Is that too difficult for you to grasp?”
“But you said—”
“I don’t expect you to be hiding behind the counter when we have customers in the store. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts!”
Just then Em came in. She seemed to sense something was wrong, but instead of saying a word, she simply slipped into the back room, probably to put away her purse, although she took her time about it.
“I’m sorry,” I forced myself to say. “I’ll try to do better.”
“You do not try to do better, Maya. You make a choice to do better.”
“You’re right,” I said calmly, thinking of how much this reminded me of past nonsensical conversations with Shannon. “I will do better.”
“Hello,” Em said in a slightly timid tone. “Everything okay?”
Vivian glared at her now. “Maya just let some girls shoplift.”
I literally bit my tongue. I “let” them?
Em just nodded. “That’s too bad.”
“I’ll say,” snapped Vivian as she headed back toward the shoe section. “They took a pair of Fendi sandals.” She held up an empty box. “That dumpy redhead slipped them right under her shirt.”
I tried to remember the “dumpy redhead” and what kind of shirt she’d been wearing but came up blank. “You saw that on a security camera?” I asked, instantly realizing how stupid I must sound.
Vivian gave me the evil eye. “No, Maya, I have x-ray vision. I can see through walls.” Then shoving the empty shoebox at me, she turned and stomped off toward the back room. “I should deduct them from your wages.”
I looked at the price on the box and tried not to gasp. I am not a math whiz, but at $7.50 an hour, it would take more than two weeks to pay back $680. “Would she really do that?” I whispered to Em.
“No,” Em replied quietly, “that’s illegal.”
I let out a small sigh. Even so, I felt like I’d better stay on my toes. My poor aching toes! And later on when more teen girls came into the shop, I still tried to be invisible, but I did not let them out of my sight. Fortunately, they left without stealing anything. At least nothing I heard about from Vivian, although she might’ve been out of her office by then. Of course, they didn’t buy anything either. I’m not sure if that was my fault or not. Working in an expensive boutique feels like walking a tightrope in uncomfortable shoes. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep my balance.
June 12
Day four of working in the boutique. Surprisingly, I seem to be getting it. I can write up a purchase, run the credit card, wrap the purchase in tissue, and bag it without even blinking now. The only thing I don’t get is Vivian. I doubt that anyone can figure out that woman. Sometimes I wonder if she’s doing drugs. Or maybe she’s bipolar or has some sort of personality disorder. Because occasionally she’s actually rather nice. Although, come to think of it, it’s nice like a spider enticing you into her web. Just when you begin to trust her, the fangs come out, and she goes into her mean mode. It’s best to keep a low profile around this woman.
But from observing Em, I’m learning some clever ways to avoid the wrath of Vivian. (1) Appear to be busy, even if it means making a mess of something (when Vivian is not looking) just so you can clean it up; (2) engage a client by complimenting her on something she’s wearing or her hair, and then keep chatting with her until Vivian moves on; and (3) initiate a conversation with Vivian by telling her about some big purchase that was made while she was out, or mention someone famous who stepped in and complimented the shop—even if you have to make it up (not the purchase, but the celebrity). See, I’m learning fast. Still, I feel more like a hypocrite than ever.
But here’s the good news. I’ve earned $240 by now. I can’t believe it! Oh, sure, I don’t get paid until Friday, but I’m keeping careful track of my hours, and by Friday I should have made a total of $360. I realize that’s not much by some people’s standards, but for a girl who has to buy her own groceries, it’s pretty good. I plan to start seriously saving now. My goal is to have enough money put aside by my sixteenth birthday (December 12) to show that I can live on my own. The beginning of my emancipation proclamation.
June 14
Payday! Okay, the thrill quickly evaporated when I saw that my check wasn’t $360, like I’d anticipated. Fortunately, Em explained the concept of deductions. It seems that Uncle Sam needs my money—probably to do stupid things like buy guns and tanks. And then there are things like Social Security, like that will even exist by the time I need it, and workmen’s comp, whatever that is. Anyway, it was a bit disheartening to realize that, unlike baby-sitting, you don’t actually make what you feel you earned. And minimum wage is just what it sounds like. Minimal. How could a person survive on it?
“They can’t,” Em explained as she steamed a blouse.
I know now that Em lives with three roommates, including her boyfriend, Vic. She started college but dropped out due to lack of interest combined with a lack of funds. But she, unlike me, has a genuine interest in the fashion industry, and that’s why she subjects herself to Vivian. Well, that and to pay the bills. She also informed me that after two years in this shop and after threatening to leave, she finally was put on commission, meaning she gets a tiny percentage of what she sells. “It helps out,” she told me.
I was tempted to tell Em a little more about myself and my emancipation plan, but I’m afraid to disclose too much. Thanks to Shannon and probably Vivian as well now, I have a bit of paranoia. I will play my cards close to my chest.
“Do you think I can get on commission too?” I asked eagerly. I was considering how I’d sold nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of clothes just that morning. Even a 5 percent cut would equal fifty bucks—not exactly chump change for a girl in my shoes (which were hurting my feet as usual).
“You can ask…” But even as Em said this, I could tell she was doubtful.
“Maybe after a while…”
During my lunch break I walked to the bank, the very same branch where Dad took me to open my own savings account about ten years ago. Sure, that account has only had about thirty dollars in it for the past several years, but that’s changing now. I considered hiding my cash in the house, but that’s backfired on me before. If Shannon’s in dire need of chemicals, it’s like she can actually sniff out money. Oh, I’ve been more fortunate since creating my attic getaway, but I don’t think I can be too careful when it comes to my mom.
My plan is to deposit $450 of every two-week paycheck for a total of $900 a month. That doesn’t leave me with much money for living expenses, but as long as Dad doesn’t get too far behind on child support, I should be just fine. Better than ever in fact. Since my first paycheck isn’t very big, I only put in $150. But it’s a start. According to my calculations (and I wonder if I should get some homeschool math credit for all this), I’ll have more than $5,500 by my birthday. Even more if I can deposit some money from Dad’s child-support payments.
“How much rent do you have to pay per month?” I asked Em this afternoon.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars,” she told me as she held up a silky dress and looked in the mirror.
“That’s not much,” I said hopefully.
“Well, that’s because Vic pays for part of my rent. You know, since he makes more money than I do.”
“Yeah, right…”
“I think I’m going to have to get this.” She hung the dress on the “hold” rack.
I tried not to look shocked as I glanced at the price tag. I’ve learned by now, first from Shann
on and then from working here, that nothing is too expensive when it comes to style. Yeah, right. Even so, I couldn’t control myself, and knowing that Vivian was not in the building, I had to ask. “How can you afford that?” I held up the tag. “That’s more than your rent.”
Em just laughed. “It’s Tadashi,” she said, as if that explained it all.
“I know, but still.”
“And you know we have an employee discount, silly.”
I blinked. “Yeah, like 20 percent. That’s still about the same amount as you pay for a month’s rent.”
“Yes, but I can’t wear rent, now can I? And Vic is taking me to a corporate dinner where appearances are everything.” She looked slightly perplexed. “The real question is shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Yes. I’m not sure I have the right ones for this dress.”
“What’s wrong with the ones you’re wearing?”
She laughed again. “Puhleeze.”
Just then the bell on the door tinkled, and I was relieved to go help a customer who hopefully could actually afford the clothes in here. In my opinion, a girl should never pay more than her rent for a dress she will probably wear only once. But what do I know?
As it turned out, the customers were teen girls about my age. And remembering Vivian’s wrath when the “dumpy redhead” stole the Fendi sandals, I was not letting these girls out of my sight either. They weren’t the same group as the shoplifters, and these girls looked like they could easily afford to shop here. Although I’ve only been observing fashion for a week or so, I recognized that they were wearing some pretty expensive threads. In fact these girls looked a lot like ones on The O.C. Yes, I’ll admit I used to watch that show back in middle school. Mostly due to peer pressure. I wouldn’t be caught dead watching anything like that now. I don’t care much for television in general. Unless it’s what I consider educational.
A Not-So-Simple Life Page 5
