by Hazel Kelly
I’d counted six SUVs by the time I got halfway up the street, but none of them were like the one my dad had pointed out. Nevertheless, I strained my eyes up the next long driveway without hesitation, jumping when I heard a voice.
“What are you looking at?”
My eyes searched the area until I saw the questioner stepping out from behind a nearby bush. It was a little girl, probably a year or two younger than me. Her shiny blonde hair was in low hanging pigtails, one side of which had two different blue crayons sticking out of it.
“Well?” she asked, mopping her brow.
My eyes fell to the trowel in her hand. “I was looking to see what kind of car you had.”
She looked over her shoulder up the driveway and then back at me. “One’s an Audi. That’s my dad’s. The other one is Gracie. She’s my mom’s.”
“I never heard of a Honda called Gracie before.”
She stared at me so hard I wondered if there was something on my face. “What’s your name?”
“Landon,” I said. “I just moved into number eleven.” I pointed down the street even though something told me this girl knew where the house was.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“I just turned eight. Why? How old are yo—”
“My brother’s eight.”
“Oh yeah?” I tried to play it cool, but there was nothing casual about how badly I hoped her brother was nice. I’d be grateful to have even one friend by the time school started.
“He’s pretty annoying,” she said, glancing down at the hole she’d been digging. “In fact, I kind of hate him right now.”
“Margot Jessica!” A short blonde woman in a blue sundress stormed out of the house. “What did I tell you about digging holes in the front yard?!”
The little girl cringed, as if she were embarrassed to be scolded in front of a complete stranger. “I had no choice, Mom. This is where Matt told me it was.”
“Where what was?” her mother asked, placing her hands on her hips.
“The treasure,” she said. “He made a map, and I followed all the clues, and this is where it should be.”
I figured I should give them privacy, but I didn’t want to attract attention to myself by moving.
“Did you find it yet?” a young boy called from an open window on the second floor.
Margot stuck her tongue out at him as hard as she could.
The angry lady shot him a look, too, one that made him close his window and disappear. “He’s just trying to get you in trouble, honey,” she said, putting her hand on Margot’s shoulder.
Bright patches of pink appeared on her cheeks. “I was close, though. I know I was close.”
Her mother sighed. “I’ll let you do three more scoops to make sure there’s nothing there, but then you have to fill in the hole. Okay?”
Margot dropped to her knees immediately, digging at least twice as many scoops as she was allowed.
As she dug, her mom raised her eyes to me and lifted her thin brows.
“My name’s Landon?” I said, not knowing why it came out like a question. “I just moved into number eleven. Well, we’re not really in yet. We’re still moving. But the truck should be empty before dinner. So I’m told.”
The woman’s face softened, and she stepped towards me with an outstretched hand.
I took it as she introduced herself as Mrs. Roberts.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
A moment later, an irritated groan erupted from Margot’s throat at a volume that surprised me considering how slight she was. “I’m going to kill him!” she screamed, rising to her feet as she threw a pair of dirt-covered Dora print underwear to the ground.
Mrs. Roberts lifted a hand to rub her temple as Margot threw the trowel across the lawn and stormed into the house.
“If you’ll excuse me, Landon,” she said. “I think my son may require my assistance.”
I wanted to follow her into the house to see what Margot would do next, but I nodded and stepped back towards the street instead, holding my breath until the screen door shut behind her.
Then, before walking on, I stuck my hands in my pockets and took one last look at the “treasure” on the lawn, deciding that I liked this annoying brother of hers even though I hadn’t met him yet.
And I liked Margot, too. I liked the determination that lit up her innocent face and the crayons in her hair and the way her cheeks turned a dark shade of pink that matched her lips.
Maybe this neighborhood wouldn’t be so boring after all.
F I V E
- Margot -
I couldn’t believe Landon managed to get me an interview. I mean, I didn’t doubt his persuasiveness. I just didn’t expect him to stick his neck out for me like that.
As planned, I arrived forty-five minutes early, leaving myself plenty of time to relax and prepare but not enough time to go wandering too far.
Sitting in the waiting room for that long seemed a bit overeager, though, especially for an unpaid internship. So I crossed the street and went into Starbucks, pretending that I, too, was a working professional in the big city.
I’d normally go for a coffee, but I didn’t want to be jittering all over the place—or worse, desperately in need of a pee during my interview. So I got myself a green tea and took a seat by the window so I could keep an eye on the building, as if it might walk away in an attempt to sabotage me.
While I waited for my drink to cool down, I went over some common interview questions in my head, reminding myself that if I were asked where I saw myself in five years, I should not say, “running my own ad agency and pregnant with Landon Bishop’s baby,” though I admit the thought did make me smile.
At one point, my silent study was interrupted by the sight of a pretty blonde. I assumed she was an actress or a model because she was in head to toe black and had that glow about her that only really confident spotlight lovers have. That being said, I was glad I saw her before my interview.
She was the perfect reminder to keep my body language in check. I rolled my shoulders back and straightened in my chair as I watched her, noticing how easy and wide her smile was and how charmed the otherwise robotic staff were by her presence.
When the barista shouted “Izzy,” she picked up her drink, raised a piece of paper in the air, and asked if she could hang it on the corkboard at the front of the store. Not surprisingly, she got a quick and enthusiastic yes and pinned it up before exiting through the double doors.
A few minutes later, I finished my tea and went to see what she was advertising, convinced it would be a show of some kind. But it wasn’t. It was an ad for a room vacancy.
“Single room with shared bathroom available in Lower East Side. Great location. Good access to public transportation and other amenities. Civilized, hygienically conscious but unabashedly eccentric roommate included. Must be employed. Actors, artists, and street performers need not apply.”
I tore along the top of one of the perforated tabs and stuffed it in my pocket before I could talk myself out of it. Then I hurried over to the building across the street and caught the elevator up to Acacia Ads Group on the 36th floor. Much to my pleasant surprise, the friendly woman manning the reception desk looked like she could moonlight as a Disney princess in the Magic Kingdom parade.
Was everyone in New York City this fabulous, or was this just a chichi part of town?
Ten minutes later, at exactly eleven o’clock (which made my punctual little heart skip a beat) a woman named Deedee invited me into her office. She had her hair pulled back in a bun and a warm smile that reached her green eyes. She looked early forties, though it might be more accurate to say she looked like a Botoxed fifty-something.
Of course, I didn’t care about that. All I cared about was nailing my firm handshake, which I think I did. But hers was firm, too, which is always awkward because I never know if I should consider that a prompt to squeeze even harder.
“Nice to meet you, Margot.” She gestur
ed to a chair in front of her glass desk. “Please, have a seat.”
She started by asking me how I was doing, whether I could make coffee, and whether I knew how to use a copy machine. “Sorry to begin with such uninspiring questions,” she said. “But I don’t want to ask all about your career aspirations and then have you show up on day one surprised to find yourself tasked with such menial—albeit important and urgent—responsibilities.”
“I understand,” I said. “I’m not afraid of working my way up and putting in the time like everyone else. I expect that any experience I get would only be an asset going forward.”
“That’s an excellent attitude to have,” she said. “And finding someone who’s not afraid to get stuck in is exactly what we’re looking for.”
There was a warm flutter in my chest as visions of packing my shit and moving out of my parents’ house pranced through my head.
“Would you mind telling me a bit more about yourself?”
“Sure,” I said, delighted that my focused preparation might actually come in handy. “I was in the most reputable business fraternity at my school. And I did all the advertising for the International Studies department, bringing their enrollment up five percent in two years.”
“I meant something I can’t learn about you from your résumé.”
I swallowed, flattened my hands on my black pencil skirt, and fought the urge to dig my fingers into my thighs.
“Why are you interested in advertising, for example?”
I relaxed my shoulders, thought of the Starbucks girl, and let a smile take over my face. “I’m interested in advertising because of the powerful influence it has over our culture, from the products people consume to the things they dream about to their perceived quality of life.”
She leaned back in her chair without shifting her gaze from me.
“I’m fascinated by what makes people tick and what triggers them to make certain choices, and I think marketers have an incredible opportunity to impact people’s thoughts and behaviors on a daily basis.”
Her expression gave nothing away. I couldn’t tell if she thought I was making sense or if she was drafting a grocery list in her head.
“I’m also really interested in the creative process, the brainstorming that happens behind closed doors, and the synergy that occurs when groups of people search for solutions.” I stopped for a breath. “Sorry if I’m rambling. I’ve just been interested in advertising ever since I saw my first billboard and realized someone I’d never met had the power to instantly interrupt and hijack my train of thought.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Do you remember what the billboard was for?”
“Cracker Barrel. The restaurant.”
She nodded. “Have you ever tried one of their big jawbreakers?”
“Only once, but I was so desperate to get to the center that I licked it until my tongue bled.”
She squinted at me. “I admire your intensity.”
“I wish I could say my mom felt the same way.”
“Do you have any other weaknesses I should know about?” she asked. “Not that intensity, enthusiasm, or belligerence are considered anything short of assets here.”
“I’m overly punctual,” I said. “For everything. Deadlines, meetings. I was even early for my own birth.”
“Well, our agents are often strapped for time, so I’m sure that would only endear you to them.”
I exhaled and tried to figure out how long ago I should’ve stopped talking.
“However, I’m obligated to inform you that even if you’re granted the internship, there’s no guarantee we’ll take you on full time at the end of your contract.”
“I understand,” I said. “Though if you do decide to give me the opportunity, I assure you I won’t waste it.”
“I believe you,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “And I appreciate you coming in. We’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks for your time, Deedee,” I said, shaking her hand again. “I hope to see you again soon.”
And then I left, taking my stomach full of butterflies with me and realizing, perhaps for the very first time, exactly how much I wanted the job.
S I X
- Landon -
I was exhausted after a long day of meetings and office politics, but knowing I had an excuse to call Margot that night gave me an unfamiliar burst of energy that kicked in as soon as I pulled into my parking garage.
It seemed silly that I should need an excuse. After all, I’d known her since we were both in cartoon print underpants. But for some reason, it never seemed appropriate to seek her out, as if it was understood that my business— or rather, friendship— was primarily with Matt. Still, I used to hope she’d answer the phone when I called him at home, since a few words from her always cheered me to no end.
As teenagers, there were fleeting moments between us when the door from the friend zone swung slightly ajar, but I always hesitated to make my escape for a split second too long.
I don’t know why that was. I think it was partly out of respect for Matt, who was even more fiercely protective of her than I was. But even if they hadn’t been so inseparable, she was two years younger than me, and that can feel like a lot as an adolescent.
Granted, having an older brother (coupled with the fact that she used to eavesdrop on our conversations through the vent between their bedrooms) caused her to learn about certain facts of life a bit earlier than she might’ve otherwise. But just because she knew about stuff didn’t mean she was ready for it. Or that I should be the one to teach her more.
Sure, I always knew she had an on-again off-again crush on me, but I didn’t want to take advantage of her. I wanted her to live a little and come back later, when she was sure I was the guy she wanted instead of the only guy she knew. Plus, what if she lost interest in me and made things awkward for the whole family?
I couldn’t risk that, not after the way they stuck by my dad and me after my mom left.
As far as the eavesdropping, I don’t know if Margot ever found out that we knew, but sometimes we’d catch her saying stuff we’d either said earlier that day or stuff she couldn’t otherwise know. Stuff like, “Even Jimi Hendrix thought Rory Gallagher was the best guitarist in the world,” and, “I’d put my money on the Steelers. It’s about time a wild card won the title.”
We had fun with it for a while, trying to plant crazy ideas in her head about weird shit we were into and making up outrageous gossip to entertain her, but we tired of that. Eventually, we just put one of Matt’s stereo speakers in front of the vent when we wanted privacy, which at some point became all the time.
But I didn’t want to communicate with her through a vent anymore. Or through Matt. I wanted to see if there was any depth to our own relationship…or if I’d only wanted her all this time because she was the one girl I couldn’t have.
When I walked in the door of my condo, I kicked my shoes off towards the hall closet, sat on the edge of the couch, and dialed her number.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Margot, hey. It’s Landon.”
“Hi.”
“I hope you don’t mind me calling.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Did Matt give you my number?”
“It was on your résumé.”
“Oh right.” Silence. “Are you calling about the internship?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I don’t know whether you got it or not, but I thought I’d call and see how things went today.”
“Oh.”
“Make sure Deedee didn’t make you sweat too much.”
“Not at all,” she said. “She was lovely. Any sweating I did was my own fault. Why? Did she tell you I was sweaty? I don’t think my hand was clammy when I shook hers but—”
“No, I haven’t heard from her. I’m kind of cut off from the process after the point of introduction.”
“Right. Speaking of which, I can’t thank you enough,” she said.
“In fact, I was thinking maybe I should write you a thank you card or something. That’s what I normally do when someone sticks their neck out for me.”
“A thank you card won’t be necessary. As long as you made me look good, which I’m sure you did based on your résumé, don’t worry about it. It was my pleasure.”
“I have to do something, Landon. It’s only right that I—”
“You can buy me a drink sometime. Once you’ve moved downtown and gotten your own place.”
“Deal,” she said. “Any drink you want.”
“Sounds good.”
“I think I might have a lead on a place, actually.”
“Oh?” I loosened my tie with one hand.
“I saw a girl put up an ad for a roommate in Starbucks before my interview.”
I grimaced. “I’m not sure if that’s the safest way to go.”
“Why not? She didn’t look like a serial killer, and she specifically mentioned in the ad that personal hygiene is important to her.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“She sounds pretty Type A.”
“That’s perfect for me,” she said. “The last thing I want is to move in with someone I have to pick up after.”
“That’s a shame because I could really use a roommate.”
“Very funny.”
“No, really,” I said, leaning back on the couch. “But something tells me you wouldn’t be down to wear the uniform.” I could practically hear her eyes rolling on the other end of the line.
“Why? Is it a nurse costume or a French maid?”
“Whichever you feel more comfortable in. I’m flexible.”
“That makes one of us,” she said. “Personally, I’m more interested in finding somewhere I can lounge at leisure in T-shirts and leggings.”
My mind flashed back to the first day I saw her in a pair of leggings. I could still remember how the thin fabric stretched over the round cheeks of her ass, how they hugged the gentle curves of her inner thighs. “I’m only joking. I don’t need a roommate.”
