by Julie Olivia
I’m sure they can see the hesitation, though, and I want to kick myself for my emotions showing on my face so easily. The last thing I want is for them to feel bad.
“Just pizza works for us,” Wes says. “No need to bother.”
“I’ll at least order a really fancy takeout pizza,” I offer. “None of that commercial chain-restaurant stuff. I’ll get real classy.”
“Perfect!” Ramona says with a hand clap. “Pineapples too, please!”
“Girl, you know it.” We high five as Wes groans.
That no-good pineapple pizza-hating man.
“So, how are the interviews coming along?” he asks.
I groan. “On a scale of one to natural disaster, it’s about a hurricane of a billion killer whales. There’s only been one so far, actually.”
The interview was for a company looking for printing press operators, which I am definitely not. Screen printing classes were never my forte, as I’m also the kid that screamed when I touched glue during arts and crafts in preschool. How I pursued and loved paints instead, I’ll never know.
Given a fight or flight situation, such as, oh I don’t know, my horrible unemployment dilemma, I like to think my redheaded tenacity has always guided me in the right direction. I am a fists-up, bring it on, baby! fighting kinda gal. When I settled for a simple customer service job—which eventually developed into a collections role—my days were filled with “Please pay your balance or else your account will be on hold,” statements and I decided after five years of that junk, all I really wanted was to pursue my true passion. I quit my collections job, instantly upgraded my resume, took some new designs I’ve been perfecting and some old paintings from college (conspicuously erasing the year I actually created them), and then sent out my portfolio to the world.
“Ian said they’re hiring over at his job,” Ramona says, placing a papasan down. “A design position, actually. I think they just promoted someone and need a replacement.”
Ramona’s older brother Ian is just like her: Successful, incredibly in tune with health and working out (which, admittedly, I need to get better at), and bit of an asshole. But like, a lovable asshole. Needless to say, we actually get along quite well.
“I’m willing to take any interview at this point,” I say, lugging in a box filled with who-knows-what.
“Oh yeah,” Wes chimes in, “he’s at Treasuries Inc.”
“Treasuries Inc.?” I gawk, almost tripping over the threshold and knocking into Ramona. “Treasuries Inc. as in the upcoming marketing firm? The marketing firm we went to that mixer at? The one where they were all like, ‘Yeah, every Friday is Beer Friday because we’re super cool and hip?’ The start-up culture-beast darling of the city, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try my shot at it? That Treasuries Inc.?”
“Holy overload of information, Batman.” Wes laughs. “How much stalking have you done on that company?”
“Don’t even get her started.” Ramona rolls her eyes.
“How are you just now telling me about this?” I’m almost offended this is the first I’m hearing about the opportunity. How could she! Withholding information from your best friend is a federal crime!
“Get your panties out of a wad,” Ramona says. “I already told him you’re interested.” This elicits a slow grin to spread across my face as she starts mocking my missing reaction. “Thank you, Ramona. You’re such a wonderful friend. Oh, no, you are, Grace. I’m happy to be of service.”
I bolt toward her and jump into her arms, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“We got you covered,” she laughs.
My head is swimming with possibilities: A place with a future. A place where they give promotions. An actual design gig in some cool, trendy job with progressive people who probably eat kale salads and do hot yoga. I’d kill to be one of those people. Literally, murder someone.
I decide right then and there the position that “may or may not exist” is totally mine.
2. Grace
A typical Thursday night. Yet instead of lying on my empty apartment floor, I’m relaxing belly down on my mom’s couch, laptop propped against the armrest, Hank chilling on the other side. His paw hangs off the end and twitches as a result of his deep sleep. I feverishly sift through my emails—ignoring those from Joe—and refresh the page over and over before realizing just how desperate I seem.
Ramona’s brother, Ian, must have been feeling gracious a couple weeks ago when she sent him my resume. Two days later, Ian sent me an application, which I’d like to say I completed in record time. Instead, I spent two more days mulling over how to word my cover letter, fretting about which art to put in my portfolio, and taking maybe a bit too much time on my signature for the paperwork itself. First impressions are everything; I don’t need my calling card looking like a crayon doodle.
Though maybe that’s “in” now? Design trends are so weird.
“Will you get off that laptop for one second and help me?” Mom asks, holding a slightly threatening knife and waving it over as an invitation to join her in the kitchen.
My mom has the same flaming red hair, thin figure, and short fuse that I have, so it’s no surprise where I got it all from. But at her core, she is the loveliest woman alive, trust me.
“Are you finally gonna use that kitchen of yours?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and sticking out my tongue.
Her own eyebrows raise up as she points the knife at me once more. “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, missy,” she says. “And yes, I refuse to let this house go to waste.”
I definitely inherited my love for redecorating homes from Mom. She’s spent years since my dad passed away redoing the entire house. She pulled up the carpet, stripped the paint, and spent way too much money on an entirely new kitchen, despite her rare desire to actually cook.
“I’m sure the kitchen appreciates the love,” I snark, and she shoots me another menacing look.
On the flip side of the equation, my mom and I have always butted heads. We’ve always blamed it on our red hair. We said we’re feisty and fire doesn’t mix well with fire. Whatever that means. It’s cooled down since I’ve gotten older, but I was mostly just a little shit of a teenager. Teachers always commended my parents for raising such a lovely girl, but that’s just because I saved all my angst for my parents.
What was it that Usher said? Lady in the streets, complete heathen she-devil behind closed doors? No, that’s not it…
I was a force to be reckoned with. At least I thought I was. Mostly I just stayed out at friends’ houses until four in the morning—especially once I’d gotten my beat-up old Volkswagen; a car I still drive to this day. My parents were obviously worried, but I was just so damn cool with my car.
Yeah, I still cringe thinking about it, too.
Bless my mom for still being with me today.
I close my laptop and walk across the open floor plan to the kitchen island where I pull up a bar stool and lean my elbows on the counter. It’s the one part of the kitchen that doesn’t quite match her more modern décor. I run my hands along its scarred wood surface and memories of Dad wash over me. I used to sit on it and watch him cook here. He never really said much, but occasionally, he’d throw me a homemade French fry or two while I doodled. I miss being near him; I’m glad she kept the island.
“So, what’s on the menu?” I ask, reaching to grab a piece of a sliced cucumber. She bats my hand away.
“Tacos.”
“Ooh yum.” I say, wiggling my shoulders. “And why tacos this time around?”
“They seem easy,” she says with a sigh. “If I’m going to learn, I’ve got to start simple, right?”
“Well, it’s good to know that after renovating everything that can possibly be renovated, you’ve decided to conquer the art of cooking,” I say, trying my hand at stealing another slice; she catches me again. I laugh and she winks.
The kitchen shelves are lined with cookbooks cont
aining lofty recipes, but unfortunately for me, when she’s normally done cooking, the outcome isn’t nearly as appetizing as the pictures.
In our small lull of silence, I start to get itchy with anticipation of hearing about the job again. I unlock my phone and look at my emails, pulling the screen down to refresh.
“Leave it alone,” Mom says with a chuckle. “If you get an email from them, you’ll get an email. It won’t go anywhere.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say through a heavy exhale. “But I’m not exactly the most graceful person.”
With her mouth half open, I know my mom is about to make some clever come back about how “Grace is always graceful,” but I point at her to stop before she can start.
“The HR person asked how I handled stress and I totally lied,” I say.
“Did you say you handle it well?” my mom asks, still chopping. Why is she asking if she knows the damn answer?
“Yeah.”
“Definitely a lie,” she says without missing a beat. She tries to wink at me again, but I twist my mouth into the corner, undeterred by her teasing.
“Well, the creative director and I talked about my history in design and eventually discussed my ambitions,” I say. “I think that’s where I nailed the interview.” While I say this, my anxiety gives me a thousand reasons as to why maybe I actually didn’t nail it.
My mom lets out a small breath of air. “Wait, do you remember that time you wanted to go to that concert… oh, what was it…”
“The Backstreet Boys?”
“Yes!” she says, throwing her hand in the air. “Backstreet Boys. And you insisted your father buy you tickets.”
“He didn’t.”
“Well of course not. You were six. But you being the spunky girl you are, off you went! Backpack full of stuffed toys and one peanut butter sandwich. You were determined to make it to that concert.”
“Blindly walking in no direction at all,” I comment with a smile. “Not much has changed.”
“Yes, but I firmly believe that if you put your mind to something, you will do it. It may not be this company, but you will be a designer.”
My mom has always been a glass half-empty woman, and my dad was the family optimist. When he passed, I think his positivity somehow osmosed into her and now her sunshine and rainbows outlook on life is like a full glass of water I could drink in every day.
We exchange smiles and she returns to chopping. Me, on the other hand, I can’t help but whip out my phone again.
“In my day, we had to wait on calls and if we missed it, poof, you missed it.” She nods matter-of-factly before slicing into a cucumber—nearly chopping her fingers off. She’s still learning.
“Mom, you know I lived during those times too, right?” I say, putting my phone down after another glance yields zero responses.
“Millennials don’t know how good they have it,” she continues, pretending I didn’t say anything rational at all. “And will you please grab that pepper and help me out?”
I lean forward on the counter to withdraw a knife from the block and scoot the green pepper toward me. But before I can even start, my phone buzzes. I look down to see an email from a sender using an address ending in treasuriesinc.com.
“Holy shit,” I breathe, ignoring Mom’s immediate reply of “Language, young lady!”
I gulp—almost a cartoony sound that makes my mom’s disappointment in my choice of words switch to excitement.
“Well, are you going to open it?” she asks.
“Just… give me a second, Mom,” I say.
I stare at the unopened email, trying to come to terms with how let down I will be if it holds bad news. Taking a deep breath, I click the message.
Grace Holmes,
We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Designer with Treasuries, Inc. Attached, you will find your offer letter and background authorization form. Please complete and return both documents to our HR Manager, Nia Smith. She is copied on this email.
We look forward to working with you.
Regards,
Cameron Kaufman, Creative Director
The biggest childlike grin spreads across my face and my fingers go from shaking to practically dancing off my hands.
“Mom!” I scream, causing my poor old, sleeping dog to bolt upright on the couch, wide awake. “I’m in!” I jump up, run to my mom, and grab her hands. “I’m a designer!”
“That’s fantastic!” she yells, joining me as I jump up and down in excitement. “See? I knew things would turn around for you.”
I smile and rush over to my phone to look down at the email once again and read out loud, “Regards, Cameron Kaufman.”
“Who is Cameron Kaufman?” Mom asks, returning to her haphazard vegetable cutting.
“I think he’s the guy they just promoted?” It’s a question more than a definitive answer. “I don’t know. It says ‘creative director’ in his signature, but I definitely didn’t meet with a dude named Cameron.”
It’s impossible to forget the old man who actually interviewed me. I think he could cough dust into his handkerchief.
“Sounds proper,” she says.
“And professional,” I muse, looking down at myself and realizing I haven’t changed clothes in a couple days… nor have I showered.
“I need a new outfit,” I say, and Mom squeals.
Clothing is the only thing she hasn’t had to revamp in her life because her style has always shifted with the times. In seconds, she’s redirecting me on my phone to some fancy online shop.
The clothes are strictly within a price range that starts with a fifty dollar minimum (because hey, I can totally support that now), so we buy the exact well-tailored outfit the model is wearing on the front page from their “#GirlBoss” collection. I look down at my own shirt and realize that “#GirlBoss” sure beats the hot pink “#BlessThisMess” shirt Ramona gave me.
The website’s cart reads well over a price range I can afford, and the price is bumped even higher when I select two-day shipping. But the spiffy suit just screams, “I have my life together!” so I click “purchase,” ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that knows I spent too much, and scoot myself back into the bar stool.
Mom begs me to “please finish cutting the darn pepper, Grace!” but I just keep smiling while I look at the email. While I may not know much about clothing, budgeting, or helping in the kitchen, I do know one thing: This is my new start.
3. Grace
My hands haven’t stopped shaking since I received that email. They shook when I turned off my alarm clock this morning, they shook when I packed my laptop bag, and they continue to shake while I turn the wheel into an empty parking lot in an effort to get back on the road in the actual direction I’m supposed to go.
“Rerouting… turn left onto State Boulevard—”
“Shut up,” I groan to my phone’s GPS. It’s been trying to direct me to Treasuries, Inc. for nearly thirty minutes in what should have been a ten-minute drive. I thank my lucky stars I had the good sense to leave as early as I did or else this could have been an entirely different day.
“Rerouting… turn right onto State—”
“Stop!” I furiously tap my phone to exit the app and reopen it.
Everyone knows that always solves the problem.
After turning left then right then left again, swerving into grocery store shopping center, and making a quick stop at a gas station to break up the nervous energy (yes, I may have looked in the mirror and said, “You can do this, Grace! You are a super hero!” but we don’t need to talk about that), I’m finally facing the front of a warehouse building with the words “Treasuries, Inc.” displayed in bold, beautiful letters across the garage door entrance. All with ten minutes to spare.
My old-fashioned yellow VW bug normally sticks out in a business car park, but in this lot full of eclectics, it fits in nicely. I spy on some other individuals walking into the building. They’re all wearing blue jeans, casual shoes, band
t-shirts, and some women are even wearing those flowy skirts that seem to say, “Sure, I could live in a van and go on meditation retreats.” I look down at my own attire and groan.
I definitely overdressed. What woman in this day and age goes into a new graphic design position with the notion of, “I must dress my best?” Nobody. That’s who. You know what women do now? They go to Anthropologie or, hell, Goodwill and make themselves look “chic.”
Is that the word? Oh, hell.
Tons of unnecessary money I do not have just went right down the drain.
Wait—no! I am a confident woman. I overdressed because I mean business. This shows I’m serious, dang it! I’m taking my life by the balls and squeezing it into submission.
I snatch my phone from its holster on my dashboard, slam the car door shut, and lug my bag right up to the front door. But with confidence. Obviously. Always with confidence. Because I am a suit-wearing female with a plan.
The double doors slide open the second I walk in, and before I can mentally make some snarky comment about whether this is some renovated grocery store, a woman at a beautifully curved front desk raises her eyebrow at me, scans me up and down, and smirks.
She’s just as trendy as everyone else I’ve seen so far. Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly curled and a piercing hugs the curve of her nose as if it’s always belonged there. Dang, she even looks super cool with her choker necklace and collared tee that seems both professional and like it’d be right off the back of a mannequin in Forever 21. But more impressive than the receptionist’s beauty is the building itself.
The interior is already massive, but it appears even larger with its exposed ceiling fifty or so feet off the ground. The desks are gathered in clusters, but it doesn’t feel crowded. There are no cubicles. There is no musty carpet. Just clean, open space. Where there aren’t conference rooms closed off by clear windows, there are walls coated in vibrant colors with designs blended in both graffiti and pop art styles. Painted on the central back wall is a giant treasure chest surrounded by a circle of the repeating statement: Work Hard, Play Hard.
