And Then You

by Amanda Richardson

  They look at each other uncomfortably.

  “Umm…” my mother says before putting a large piece of potato in her mouth.

  “Well...” my father starts. He looks like he’s about to say something, but instead he shrugs his shoulders and continues to eat.

  “I’ll have you all know that I happen to be an excellent babysitter. They wouldn’t have asked me in for an interview if they thought I wasn’t qualified,” I say huffily.

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine,” my mother says half-convincingly.

  I roll my eyes.

  My own family has zero faith in me. That’s comforting.

  I pick around my food for another minute or two. Truth is, I’m not that hungry. I’m surprisingly nervous about my interview. I also don’t want to get any food on my dress.

  I hate dresses.

  Violet lent me one of her dresses for my interview in an attempt to help me seem semi-professional. “To make up for your crazy emails,” she’d said. The only problem is, this dress is a tad too small. Violet is tall and thin—supermodel thin. I am thin too, but I’m built differently. I’m skinny fat. And I’m definitely not as tall as Violet. The black fabric clings way too tightly around my chest and hips; two places that I definitely do not want accentuated. It will have to do though, because my wardrobe consists mainly of college essentials: yoga pants, sweatshirts, jeans, and tank tops. None of which are appropriate to wear to an interview.

  “Are you going to eat anything, Evianna?” my mother asks while looking at me. I hate how she uses my full name. I prefer Evi.

  “I’m just nervous,” I mumble, and I attempt to fork in a couple mouthfuls of chicken.

  “I would be too, if I were interviewing for a job that I was grossly under-qualified for,” Elijah mumbles, and I shove him playfully. He just snickers and keeps eating.

  “You guys suck,” I say under my breath. Their behavior certainly does nothing to quell my nerves. If anything, they’re making it much, much worse.

  “Evi, sweetie, we’re just teasing,” my dad says, chuckling to himself. “Mostly.”

  “You look nice,” my mother adds, sounding hopeful.

  I pick at my chicken, not looking up at any of them.

  “Yes, very nice,” my dad agrees, smacking his mouth loudly as he chews on his chicken.

  I stand up. I don’t want to listen to any more of their teasing.

  “I should go,” I say, excusing myself. I pick my plate up. “Traffic,” I mutter before bringing my plate to the sink.

  “Gonna eat that?” Elijah asks, pointing to my plate of uneaten food.

  “No. It’s all yours,” I say, dumping the food onto his plate. I swear... preteen boys are never full.

  “Well, good luck!” my mom chirps from the table. “You sure you don’t want a job with me? The Shoe Barn is always looking for sales associates!”

  I have to hold back a physical gag at her suggestion. I would rather die than work at The Shoe Barn. Feet totally gross me out.

  “I’m good,” I say a little too cloyingly. “Thanks, though.”

  “You can always stay here until you figure out a career move,” my dad suggests for the millionth time. “You have a Master’s degree, after all. You don’t need a job that a highschooler could do.”

  I stand there and shoot him a death look.

  “A useless Master’s degree,” I say, waving him off. “This is the only job that emailed me back. It’s rough out there right now. Besides, as grateful as I am to have parents who would let me move back in free of charge, I don’t think it’s a good idea. For all of our sakes,” I say, smiling. “Though if this doesn’t work out, maybe I will just become a stripper.”

  “Oh yes, now that sounds more like you,” my mom fires back sweetly, teasing me.

  “Yes. Evianna, the exotic dancer,” my dad adds as my brother laughs hysterically next to him. “That would be a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Oh Thomas, Elijah… don’t tease her,” my mother adds, coming to my defense. I shoot her a grateful look. “You know Evianna can’t dance.”

  I turn towards her, and I scowl. Traitor.

  “Thank you, all of you,” I say bitterly. “It’s been a pleasure, as always.” I grab my purse and coat. “Good-bye!” I yell before slamming the front door shut behind me.

  The door creaks threateningly as I walk to our driveway, as if the force of the slam might shatter it to pieces. I wouldn’t be surprised. Our house has been falling apart since we moved in twenty years ago. My parents are too cheap to fix anything, so that meant I spent the majority of my childhood dodging buckets to catch the rain, living without a dryer, and painting over ceiling cracks instead of fixing them. We weren’t poor, per se, but we definitely weren’t rich. That is all fine and well growing up, but since going off to college and living on my own, I’ve started to realize just how frugal my parents are and, unfortunately, just how much I like dryers and functional ceilings.

  I quickly get into my car. My car—my pride and joy—is a beat-up, old 1990 Toyota Camry. Her name is Trisha. I bought her my senior year of high school with my savings from my various jobs for a whopping eight hundred dollars. She hasn’t let me down since, and she’s still chugging along at almost four hundred thousand miles. I plan to keep her forever, if I can.

  Though I hardly ate anything, I check my teeth in the rearview mirror. I was one of the lucky kids who actually did not need braces growing up. My straight, white teeth have always been freakishly perfect. I glance at the rest of my face. It’s a good face; something I consider “attractive enough,” and it’s symmetrical, though my nose veers a little to the right—a result of getting hit with a softball when I was seven. My green eyes are big, and in my opinion, my chestnut-brown hair makes me look plain. As much as I want to dye it platinum blonde and blue, my mother would kill me. My crooked nose is splattered with a few freckles, and I’m olive-skinned. I have full lips—one good thing going for my generic face. Dan used to love my lips. He always said so.

  I put the car in reverse and head out, making sure I know where I’m going before getting on the I-90 towards Bellevue. The only reason I know of Bellevue is because everyone knows that’s where Bill Gates lives.

  I am going to feel so out of place there.

  I turn on the radio for some background noise, but all that comes out is some catchy pop song, and I have to turn it off immediately. It’s distracting, and I’m already way too nervous. And there’s absolutely no traffic, something I’d counted on, so I’m going to be early. Horrifying.

  I cross over Lake Washington, and soon I’m on the other side—the rich side.

  I exit the highway, and my directions take me on a winding route through residential streets where everything is hidden behind trees and hedges. That’s how you know these people have money—everything is hidden behind massive trees. My directions take me onto a narrow, two-lane road, and I have to squint at all the mailboxes to see which house is the right one. Finally, I find the right address, and I pull into the impossibly long driveway.

  Of course it’s a mansion. Of course.

  I quickly pull in behind a Porsche Cayenne and duly note that it is a hybrid. Only in Seattle.

  Since I’m fifteen minutes early, I whip my phone out and text Violet, scanning the house to make sure I’m not being watched. It’s massive—like, massive. Or maybe I’m just used to the small, craftsman bungalows in my neighborhood. It’s dark, so I can’t see much, but it looks wooden, and it resembles a very large cabin in the woods. Since the position is live-in, I guess I would technically be living here. If I even get the job…

  Holy shit, Vi. This place is huge. BlahVue is as to be expected, though, and I’m sure I’ll feel very poor the second I walk in.

  She texts back almost immediately.

  TELL ME EVERYTHING WHEN YOU’RE DONE.

  I promise her that I will, and I sit there for five more minutes, fidgeting with the radio before deciding that seven minutes early is not to
o early. I run my fingers through my long hair and decide at the last minute to throw it up into a ponytail. I have more hair than I know what to do with, so in order to avoid the inevitable mess later, I almost always have to pull it back. I pull the visor mirror down briefly to check my face and do a once-over.

  It’ll do.

  I get out of my car and throw on my jacket. I’m still not entirely comfortable with how tight the dress is, and my jacket covers everything up.

  I should’ve just worn some damn jeans.

  I lock my car but soon realize it’s pointless in this neighborhood. This is the kind of place that has a neighborhood watch program. God, those volunteers must be so bored every night. Bellevue has about one murder a year.

  I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk up to the front door. I check my phone again. Six minutes early.

  Should I wait? Should I knock? Should I—

  The door swings open, and an older woman with short, blond hair greets me. She smells like some sort of fancy perfume.

  “Hello, you must be Evianna Halle.” She thrusts her hand forward, and I shake it. I’ve been told my handshake is too weak, so I grip her hand tightly to make up for it.

  “Yes, hello,” I answer.

  “Come inside,” she says, moving comfortably to the side and allowing me to enter. “I’m Cecelia, Nick’s mother-in-law,” she says soothingly. She smiles, and her whole body seems relaxed and comfortable, like she’s the kind of person who does a lot of yoga.

  “Thank you, Mrs…” I trail off, realizing I don’t know her last name.

  “Oh, you can call me Cecelia. Was the drive all right?” she asks, ushering me inside and waving for me to follow her. “You can set your coat and purse on the couch,” she says, waving to a small, velvet couch in the foyer.

  “The drive was fine,” I say, removing my coat. My layer of protection is gone. I feel so exposed, even though I know the dress looks fine. I unconsciously pull at the hem anyways.

  I glance around. Oh, they definitely have money. I wonder what Nick and his wife do for a living. Polished, marble floors line the foyer, and beyond that, rustic wood flooring—the kind that costs a lot of money. Vintage furniture makes up the rest of the large foyer, and I spot a chaise lounge in the living room, just to the right. I can’t help but imagine members of the family reclining on that lounger, sipping rich-person drinks. I hope they’re not snobby…

  “Where are you coming from?” Cecelia asks, and I have to tear my eyes away from a large portrait hanging up on the wall.

  “Oh, just in Seattle. Near Mount Baker.”

  “Ah, I see,” she says, and I realize she probably has no idea where that is. Not if she lives in Bellevue. I’m aware that I’m making blatant assumptions about a family I hardly know, but the divide in Seattle—how Bellevue is considered the Beverly Hills of the Pacific Northwest—is well-known, especially among me and my friends. I’ve lived here my entire life, and I’ve never ventured into Bellevue. I never had a reason to. Until now.

  “Are those the children?” I ask, pointing to the portrait. Two children are sitting next to a fireplace prop. It looks too perfect to be a real fireplace. A baby, possibly a boy based on his blue onesie, and a toddler girl. They’re smiling at the camera lens. I look closely. It must be Bria. Nick mentioned that she was four. This must be an old picture. I thought it was one child. Not two. I’m not sure I can handle two. I am so under-qualified. Elijah was right.

  Cecelia clears her throat and gestures for me to walk down the hallway with her, blatantly ignoring my question. I feel my palms start to sweat, and I wipe them on my dress.

  “You have a younger brother, correct?” Cecelia asks.

  “Yes, Elijah. He’s twelve.”

  “Wonderful. You took care of him?”

  “Yes. I’ve been taking care of him since he was born. My mother works full-time.”

  “Ah, where does she work?” Cecelia’s eyes light up.

  Crap.

  “Umm… she’s in retail,” I say, avoiding a direct answer.

  “And your father?”

  “He works at Microsoft.”

  I wasn’t lying, technically. He works for an IT company that is employed by Microsoft.

  It’s not that I’m ashamed of my parents or what they do for a living. I respect that both of my parents work full-time to make sure Elijah and I have a comfortable life. Honestly, I just hate The Shoe Barn with a passion, and it’s easier to explain that my dad works at Microsoft rather than a company employed by Microsoft.

  “Lovely,” she says, and she takes a seat at the dining room table, motioning for me to do the same.

  I glance over at the kitchen, and it’s just as massive as the rest of the house. Our kitchen it tiny. We can barely fit two people in there. But this kitchen could probably fit twenty, comfortably.

  She picks up a piece of paper, and her eyes scan it eagerly. I realize with horror that she’s printed my emails—the ones I wrote to Nick Wilder.

  Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

  “English literature?” she asks, eyeing me warmly.

  Out of all the embarrassing things on that sheet of paper, that’s what she picks up on?

  “Yes,” I say shyly. “I love books.”

  “That’s wonderful. Bria loves books, too,” she says, still smiling at me. “What was your concentration?”

  “British literature,” I say. “It sounds more impressive than it is.”

  “Nonsense. I love Austen, Dickens, Orwell…”

  “Who doesn’t?” I smile.

  I get really uncomfortable whenever I talk about my major. I don’t know why. I guess I’m still waiting for administration to ask for my diploma back or to come running after me yelling, “Imposter, imposter!” College was really easy for me, and a lot of times I felt like I’d passed my classes by sheer good luck or some sort of administrative glitch. Besides, when you major in lit, people always ask if you’ve read their favorite book, and if you haven’t, it makes the conversation supremely awkward.

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Evianna?” I choke on my spit as she asks that. She must notice my hesitation, because she continues. “I’m only asking because it’s a live-in position. Nick has strict rules about strangers in the house. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” I say, slightly relieved. “No. Not anymore.” I gesture to the paper in her hands. Surely she’s read all about the embarrassing things I revealed about Dan.

  “Just thought I’d check,” she says warmly.

  As intimidating as this is, I like Cecelia. She’s kind and attentive. She must be a great Grandmother to Bria and… I don’t even know the boy’s name.

  “How old is the other child?” I ask. “Nick only mentioned Bria,” I explain as her expression falters. She looks at me quizzically. “The portrait,” I further clarify, pointing to the foyer behind us.

  “Ah,” she says slowly. “You caught me off guard. He was one when he passed away.”

  “Oh…” I say, biting my lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

  She holds a hand up, and she looks as though she’s about to say something. I watch as she almost starts talking and then stops. I feel awful. Why did I ask that?

  “Don’t apologize,” she says quietly. “It happened a year ago. Matthias, my grandson, and Isabel, my daughter, were killed in a car wreck.”

  “Oh my god,” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand. “That’s so awful,” I say, chewing on my bottom lip once more. Now I feel like a jerk for bringing it up.

  “Yes, it was awful.” She ruminates on her words for a second, slumping sadly against her chair. “But,” she says, straightening up, “though we’ll never forget them, life goes on. It’s all we can do… for Bria. She’s so happy and upbeat. It’s hard not to love life around her.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her,” I say, wanting to change the subject.

  I had no idea this was the kind of situation I’d be walking into. I am suddenly having misgivings abou
t everything. Was I ready to work for a recent widower and his motherless daughter?

  “I think Bria will like you,” Cecelia says gently, eyeing me. “You’ll fit in here.”

  “I hope so,” I reply, smiling genuinely. I feel really comfortable here, despite knowing the situation and despite it being Bellevue.

  “You have nothing to worry about. I like you. You have a good energy, something I think Nick and Bria need, so I’ll put in a good word. Do you have any questions for me?”

  “Umm,” I say, not sure if I do have any questions. “What are the hours like?”

  Cecelia chuckles. “Oh, right, hours and pay, of course. It’ll be forty hours a week—standard work hours—though since you’re live-in, Nick may need you more often if he’s away. You’ll be paid overtime for that, obviously. The pay is good, twenty dollars an hour with paid sick time and two weeks of vacation time per calendar year. All of this is negotiable. Nick really just wants someone who connects with Bria, and he’s willing to negotiate all of this. Past experience, pay, hours… it’s all negotiable. Are you okay with traveling? It’s possible Nick may ask you to travel with him and Bria, should the occasion arise.”

  “Of course,” I say, nodding my head. “That sounds good to me.” Traveling? I smile.

  She beams and gets up, holding her hand out.

  “It was lovely meeting you, Evianna. We’ll call you if Nick thinks it’s a good fit, but like I said, I’ll put in a good word.”

  “Thank you, Cecelia,” I say as she starts to show me out. “It was lovely meeting you as well.”

  She hugs me just as I’m about to leave, and I’m unsure of what to do, so I just stand there like an asshole. After a second or two, I bring my arms around her limply. I don’t do well with unexpected human contact.

  I’m facing the portrait. Even as Cecelia pulls away and waves me good-bye through the front door, Matthias smiles back at me. His eyes follow me the rest of the night.