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1
LAILA
“I’m here to see Mr. Adamov.”
The man behind the desk gives me a once-over from beneath square glasses and scowls. He must see the truth.
I’m not here to “see” Mr. Adamov.
I’m here tobegMr. Adamov.
Even “beg” might not be a strong enough word. In truth, I’m here to plead with Mr. Arsen Adamov to take pity on the less fortunate and throw me a frickin’ bone, because Lord knows no one else has in a long, long time.
“And you are…?”
“Laila Barnes. I have an appointment.”
He gestures to the waiting room, his shiny cufflinks catching the tastefully recessed lighting. “Take a seat with the rest of the hopefuls.”
I take one look at the crowded waiting area and almost turn back to ask if there’s another room I could wait in instead.
If these are the hopefuls, I’m looking for the hopeless, please and thanks.
This crew looks like Central Casting for a movie about Ivy League admissions. It’s brimming with dozens of men and women in smart suits and crisp blouses, the kind of people who know which fork to use first in white-tablecloth restaurants and what the difference is between “bourgeoisie” and “proletariat.”
Needless to say, I do not belong.
But the man behind the desk has gone back to the tireless work of forgetting I exist. With a sigh, I claim the last remaining seat between a woman in a perfectly tailored blue pantsuit and a potted plant that still probably has a better shot at getting this job than I do.
In case this is anUndercover Bosssituation, I turn to the woman with a smile. “I’m Laila.”
One thin eyebrow arches. “Okay.”
“Job interviews, am I right?”
I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth. I sound like a terrible 80s comedian.How ‘bout that airplane food, eh? Yuk-yuk-yuk.
She is unimpressed. Her gaze slides from my face all the way down to my unmanicured toenails, doubling back to take in my outfit, as if it was too odious to catalog the first time through.
I felt pretty okay standing in the bathroom mirror an hour ago. Now, I stick out like a sore thumb in my red blazer. In a world of professional blacks, whites, and beiges, I look like the emergency button I wish I could pull to get the hell out of here.
“I wouldn’t know. This is my first job interview.” She cracks a smile, but it’s predatory. “Hopefully, it’ll be my last.”
“Confidence. That’s good. You have to manifest what you want.”
For instance, right now, I’m manifesting being sucked into the tractor beam of an alien spacecraft.
The curl of her upper lip tells me that, if that happened, the only helping hand she’d offer would be a wave before I disappeared into the ether. “I have a Bachelors’ in business analytics from Princeton and an M.B.A. from Oxford. That’s a little more useful than ‘manifestation.’”
I gulp. “Wow. Maybe I should head down the street and hand in my resume at Dairy Queen.”
Instead of laughing, she nods like I hit the nail on the head. “Best of luck with that.”
With my face on fire, I pick up my purse and flee to the water cooler in the far corner of the room.
I grab a paper cup and fill it with cold water, barely resisting the urge to dunk my head under the spout. Instead, I take small, dainty sips and remind myself why I’m here.
First and foremost, the shoulder-padded monstrosity I’m wearing. The fact I couldn’t run out and buy a skirt and jacket fromthiscentury and instead had to dig this one out of the back of my mother’s closet is reasonnumero unowhy I need this job.
