Page 72 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

Chapter 45: Skylar

My heels blistered and my toes were pinched. I wished desperately to be in my Sorels and jeans, but there was no turning back. I walked with painful steps into the cramped little office with one goal: establishing myself as an adult.

Everyone believed I was still a kid. I couldn’t blame them, because I hadn’t done anything to dissuade that notion. But when I’d said that maybe I should get a job, their dismissals irked me. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” Gavin had asked, hoping that what I really wanted was to move with him to Chicago in the fall. “I don’t know if office work is where your true talents lie,” my mom had offered, but I kept up my nagging until she’d agree to set up an interview for me with an acquaintance of hers. Mitch didn’t really respond at all when I told him about my interview, but for reasons I couldn’t explain, not even to myself, I was anxious for him to see me as something more than Jo Beth’s baby sister. I had to prove that I was mature enough to be trusted, resourceful enough to be respected, worthy enough to be admired.

Now Miranda Donahue sat at her desk, her slender back to me. She sipped coffee from the type of mug you’d call pottery. It looked heavy, brown, and ugly, not unlike one of the mugs my dad had passed down to me, made by an artist friend who owned a kiln. In Miranda’s other hand she held a pen that she used to mark some document. She was seemingly oblivious to my presence. Even from several feet away I could see the large hearing aid nestled in her ear and I wondered if it was on.

The second hand on the industrial-size wall clock ticked endlessly away. I didn’t want to insult her, but finally, I had to risk it. “Excuse me? Miranda?”

She spoke without turning to look at me. “I know you’re here, Skylar. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I shifted my weight, wondering how, on a scale of one to ten for awkward beginnings, I’d managed an eleven. After what felt like several minutes (but was probably just one) she put down her mug and her pen, swiveled in her chair, and faced me. I was startled by the amount of pink lipstick she wore; the cheery shade clashed with her pinched expression and severe brown bun.

“Have a seat.” She didn’t gesture to a particular chair, and the only ones besides hers were the boss’s empty chair, which sat in its own space at a desk across the room, and one at the reception desk. What if this was a test, part of the interview itself? Maybe she was checking to see how I handled high-pressure situations, like real-life literary heroine Susanna Kayson from Girl Interrupted. Was she looking to see if I’d have trouble picking up on pictorial cues, almost hoping that my inability to choose a chair would help her feel stable and healthy in comparison?

Screw that. I hobbled towards the vacant, laminate-paneled reception desk, awkwardly maneuvered the chair out so it could face Miranda’s desk, and sat. All the while her eagle eyes bored into me. She crossed her legs and arched an eyebrow. “Skylar, I have to admit I’m surprised you’re here. I couldn’t exactly say no to your mother’s request for an interview, but tell me, why do you want this job?”

Aren’t you supposed to get offered a glass of water at job interviews? I had cotton mouth and it was hard to speak, so I overcompensated by speaking loudly. “Working here would be such a great opportunity! I really want to learn about the corporate world.”

Miranda’s smirk was more a frown than a thin-lipped smile. “You don’t have to yell, Skylar. I’m not deaf.”

“I didn’t mean… that is, I know that you can hear me…” I lowered my voice into a murmur.

She cut me off with a loud sigh. “Why kitchen supplies? Do you have an interest in them, or do you just want this job to assert your independence?”

I suddenly saw myself as she must see me: a spoiled, entitled child who has never had to live in reality. My heart began to pound, loud enough that surely Miranda would be insulted by its volume.

“I love kitchen supplies,” I answered.

“Really? Which ones in particular do you love?”

“Garlic presses? Cheese graters? Mason jars?” I thought Miranda would smile at the level of absurdity that this interview had quickly reached, but no. I took the plunge. “Look, Miranda. I’m thinking my chances at this job aren’t great, so rather than making us both suffer through an awkward interview, I’ll just cut to the chase. I’m a quick learner, I’m cheap, and I’m reliable. Please factor that into your decision.”

I stood to go, but my bad knee lurched, my heel turned in these awful pumps, and I barreled forward. In an agonizing instant, I totally lost control of my limbs and then, to my horror, my face landed in Miranda’s lap. There was a deadly moment when the world stopped and we both felt the ghastliness of my mouth being so close to her crotch. She gasped and bolted up, which made me fall back and become splayed out on the floor. Humor, however inappropriate, was my only defense. “God, Miranda. I’m sorry. I guess I should have bought you dinner first!”

My joke fell flat and she glared at me like I was a slug she wanted to stomp on. In my pencil-slim skirt and shoes that were foreign on my feet, it took me way too long to get up. Miranda offered no help.

“Sorry,” I muttered, over and over. “I’m so sorry. I’ll just go now.”

Later I decided to make myself feel better by going cross-country skiing. It was still too soon to try downhill, but I didn’t see the harm in tackling gentle slopes while getting some quality cardio exercise. I had just gathered up my skis, laced up my boots, and had gone through my front door when Gavin came strolling down my walkway. “Hey,” he said. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

We had been seeing less of each other; factoring Mitch and Bijou into the equation made it more difficult for Gavin and me to spend time together. “Yeah,” I said. “Things have been sort of crazy lately.”

“How did your job interview go?”

“Terrible. My face fell into her crotch.”

“What?”

“I should never have worn heels.”

The corners of Gavin’s mouth crept up. His eyes tried not to twinkle.

“Don’t look so happy,” I said.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping over puddles of wet snow to lean and give me a kiss. “I can’t help it. And I never pretended that I wanted you to get this job.”

“Whatever.”