#Book 1 - Page 38 (1/2)
“There’s still time!” she exclaimed wryly. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I know it was harder for you than it was for me.”
“Really, I am so sorry. I have no excuse.”
“I don’t want to hear it! What’s done is done, OK? It doesn’t matter.”
She started to head for the door.
“Wait,” I called out after her, not wanting her to leave me alone with the bomb she just dropped.
“I’ve got things to blog about. Don’t you?”
I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“You know you do. Screw everyone. Write what happened anyway. And if no one believes you it doesn’t matter because I believe you, this Dex dude believes you, and people believe what you tell them to believe. It’s just like fas.h.i.+on. They’ll wear what you tell them to wear.”
How come I wasn’t that smart when I was fifteen? Oh right, the drugs. What a waste.
“Oh, and congrats on your new job,” she added before leaving the room.
Right...the new job. Sam. Old Roddy. Dex. Blogging. Training a receptionist. My sore head.
It was time for bed.
***
“Good afternoon, Allingham and a.s.sociates, Melody speaking,” Melody, our future receptionist, picked up the phone and answered in an overly saccharine voice.
I was leaning against the wall and watching her as she did her first trial run of phone answering. I had been training her all morning with the basic logistics of the job, even though she had done the job in my absence last week without any trouble. Still, I found it mildly entertaining to stand back and watch as the torch was pa.s.sed down. Entertaining and extremely relieving.
See, whereas I did not make a good receptionist, Melody did. She was bubbly, amiable and focused. Though it might have been all for show—most people tried their hardest the first day on the job—something about her screamed “RECEPTIONIST.” It could have been she was cute, tanned and blonde, with the whitest teeth I had ever seen north of California. Or her enthusiasm and immediate organizational skills (she filled all the staplers on her morning break, you know, for fun). Or it could have been that she seemed genuinely interested in helping people, unlike me, who believed a dull stare was just as effective.
As I watched her take over my old job, I realized how happy I was to be going on to a new position. It was scary, of course, taking on new responsibilities. The more I thought about it, the more I worried I wouldn’t be good enough. On the other hand, maybe I could rise to the occasion, do a great job and once and for all put all my laziness, procrastination and overall apathy behind me. I could be a new person. I might surprise myself.
That didn’t mean I didn’t think about Dex during random times of the day, though. I still hadn’t heard a peep from him. I considered texting him or Facebook messaging him. Something very low key and casual, but I didn’t want to come across as desperate. You didn’t call someone back right away after a date; it was the same kind of thing.
It’s stupid how I kept on comparing our adventure to a date when it was very much the opposite. We weren’t even work partners, for crying out loud, and I started to doubt that would ever happen. But I couldn’t help it. It felt like I was in some semi-relations.h.i.+p with him, which made me feel even more stupid. This is how stalkers get started!
I shook my head and let out a disgusting sigh.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Melody was looking at me inquisitively, phone to her ear. I must have drifted off in my head as usual.
I shot her a quick smile and answered truthfully, “No, you are doing just fine.” I, on the other hand, was not. My mind continued to be torn between getting excited about the new position and feeling disappointed at the lack of one with Shownet.
And I didn’t improve as the day went on, either. As soon as I got home my mother whisked me off for a little shopping spree.
Now, I know a shopping spree sounds like a lot of fun, and I know Ada rightfully gave me daggers when my mother hustled me out the door, but this wasn’t supposed to be an enjoyable experience.
My mother usually takes me out on one of these excursions because A) she has bad news and wants to sweeten it up somehow, or B) she wants to go all “Eliza Doolittle” on my a.s.s. I suspected this trip fell into the latter.
“So, what’s the deal, mom?” I asked as she gingerly pulled the car into the narrow mall parking spot for the umpteenth time.
“Is there enough room to get out?” she asked, looking over at my side. There wasn’t unless she was imagining I was thirty pounds lighter, but instead of prompting another attempt at parking, and perhaps a lecture about my diet, I told her to park. Somehow I squeezed out of the car but not without squis.h.i.+ng my b.o.o.bs against the door—glad the children in the neighboring car found that funny.
Once inside the mall, I felt my heartbeat quicken. The crowds, the pus.h.i.+ness, the people in the middle of the hall who worked the kiosks and practically ran after you with hand cream and hair stylers; the mall did nothing to help my panic attacks and was one of the worst places for me, especially when my nerves were shot.
My mother took no notice, as usual. She just ushered me into the Macy’s women’s department. I had it figured out, even before she started pulling various blazers and skirts. She wanted me to look more professional for my new position.
That was fair enough, I suppose. I did need to amp up my wardrobe and my band t-s.h.i.+rts weren’t cutting it anymore, even if I paired them with a nice skirt. I just knew my mom would squeeze me into some very unflattering and un-Perry like clothes.
And I was right. Ten minutes past and I made it out of the changing room with just one new outfit that suited me and one h.e.l.l of a lecture about my weight.
“We could at least get you new shoes. Maybe some heels? You can’t gain weight in your feet,” she said brightly, and before she had time to insult me again, I was dragged in the direction of the shoe department.