Brittany Bends Read Free Page B

smooth the skirt as I sit. Lise will complain if I bring the dress back too wrinkled.
    I’m about to set the purse on the floor, but as I look down, I realize the floor is covered with dust and goop and dried mud and something that looks like oil, and even though the purse is ugly, I don’t want to ruin it. Mom did work hard on it, after all.
    So I hang the purse on my knee, which makes the fringe brush the top of my foot (which looks dumb, I know, but Mrs. Larson already knows I’m Not From Around Here).
    Her smile is really friendly. She puts the legal pad on her lap. Then she writes my name along the top sheet of the pad.
    “Okay, Brittany,” she says, “your application is pretty spare on details, so I’m going to ask a few questions.”
    The application was spare on details because I can’t say a lot of things. Mom says that’s all right, because I’m so young, no one expects me to have a lot of experience, and those online applications are designed for adults.
    I’m going to have to lie. Mom says lying is something we should all try to avoid, but she’s making a special case for me, because the truth is so unbelievable.
    Still, I hate being in this situation. I’m really bad at lying.
    I fold my hands together, and brace myself.
    Here comes the hard part.
    And, as usual, I’m probably going to screw it up something royal.

 
     
     
     
    TWO
     
     
    CAN MRS. LARSON hear my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest? Because her expression softens even more as she studies at me.
    I’m not shaking, not really, at least I hope I’m not. But I have woven my fingers together so tight that I’m probably leaving bruises. My hands rest on top of the dress’s skirt, which has ridden up a little more than is proper (the Johnson Family is big on proper. I’m just starting to figure it out).
    Plus, I keep swallowing like something’s stuck in my throat.
    The little room is too hot, and I’m closer to Mrs. Larson than I want to be.
    She looks like she’s got some horrid terminal illness under the bright fluorescent light in this office, but I like her. As much as I can like someone who’s going to think I’m crazy in like two seconds flat.
    “So,” she says, “you have no retail experience, and you say you want to work here to help your family pay the bills, which is admirable. You also say you want to learn how retail works from ‘the other side.’”
    I swallow harder than I have before. Helping to pay the bills, that was my answer, but the other part about “the other side,” that was Eric’s suggestion, seconded by Lise, who has already gone through three different jobs (each better than the last, she says whenever anyone asks. I think there’s a story there she’s not telling).
    “Yes, that’s right,” I say. My voice is actually wobbling. And I’m keeping my answers short. On all those TV shows about cops and lawyers in America, they’re always telling their clients to keep the answers short so that whoever is questioning them can’t trip them up.
    Only this is a job interview, not an interrogation, right?
    “I know the application only asks for relevant job experience,” Mrs. Larson says, “but do you have any work experience? Because sometimes, just knowing how to work for someone else is more valuable than having relevant job experience. I have to untrain half of my employees when they have relevant job experience.”
    I almost didn’t hear that last part of what she said, and, honestly, I’m not sure I understand it. Besides, the question itself—work experience—makes my heart pound even harder.
    Jeez. How do I tell her that?
    As much of the truth as possible , Mom says, but she didn’t prepare me for this.
    “I—my—we….” I bite my lip. I usually don’t stammer. My face feels like it’s going to explode from the heat building up inside of it. I want to look down, but Eric and Mom say that’s the worst thing to do, so I struggle to keep my gaze on Mrs.