License to Shop Read Free Page A

had brushed up on my
interview techniques, which were not that different from my mystery
shopping techniques. Smile, look people in the eye, speak clearly
and slowly, and make it more about them than about you. I’d already
practiced tapping into my inner Dierdre while I sat waiting and
losing confidence second by second.
    Still, I reached in and
yanked up my mental big girl panties and managed to come up with a
smile I felt sure did not say, thanks for making me wait so long so
you could show me who was alpha dog, bitch. It wasn’t that much
different from putting on a professional face when I had to deliver
a shop report directly to the boss — my least favorite kind of
mystery shopping assignment ever.
    The big difference is
that, ultimately, when you are being interviewed for a job, you
care what the interviewer thinks of you. In mystery shopping, you
don’t plan to see the manager again, that’s the nature of the
“mystery” in mystery shopping. Now you see me, now you never see me
again. In an interview, you’re trying to convince this boss they
want you to work for them, all day, every day.
    Dr. Stubbs dropped Sofie
onto a plush dark blue dog bed perched on a leather chair next to
her desk, took my resume out of a neatly labeled folder that lay
centered on her very clean desktop, and indicated I should sit in
the less comfortable wooden chair directly across from her desk. I
was impressed, despite my lack of approval of her interview
methodology. Admissions was a paperwork-heavy job. To keep it in
check was a skill not to be underestimated. I couldn’t do it at
home, with only four of us to manage.
    She looked at my resume
for longer than seemed necessary since I had kept it short; the
one-page-only-relevant-info-please resume that everyone seemed to
be recommending right now. She interrupted her reading to check her
phone twice, frowning at each text message. To her credit, she did
not reply to either.
    At last, she looked up at
me. “So, Molly,” she said, pasting on a rather frightening smile
that said, Now it is time for me to smile at this mouse of a
candidate, so she does not know that I am about to eat her for
lunch. “Tell me why you would make a good candidate for the
Admissions Counselor position.”
    “ I really believe in a
good education,” I began.
    “ That goes without
saying,” she interrupted.
    Of course it did. The
confidence I’d tried to keep ballooned in my chest let out a
sputtering gasp as it deflated completely. “I have a rapport with
kids,” I continued, trying to keep on the script that Seth and I
had practiced last night.
    As soon as her smile
curved up with a predatory gotcha, I remembered something Seth had
said — say ‘young adults’ not kids. Oops.
    Before I could correct
myself, she said, “Our students are no longer children.”
    “ No, of course not. Young
adults. I remember those days,” I tried to do what Seth and I had
decided—tell a story of my own college days; make it sound like it
wasn’t two kids, a husband, and a mystery shopping career ago. “I
didn’t call my mother for two months after I got on campus my first
semester. She nearly sent out the police to find me.” I
laughed.
    Dr. Stubbs didn’t. At that
moment, her phone gave the text chime again. She frowned, then
picked up the phone and texted back a reply. She put down the phone
and then raised her eyes to mine coldly, as if to ask why I had
stopped talking.
    “ I’m organized and
energetic,” I said, echoing two of the biggest fudges on my resume.
If this didn’t start going better, I was doomed.
    I frantically tried to
imagine Dierdre in this situation. How would she act? Would she
name drop? I didn’t dare. University politics was as cut-throat as
any other politics. If I dropped the wrong name, my application
would end up in the circular file as soon as I left the office. Why
hadn’t I asked Deirdre or Seth which names would be safe to
drop?
    Dr. Stubbs decided not to
waste any