Wherever the Dandelion Falls Read Free Page B

and measured the alcohol in my thirtieth Long Island of the night, I arched up on my toes to see if I could spot the group of girls on the dance floor. I saw their feathers and plastic tiaras and a few faceless heads, but I didn't see the girl who had come up to order again.
     
     
     

     
     
     
     
    I gushed to Justine about it over a bottle of red wine that night. "Justine, if I get this job, I'll die happy. Dr. Turner is probably the sexiest scientist to walk the planet."
    Justine smiled over the rim of her glass. "Do you know anything about the company?"
    I had to admit that I didn't and vowed to browse their website the next day and learn more about it. When I did, I didn't find anything striking or alarming, so I called the number on Dr. Turner's business card on Monday. The receptionist scheduled me for an interview using a fatigued drone of prompted script and promptly hung up. Everything about the conversation contradicted my excitement. I was applying for a big-girl job, and everyone I knew would be proud of me if I got it.
    The interview went at most interviews go. Dr. Turner and a balding man with wiry glasses and a bad haircut looked over my résumé and asked me generic questions about my strengths and areas for growth and career aspirations. The balding man asked how well I worked with others and what my preferred management style was. Afterwards Dr. Turner gave me a handshake and nod that told me nothing about the outcome. So a few days later when his assistant called and offered me the job, I was thrilled. My parents and friends and professors were proud of me, proclaiming they had always known I'd find something in my field right away. And for a few minutes, I was proud of myself too.
    But working for Dr. Turner was tedious. My first few weeks on the job were spent doing tasks far below my education and training level. All day I ran statistics and double-checked data, which anyone with half a mathematical brain could have done. I didn't get to participate in any of the lab work, which made my title of Lab Assistant painfully ironic. I didn't even know the passcode to the laboratory section of the building.
    My sister kept reminding me that a job was a job, and I'd do more interesting things eventually. So I tied my hair in a bun every morning, not thinking too much about the slacks and blouses I wore under my lab coat, and spent the next twelve months filing and documenting and running reports for Dr. Turner. And it wouldn't have been bad, if I were a person who liked dull things. But the fact is that I dislike dull things intensely, and dreaded the moment my alarm clock went off every morning. Most of all, I dreaded having to see Dr. Turner's handsome face every day, knowing that he would never be interested in me.
    Not that Dr. Turner wouldn't have liked me in some alternate universe where he dated smart, ambitious women. But he didn't. He was a bachelor, which I knew was code for gay or womanizer. And considering the way he looked at his secretary's ass, my bets were on the latter.
    On the days when Dr. Turner's assistant was out, I was assigned to the phones. I hated it. No one with a Master's in neuroscience should be assigned to answer phones. I repeated my sister's words: it's a job, it's a job, it's a job. There was a future for me. Dr. Turner had great contacts. I had insurance and a 401k. I had everything that made me certifiably boring.
    One day I returned from my lunch break and flopped into my rotating chair, feeling it bounce under the weight of my boredom.
    No sooner had the chair steadied from bouncing, then the intercom on my phone rasped. "Riley, could you come here for a moment?" Dr. Turner asked.
    When I walked into his office, he handed me a slip of paper without making eye contact.
    "Give this woman a call. Tell her you'll do the interview."
    "What interview?"
    "She wants to interview someone from the lab. You'll do."
    I tried to brush off Dr. Turner's minimizing "you'll do" as I