You’re drooling.Mean Daisy taps the side of my head, and myjaw snaps back into place. Several men and women in crisp suits walk by with coffee mugs in hand, their shoes making rapidclick-clacknoises on the hard tile floor. Jumping into the fray, I hurry forward even though I know I’m a good thirty minutes early.
I make a beeline for the front desk, dodging a few harried employees rushing for the closing elevator bank doors with stacks of papers in their hands. Overhead, the sounds of conversation, phones ringing on lines, and typing echoes down into the open lobby. I inhale and grin. It even smells like ink and paper in here—though I’m sure they’re more modern than that. It could just be my imagination, but even if it is, I’m not going to ruin it now.
“Hi,” I say as I arrive at the desk where an older woman with silver-gray hair tied up into a bun at the back of her head sits wearing a pair of rectangular glasses perched on the end of her nose. “My name is Daisy Turner—er, um, La Rosa—I’m here for an interview?”
Damn it, Daisy. Don’t sound like you’re asking a question, I chastise myself. Mean Daisy yawns and closes her eyes, already bored.
The woman, whose plaque reads “Maribel,” looks at me over the rim of her glasses before she types something into the computer in front of her. “Daisy La Rosa,” she says. “Interviews are on the third floor. Third meeting room to the left of the elevators.”
I nod and paste my smile back on as my nervousness threatens to rip it free. “Great, thanks!” Turning, I jog away and end up nearly colliding with a few more people obviously in a hurry.
A minute or two later, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal the third floor. I take a look to the left and then out to the glass partition that separates this floor from the big, open space that looks into the lobby below. Here, I can see the chandelier up much closer, and as I float out of the elevator, I stare at the sparkling decor of it as I make my way down the hallway.
There are several chairs placed outside of the meeting rooms, and I take one next to another woman dressed in a pinstripe skirt suit with a folder in front of her. Looking at her outfit and then at my own, I’m glad I ended up using Giulio’s card to shop for some more appropriate professional clothes. I can’t imagine sitting next to a woman who looks like a thousand bucks in my cheap cotton slacks and the red polka-dot shirt that I got at a Goodwill back in my final year of college. Smoothing the silk blouse I’m currently wearing, I smile to myself, thankful more than ever that I walked in on that dead woman and ended up marrying her fiancé.
Sorry, girl.I send out the thought—down or up, doesn’t matter so long as it reaches her. Then I proceed to match the other woman’s energy and withdraw my own folder from the bag I brought with me. Much larger than my usual purse, this bag is big enough to fit a computer, an extra pair of shoes, and a folder with the copy of my résumé and the cover letter I sent in along with Dante’s recommendation.
Flipping the front over, I scan the documents and try to quell the urge to throw up. A snort sounds next to me, and I frown, glancing up at the woman—not much older than me, I see now by her smooth features—who is eyeing me with an emotion I recognize as disdain.
“Is there something wrong?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
She shakes her head, but her lips pinch tight as if she’s amused by something and trying to resist the urge to smirk. Irritation crawls up my throat, leaving a trail in its wake that won’t seem to go away no matter how much I swallow. I return my eyes to my folder. Several minutes go by. A man shows up outside of the meeting room we’re set to interview in and takes a seat at the far end of the hall.
A part of me wants to get up and go sit near him, but I don’t want this woman to know that she’s bothered me. Anxiety wraps tendrils around my head and squeezes like a cobra on steroids. I wince and put two fingers to my temple. The movement does not go unnoticed.
“Nervous?” the woman asks, the word sounding like a taunt.
I lift my head again and frown at her. “Not at all,” I lie.
She rolls her eyes. “Well, you probably should be,” she says, lowering her voice as someone—not an interviewee, if the confidence of her stride is anything to go by—passes by. “Gold Letter rarely takes on new employees that they haven’t headhunted.”
“What makes you think I wasn’t?” I force myself to straighten in my seat, placing a hand flat on my folder so that it doesn’t slide off.
She arches a brow, the dark shadow cutting up her too-long forehead. “You wouldn’t be waiting for an interview if you were headhunted,” she says.
“Neither would you,” I shoot back.
Her brow drops, and she narrows her eyes. Realization dawns. She’s nervous about getting the job and wants to psych out the competition so she has a better chance. I shake my head and look back down at my cover letter and notes.
High-five her.Mean Daisy’s sudden appearance makes me jolt in my seat, and I glance up just in time to see two women and a man walk up to the door in front of us, labeled “Meeting Room” with a big fat “3” above it. They disappear inside, though they leave the door slightly ajar.
What?I mentally gape at my inner psycho as I return my attention to her, but she isn’t done.
In the face, she continues, her upper lip curling back with disgust.With a chair.
There it is.I relax. Yeah, that’s the psycho Daisy I know and love.Phew.For a second there, I thought she might have been going soft on me.
Not a chance, she snipes at me. It’s good to know my psycho side has my back.
One of the women from before pops her head out of the door. “Daisy La Rosa?”
I stand abruptly and cup the folder in my hands to my chest. “That’s me,” I say.
It’s go time.
Be savage, not average.I don’t know who said that first, but it’s my new life motto, I decide as I walk out of the interview room with my head held high. The woman who’d been all up my asshole before I was called in gives me a nasty stink eye. I merely blink innocently at her and offer her a little grin and wave as I walk past and head for the elevator.
Head up, Daisy, I command myself even though my insidesfeel like smashed Jell-O.Savage. You are a total savage.Today is the day for life mottos and the fake it ’til you make it mantra.
