I cannot screw this up.
So much is riding on this.
The steam curls out under the door as I wash away the last of the dirt from my afternoon excursion. Debris swirls around the drain before being pulled downward, disappearing as if it never existed. With my skin scrubbed clean and limbs relaxed to the point my ankle no longer bothers me, I shut off the water and hop out.
Dried off and in my comfy jeans and a boatneck long sleeve, I slide into my office chair at the desk that’s seen me through every phase of my life, from third-grade spelling bees to college applications and now this job hunt. Spinning the wheeled chair round, I lean to one side, plucking my backpack from my bed and retrieving my camera.
I power it up and slip the connection cord into it. Opening my laptop, I wait for the devices to sync. The bar loads, ever so slowly.
I lean back in the chair, scrolling through my Instagram account, double-tapping comments before replying. Even with a solid ten thousand followers on my account dedicated to my art, every time someone comments on my images it still makes my heart skip a beat. I love photography, it’s practically in my blood, and I will be following the light with my lens till I’m no longer able, I’m sure. But seeing other people enjoy it gives me purpose.
I need purpose as much as the air in my lungs and the freedom I’m so, so close to finding. The next step after the disaster of my last assignment.
The laptop pings.
I settle in for the long haul, filtering through shots, dragging and dropping the ones I want to resituate to another folder before backing up all the images to my external drive.
Finally, after three hours, I select the dozen images from the forest trip I want to include in the last segment of my portfolio—flora and fauna.
Another hour later I have them just how I want them and place them in my digital portfolio before writing up the copy for the specs of each image, the intention behind it, and a reflection of my thoughts as I captured them. With a brief final sweep to check over my writing, I make a backup copy of the portfolio and submit it, five minutes before the deadline.
Nothing like cutting it close.
With a satisfied, happy sigh, I slump in the chair, arms hanging over the armrests. The rest of the week will be a breeze. Feeling very productive for a Sunday, I yawn and rise, padding to my bed. My phone, still on the desk, lights up.
Mom.
All done?
I chuckle as I tap back a reply. I snap on my bedside lamp, killing the main light, with a yawn that waters my eyes.
All done. Sorry I didn’t make it for dinner. See you in the morning. Love you both.
We are so proud of you, sweetheart.
Brad. On Mom’s phone. I bet they’re sitting in bed, waiting for an update. I glance at the clock. 11:57.
Damn, that took forever . . .
I fall back on the bed in full-on starfish mode. Too tired to bother with pajamas, I curl up and pull my duvet over me into cozy burrito formation. My eyes drift shut before I can lift a hand to flick out the lamp.
I lie awake for a moment, waiting for sleep to take me under, sending a little prayer to whoever is listening that the nightmares don’t find me tonight.
I wake up to my alarm Monday morning for the breakfast shift. My unspoken duty when home, waiting tables for the morning crowd and tending the front desk so Mom and Brad can catch some rest. I roll out of bed and waste no time. Already fully dressed, I brush my teeth and fix my hair.
My laptop is open on my desk, but in sleep mode.
It’s only been eight hours since I submitted my portfolio and application, but I’m itching to see how it went even now.
I tap the space bar and the screen lights up, asking for my password. I tap it out and when the telltale ping of new mail rings around the room, I tap the track pad over the mail app.
At the top of the inbox sits an email from my future boss.
That was quick . . .
I open the email with the subject linePortfolio Feedback.
I read the first sentence, and my stomach plummets. My submission was too late. I must have mixed the dates up. When I reach the final one, I collapse onto the chair.
