Learning more about the things Rosie has faced while pursuing engineering. Curiosity is strong, but the warmth swirling my chest is stronger. I’d love to spend all night talking about her.
I’m halfway to suggesting we cut the musicals for now, and encourage my roommate to start from the very beginning—what life she dreamt of before being a psychic mathematician, or ask about the moment she knew numbers held the answers to her future—but the intro toMamma Mia!is already echoing throughout our dorm.
“Have you watched this one?” She asks me, leaning over the couch to stare at Ghost’s sleeping figure.
“A few times.” More times than I’d like. But if Rosalie wants to watch it, I’m okay with another.
“Good! Then we can both pay half-attention while you tell me more about your life.” Her legs bend to that familiar position pretzeled under her, body turned towards me while she smiles and nods. “Keep going.”
I almost tell her she should start with her own stories. That I’d like to listen to those this time around. But she’s so comfortably sat, ready to listen to everything I have to say, and it’d be wrong to let that kindness go to waste.
Plus, there’ll be other days. Other Saturday nights posted up together in this dorm, pretending to pay attention to whatever is on screen, and instead focusing on each other. I’m sure of it. We have the rest of the school year.
Ignoring the film’s opening number and the happy buzz in my head, I grab a piece of popcorn.
“Saturdays are important. For my dad.” And for me. “But I’ll be home six p.m. sharp every night.”
twelve
ROSIE
Every applicantwho qualifies for the Xion internship gets a first interview. Alumni forums I’ve read echo that there’s no reason to be nervous—as long as you know what you’re talking about, and your resumé checks out, most candidates move on in the process.
I tell myself these things while waiting in the hallway, outside of the classroom our department has designated as today’s interview room. There isn’t a reason to be nervous. I’m more than qualified and speaking to new people in any context is a strong suit of mine.
Despite this, my palms have been damp with sweat since I took my seat. Chest rising and falling erratically once I glanced over at my competition and realized I was the only woman in the group.
In some situations, that can be a good thing. I’ll stand out, that’s for sure.
The side-glances thrown my way, and deep chuckles hidden behind their hands, make me think differently.
I roll my shoulders and attempt to ignore them. This isn’t about them. It’s about the role I worked so hard for. The reason I enrolled in Brookstone to begin with. Just for a shot at this internship.
“Wearing a skirt to an interview is real classy, princess.”
A boy from my cohort mumbles while walking past me and into his own interview. My ears ring. My legs are already crossed, one over the other, but I push my joints closer together anyways. Uncomfortably.
It’s a long skirt. I know it’s appropriate, but still, I shift. I second guess my outfit and make a mental note to go browsing for some slacks. I’ve never wanted a pair, but it’s like the world turned sideways once last semester hit.
Respect in undergrad wasn’t a given, but it was never as cruel as this. Only a few men there refused to recognize the women in our college. Even less voiced their sexist thoughts aloud. It was manageable then, to deal with the misogynistic layers of this industry.
It was once Jeremiah started running his mouth last semester that things got bad. Once the program’s golden boy was willing to vocalize his disdain, everyone else followed. Attracted to the pretty flames of a fire and kindling it further with their own unkind words.
If I were less than in mind and skill, I could handle it better. I would take the taunts and teases on the chin and accept I still have a long way to go.
It’s not like that. Ihaveearned a right to respect and recognition, both from my peers and from the experts in this field who precede me. Yet, it’s withheld. I lean into what they want from me in hopes everything will stop, but it makes me feel more miserable every minute.
No one takes me seriously because I’m a woman. I’m tired. Every day my dream feels further and further away.
I just want to be taken seriously.
“Rosalie Mendoza?”
My head turns, catching the interviewer standing at the open door with a clipboard in his hands and a tired smile on his face.
I smile back, though I second-guess if that was inappropriate. Was it too large of a grin? Too casual?
It’s a few steps from my chair and to the open door, but in that time, I hear Jeremiah mumble, “We know why she wore that.”
