I take a deep breath, will away the anger overtaking every sensible part of me, and subtly pull my skirt lower. Past my knees. As low as possible.
Locke’s revelation of what his classmates have said about me, along with the comments from today, make it so hard to stay calm.
They sexualize me all they want, but when I choose to wear something—that’s appropriate and business casual—for a professional interview, there’s a problem with it?
I cling onto the fact that, at least, my roommate doesn’t hold a double standard to my head. He doesn’t laugh behind his hand or make snarky comments; He tells me about the boys who do it behind my back and agrees when I say they’re disgusting.
Knowing there’s one person in this program who isn’t a complete piece of shit gives me some relief. Enough to set my mind straight as I’m walking into the room and towards the single desk in the middle. The interviewer introduces himself as the Human Resources Talent Specialist, shakes my hand over the table, and settles into his seat.
He begins to speak as I sink into my own chair. “This first round of interviews is just a formality. Getting a feel of who you are, what skills you possess, and if you and Xion Group are compatible.”
The anger is subsiding, and that’s good.
But it makes room for unreasonable nerves to fill my mind, which isn’t ideal.
I nod and hope it’s enough to keep the conversation going.
“After looking over your qualifications, it seems like you have the technical part of the role down. No issues there. I’d like to get an idea of what classes you took during your undergraduate years.”
Under the table, I press my hands against each other. Force my nerves to go there, focused on the painful push of bone to bone while I get my bearings straight.
I recite everything I can remember about the classes I took for my Bachelor of Financial Engineering and even throw in experiences from my economics minor. The interviewer doesn’t interrupt me. He writes down notes in the margins of my resume and doesn’t comment on how I’ve stuttered five times.
The interview repeats in a cycle. He asks a basic question I should know the answer to. I do know the answer to it. I stumble to deliver what he wants to hear. He scribbles words I try to subtly read through glancing eyes. I even throw in what I know of the new Xion CEO—how I read in an article that Dr. Michael Newman is a Brookstone alumni. I was hoping that’d pull a reaction from the interviewer, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
That could be good. Maybe he’s listening and not disregarding my words.
Or he doesn’t like me.
When he offers to answer any questions I have for him, I almost ask if I’ve completely failed an interview that is supposed to be a given. The better, calmer part of me holds my tongue.
I fumble through questions about work-life balance and in-company growth opportunities before he straightens my papers and links his hands together.
“Well, there’s nothing else I need from you. Just keep an eye on your email for details about your round two interview. Wehave a few more groups of candidates to get through, so you’ll have to wait a few weeks for your second interview details.”
I blink. Stop pushing and pulling my hands, and let the words sink in.
“Second interview?”
“Yes. Round two is the most time extensive as we’ll have to screen all round one candidates once more, but you’ll hear from us. You can expect your second interview sometime in early November. If you get past that, you’ll take a written exam to gauge your knowledge and then go through a final interview with a few higher-ranking professionals. The chosen candidate will be contacted via phone call following the third interview.”
He turns his focus to the papers on the table. Stacking them together and tucking them away in a folder out-of-sight. Casually and wordlessly, like he hasn’t just given me the first glimmer of hope I’ve gotten in this program, in what feels like forever.
“Are we… done, then?”
“Yup.” There’s barely any time for me to follow the motions of pushing chairs away and meeting hands for a shake. Everything is still sinking in, and he’s preparing to bring another candidate in already. “Wishing you the best of luck in your next interview.”
He barely holds eye contact for two seconds, but it’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.
“Thank you so much!”
I’m sure at least ninety percent of the first-round candidates make it to the second.
So, really, there’s no reason to feel as elated as I am.
Yet, as I walk through the door and the voice of another classmate being called in for his interview gets lost down the hallway, I’m ecstatic. There’s a pep in my step, a warmth fightingoff the chill of late September, and no desire to pull my skirt further down my legs.
I’m barely out of the building before I’m yanking my phone out and readying a text. I know who I want to tell the good news. My best friend would be so happy for me.
