He gives the slightest nod toward the front doors.
“Yes, of course,” I mumble, starting for the door. “Thank you for the ride…”
Silence stretches over the enormous property as I walk by myself up to the front entrance. I’ve never felt so small in my life. And my heart is beating so hard I feel it in my wrists.
Before I ascend the final front step, one of the towering double-wide doors opens, and a woman in a clean gray dress steps out.
“Welcome,” she says, bowing ever so slightly.
“Thank you, I’m happy to?—”
“This way, please.” She turns back inside, and I’m left standing there for a moment.
“I guess the workers here aren’t much for small talk,” I shrug to myself. For some reason, another employee giving me the cold shoulder almost provides a modicum of confidence.
Somewhere in these halls, there’s a little girl who probably needs some warmth. I may not have many other qualifications, but warmth? That I can provide.
I cough a little to cover up my little quip and hurry after the woman. She’s already halfway down a foyer that could swallow my entire apartment. Marble floors. A staircase that curves upward with an iron railing. Fresh flowers on a table that probably costs more than everything I own combined.
“Wow,” I sigh, repeatedly.
It’s like something out of a movie.
Well, a silent movie.
Because it isn’t just quiet here. It’s dead silent. So silent that it makes me conscious of every sound I make. My shoes on the marble. My breathing. The whisper of my hair against my collar.
I’ve been in expensive homes before. During college, I babysat for families in Brookline and Newton. Lawyers, doctors, people with money and taste. Those homes were nice.They had good furniture and clean kitchens. Sometimes a piano that nobody played.
This, though…
This is on another level.
Everything is so beautiful and precise. There doesn’t seem to be a single object in sight that hasn’t been chosen, placed, and approved by someone whose standards I cannot begin to imagine.
I start to wonder what I’d have to do to meet those standards, and a cold shiver runs down my spine.
Eventually, we reach a waiting room, though the wordroomfeels inadequate. It’s a wide, sunlit space with leather chairs and a low table with a crystal water pitcher. Three other women are already seated.
And that’s where I’m hit with another reminder that I don’t belong here.
They’re older. All of them. Mid-thirties, maybe forties. And dressed exactly for the job description. Structured blazers, quality fabrics, shoes that don’t have scuff marks.
One woman has a leather portfolio monogrammed with her initials. Another is reading from a tablet, scrolling through a digital teaching portfolio with photographs, graphs, and progress reports.
Shit.
I sit down, cross my ankles, and place my hands in my lap, trying to control the increasingly intense imposter syndrome.
You passed the first round, I tell myself.You’re here. That means a lot.
The self-motivation only helps a little. The tension in the room doesn’t help at all.
None of the women speak to each other. I watch them from behind my eyelashes, noticing how they sit. Confident, composed.
I sit up straighter.
They call us one at a time.
