“It is,” I agree. No point in lying. “But the experience I have is directly relevant. I’ve worked with children this age, in environments where resources were limited, and creativity had to fill the gaps. I designed art-integrated lessons for kids who couldn’t sit still for traditional instruction. I’ve worked with shychildren, withdrawn children, and children dealing with trauma and instability.” I pause. Take a breath. “I may not have the most years, but I know how to reach a child who doesn’t want to be reached.”
For a moment, there’s a flicker in his expression.
Then he nods and closes the folder. “Thank you, Miss Calloway. We’ll be in touch.”
The abruptness takes me by surprise. It’s over? Just like that? With all the lead up, I was sure there’d be more.
Hesitantly, I stand and shake his hand, trying to keep firm and steady. I don’t let him feel the tremor.
When I walk out of the room, I do it with my spine straight and my smile intact. All the while, my heart is screaming.
Back in the waiting room, the remaining women are gathering their things. A few minutes pass, but it feels like hours. Every second is thick and heavy, the air in the room dense with collective anticipation and the quiet knowledge that most of us are about to be disappointed.
The man returns. He stands in the doorway, with his hands clasped, and thanks us all for our time. His words are polite, measured, and rehearsed. The family appreciates our interest. A decision will be made and communicated soon. We’re free to go.
That’s it.
The other women file out. I watch them go unhurried, their polished shoes clicking on the marble. I stay seated for a moment, gripping the handle of my bag, trying to work up the courage.
“Excuse me,” I finally squeak out, and the man pauses in the doorway. “Could I use the restroom before I leave?”
He nods. “Down the hall to the left. Second door.”
“Thank you.”
I keep my head down as I scurry out.
The bathroom is beautiful. Marble countertops. A mirrorframed in dark wood. Brass fixtures that gleam under soft lighting. There’s a small vase of fresh white peonies on the counter. The hand towels are linen, and even the soap smells expensive, with notes of cedar and bergamot.
When I’m done, I wash up, careful not to make a mess, then slowly creak open the door, not wanting to be seen.
As I step outside, the hallway looks different.
My meekness quickly morphs into confusion.
I turn left, which is the direction I came from, I think, but the corridor stretches further than I remember, and the doors are different. After thirty seconds, I realize with a sinking certainty that I’m lost.
“How the heck did that happen…”
I stop in my tracks and turn. The bathroom door is still visible, but the hall ahead branches off in two directions, and neither seems familiar.
Shit. So typical.
I could go back to the interview room, but I think I might die of embarrassment. I’m already underqualified, but being the girl who couldn’t find the exit could easily be the death knell.
So, I pick the left corridor because it’s wider and hope it might lead somewhere public. The walls here are different. Less formal and more lived-in. A painting of a winter landscape, a little side table with a stack of books, warmer lighting.
I turn a corner, and the corridor opens into a room.
My shaky little breaths are sucked from my lungs.
It’s a living room with vast, high ceilings and a wall of windows. The furniture is elegant but sparse, all with clean lines and neutral tones. An enormous rug covers most of the floor, its pattern intricate and dense.
I halt at the threshold. I shouldn’t be here. This is clearly a private part of the house. I’m about to turn around when the curtain in front of me moves.
It’s subtle. A ripple in the heavy velvet drapes that frame the nearest window, where the dark green, floor-length material pools slightly on the hardwood beneath. It could just be the wind…
The curtain moves again. A small shift.
