Page 53 of Nerdelicious
“Uh-huh.” This is her way of avoiding the topic. So I move on to the next. “I found your bra on the banister.”
“Hmmm.” She’s still stubbing out her joint under the chair and pretending like I can’t see it.
“I put it in your room.”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Fred girl. Are you hungry? I’m smoking a brisket.”
“That’s not all your smoking,” I mutter.
She gives me the stink eye and then leans back in the rocking chair. “Where’s little Miss Grace?”
“In the shower.”
She doesn’t say anything else about the random bra left lying around and I can’t ask her, now can I?
She asks about camping and I sit on the porch with her, relaying the basics. Then we discuss dinner and what needs to be done around the farm.
Behind me, inside the house, the phone rings. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it ring. I didn’t even know people still had landlines until I came here. It sits up on the wall, attached to a base. It even has a cord, like some 1990s sitcom.
“Oh, that’s right,” Granny says. “Someone from New York called for you. That’s likely them now.”
I stand. It’s still ringing. “Who is it?”
“Someone for an interview. They tried your cell first. Told them you would be out of range until today.”
“Was it an accounting firm?” But that interview isn’t until next week.
“No, it was something else.” She squints. “Some comic store or something.”
Not a comic store, Comix, the restaurant chain.
Mumbling a curse, I race inside to grab the phone, which is miraculously still ringing. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Fredericka Klein?”
“This is she.” I twist the receiver away from my mouth, keeping the top part on my ear so I don’t pant down the line.
“This is Amber Hoover from the Comix group. How are you doing?”
“I’m great.” I am not great. This is terrible. A nightmare come to life.
“I’m so glad I was able to reach you. Do you have a few minutes to talk with us today?”
Amber sounds way too happy and upbeat. Doesn’t she realize I’m dying inside? She keeps talking and I try to listen, but my heart is hammering and nerves are turning my stomach to mush. They want to interview me. Right now.
“This is just a preliminary,” she says, her voice barely intelligible through the thundering of my pulse. “No pressure, just wanted to get a feel for the type of ideas you can bring to the table.”
“Right, of course, no problem.” I push out the words around a thick tongue. Of course I have to agree, I can hardly say no.
“So this is just a quick exercise to see what you’ve got and how well you can come up with ideas under pressure. For this example, let’s say you have to pick one central theme for multiple venues and convince our marketing team to develop the concept. What would you use and how would you sell it?”
My mind is blank. This is impossible. This is like asking me to... cut down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring.
A light bulb illuminates over my head.
“Blessed are the cheesemakers.”
A confused laugh in my ear. “What?”
