Page 4 of See Me

...the victim has yet to be identified but authorities have confirmed it’s another victim of the Doorman. Police stress the need to travel in groups and urge women not to go out alone...

ONE

IS THAT BIOLOGICALLY POSSIBLE?

One down.One to go. Walking out of the high school, a weight lifts from my chest. The interview went well. Mrs. Markem and I bonded over the last year as I did my assistant hours and, though she hasn’t been in the classroom in years, she loved my plans and appreciated my eagerness to mold the minds of today’s youth. I’m not sure how malleable freshmen in high school are, at least when it comes to human biology, but I hope I get the chance to find out. My heart plummets as I realize I’ll be teaching a bunch of blossoming, hormonal, almost adults the ins and outs of human reproduction.

I’m so screwed.

The weight immediately settles back in my chest when I sitin my car and toss my purse in the backseat. Next week this car will be filled with all my belongings, including me.

How did I get here?

I grab the material of my cotton sundress, patterned in little daisies and the color of orange creamsicles, and I tug at my cream-colored cardigan with a sneer. Perfect for the first interview. Not ideal for the second. I should’ve brought a change of clothes with me, but I didn’t want anyone to suspect why I wouldneeda change of clothes. This second job is not something I planned but, after the phone call with my mom last week, it’s now a necessity. A few months of fast cash added to the paycheck I’ll soon be getting and I should be able to make it on my own.

I’m such an idiot for not taking them seriously. They threatened. I should've listened. Butno, I had to go and actually enjoy my time in college when I should’ve been working and saving. I’ll admit I never thought they would actually cut me off. And I have no problem supporting myself, I was just naive and didn’t think it would actually happen.

So here I am, wearingthis, on my way to an interview at Knockout’s, a bar, so I can afford to eat next week when my time is up on campus. The traffic blurs when tears threaten to spill over remembering the callous way my parents just dismissed me from their lives.

They would shudder if they knew I was on my way to a bar to seek employment.

I saw the help wanted sign hanging when we were there for Halloween. If I had even the slightest shred of self-preservation I would’ve applied right away and gotten some shifts under my belt and some cash saved up. But, again, I enjoyed my time and I’m physically nauseous at the situation I’m now facing.

Maybe I subconsciously knew it was my last hurrah. No more partying, no more careless weekends. No more mushymovie marathons with the girls, or going to clubs, anddefinitelyno more accidental gummy ingestions. I mentally list the plausible excuses in my back pocket to divvy out when they call for a night out. I know they’ll understand, and even offer help, if I tell them what’s really going on but I’ve gone so long lying by omission it would just be embarrassing at this point.

My friends know I come from an affluent political family from the east coast and they probably think I have a trust fund waiting for me.I do.It’s just now that I actually graduated with a teaching degree, and nothing focused on political science, or anythingprestigious, I’ve been cut out of the family and cut off financially. So, I’ll be living in my car until I can save enough for a deposit on whatever shithole condo my teacher’s salary will allow.

Shit just got real.

Stop cursing!

I guess my parents thought I was merely rebelling or sowing my wild oats, so to speak, for the last four years.

This is not Rumspringa.

I'm not even Amish!

So, when I sent the invite for the graduation ceremony, I had a very brief, very harsh conversation with my mother and that was it. Cut off. I was an embarrassment to the family. I had all the ‘opportunity and resources laid at my feet and I pissed it away to waste my life in a grimy public school teaching ingrates’, or something to that effect. You wouldn’t think my mother’s distinguished mouth would talk like that but that’s just one of many encounters I can remember ending the same way.

My plan is to get my master’s degree and become a college professor, but whatever, there’s no use explaining myself to someone who doesn’t care.

So here I am, walking into a bar, looking like a milkmaidabout to swipe right onFarmers.com,asking someone to hire me in a bar where the staff wears tight shirts with boxing gloves over their boobs.

Why didn’t I throw a pair of jeans in my car?

I walk through the heavy wooden door set back in a little alcove. The exposed brick is covered in neon signs and gym memorabilia. Half of a roped off boxing ring sits next to a hanging punching bag off in the right corner and there’s a bar that runs down the entire left side.

The rest of the space is filled with booths and tables, a few occupied. There’s a burly older man sitting at the end of the bar reading a newspaper.

They still make those?

I make my way up to the bar and the bottle blonde that’s always here makes eye contact as she snaps and pops her gum. She’s leaning over the bar, tapping away on her phone, giant boobs squished together with theskin so stretched it looks shiny.Yikes.She looks me up and down and settles her eyes back on my face. She smirks and raises a painted-on eyebrow. Yes, I realize I probably look lost walking in here dressed like this, but she could at least show some semblance of professionalism.

I bite the inside of my cheek and adjust the strap of my purse. “Hi. I have an interview scheduled. Uh, for noon.”

She picks up the phone and dials, never stopping the smack of her gum. “Your interview is here.” After a few seconds she hangs up, then gestures with her head toward the back of the bar. “Down that hall, second door on the right.”

Don’t bother taking your hand off your phone to point or anything.Bitch.

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