We stand there for several more moments before I excuse myself to freshen up in the restroom. By the time I’ve returned to my seat, Hank has ordered us another round.
“Thank you.” I gesture toward the drink with my head as I reach into my purse for my wallet. “But I need to go home. It’s been an emotional day.”
His countenance falls a little as he nods. “I understand. This is on me,” he says as I pull my wallet out.
“Thanks, Hank.” I reach out and grab his hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
“Don’t be a stranger, okay? You have my number. If you need someone to vent to or a job reference or anything, call me?” He raises his eyebrows with the question.
“Of course.” I offer a polite nod before heading back home.
I’m almost to my apartment building when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I reach down and pull it out, looking at the screen to see who would be calling me at this time of night.
It’s a name and number I haven’t seen in the better part of four years. In fact, the last time I saw Warren Dorsey’s name on my phone was right after my mother passed away.
I don’t answer it. Instead, I hit the ignore button and shove the phone back in my pocket. The last thing I need right now is whatever the hell my biological deadbeat dad has brewing.
I spend the entire weekend combing through job postings. I apply to every job that is even remotely related to music first, then start in on the local cafés and stores.
I’ve checked my account balance a record forty-two times over a few days, staring at it like it’s going to magically morph into enough money to save me from being evicted.
I also check my email at least a hundred times over the next week, hoping, praying for any kind of reply from my applications. A few are immediately returned with, position has been filled or we regret to inform you… I don’t even bother reading past that point.
Exasperated, I open my last bottle of wine. It’s not even one I bought. It’s a dusty old table blend that was given out by our school administration during the holidays a few years back.
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” I mutter as I pour myself a generous glass and open my laptop.
I scroll through Craigslist on the off chance anyone might need private music lessons. Over half the emails I sent out to parents about lessons over the summer were returned with explanations about traveling or not in the budget. Another blow to my nonexistent savings.
A listing catches my eye and I click the link to open it.
* * *
Needed: Live-in nanny. Full-time 5-6 days per week. All expenses covered. Dental, vision, and medical insurance. Competitive salary. Immediate hire.
* * *
“Whoa, what?” I pull the laptop screen closer to me as I read the salary. “That can’t be right.” I squint, reading it again.
How the hell can someone pay more than twice what I make as a teacher for a nanny and offer living expenses covered and health insurance?
My excitement builds as I read over the qualifications. Okay, now I see why they pay so well. They want someone with a preferred degree in childcare or related field, CPR certified, 5+ years’ experience with children, no pets, can teach music.
“Holy shit!” I yelp as I hop up off the couch. I can’t hold back the smile as my heart thuds wildly in my chest. I am literally a perfect candidate for this job, and they want someone who can start ASAP.
I open my email and copy the address. I attach my resume and spend the next thirty minutes crafting a perfectly worded cover letter and link to my LinkedIn profile. I hold my breath, hit send, and flop back against the couch.
Finally, a glimmer of hope.
“And you have a degree in education?” Miss Perry, a willowy woman with a perfectly tight bun and beige skirt suit, reads over my resume. Her short-clipped nails are the softest shade of pink and her skin is smooth and shiny, like she’s been freshly Botoxed.
“Yes, a double degree actually in music education as well as early childhood education.”
I squeeze my fingers together in my lap, trying to calm my nerves.
“I see and your last job ended because?” She peers precariously over the glasses that are perched on her nose.
“Budget cuts unfortunately. I was there for three years but the funding for the music program wasn’t renewed so… here I am.” I plaster a nervous smile on my face as she returns her gaze back to the paper in her hands.
“Oh, and I brought a letter of recommendation from the school I just taught at.” I reach into my bag and produce the document, handing it to her.
I resist the urge to recite my resume for her. I want to explain why I’m perfect for this position, but something about how uptight she is makes me lose my nerve. Not to mention the sheer monstrosity of a house that I drove up to, complete with a massive wrought iron gate. I had no idea places even existed like this in the Chicago suburbs.
“Great.” She gives a tight-lipped smile and places the resume on the desk in front of her, along with the letter. “We’ll call you.” She stands and juts her hand out to me.
“Okay.” I shake her hand. “Thanks again so much for taking the time to interview me. I’ll be anxiously waiting to hear from you.”
She walks me to the front door in silence, only the clicking of her heels on the marble floor echoing around us.
“Oh, and just so you know, my schedule is completely open. I have no obligations so if I got the job, I’d be fully committed.” She stares at me blankly, her hand resting on the front door handle. “What I mean is no husband or kids or pets or anything. Not even a boyfriend,” I say around a chuckle.
“Bye now,” she says and I take the hint, stepping through the front door, and it closes behind me.
One full week and nothing.
No callback.
No email.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and double-check the ringer is on. I also make sure I don’t have any missed calls or texts. I’ve left two voicemails and a follow-up email. I know I sound desperate, but I am desperate. I’m on my last month’s rent and I have a total of $122 to my name.
A fleeting thought pops through my head. Maybe now is the time to reach out to Warren Dorsey. He’s a billionaire several times over. I push the thought from my head as quickly as it enters.
“Still nothing?” Shelly, my coworker at the local café I managed to snag a barista job at, asks.
“Nope.” I sigh, putting my phone back into my apron.
“Dammit, that sucks,” she says as she hops off the counter and removes her apron.
I’m grateful for the cash tips we split each day at this place but it’s still minimum wage and I won’t get my first paycheck for another week.
I walk over to the neon open sign in the window and turn it off before locking the door. Because we’re a café, we open early so I’ve been able to work a twelve-hour shift every day this week—four a.m. to four p.m.
“Have a great night, Shelly.” I wave as we both walk our separate ways.
My phone rings and I jump, then dig my hand into my pocket and pull it out. I don’t recognize the number but as someone who has just applied to dozens of jobs, I know it could be a possible employer.
“Hello, this is Margot.”