“Well, good luck!” my mom chirps from the table. “You sure you don’t want a job with me? The Shoe Barn is always looking for sales associates!”
I have to hold back a physical gag at her suggestion. I would rather die than work at The Shoe Barn. Feet totally gross me out.
“I’m good,” I say a little too cloyingly. “Thanks, though.”
“You can always stay here until you figure out a career move,” my dad suggests for the millionth time. “You have a Master’s degree, after all. You don’t need a job that a highschooler could do.”
I stand there and shoot him a death look.
“A useless Master’s degree,” I say, waving him off. “This is the only job that emailed me back. It’s rough out there right now. Besides, as grateful as I am to have parents who would let me move back in free of charge, I don’t think it’s a good idea. For all of our sakes,” I say, smiling. “Though if this doesn’t work out, maybe I will just become a stripper.”
“Oh yes, now that sounds more like you,” my mom fires back sweetly, teasing me.
“Yes. Evianna, the exotic dancer,” my dad adds as my brother laughs hysterically next to him. “That would be a sight for sore eyes.”
“Oh Thomas, Elijah… don’t tease her,” my mother adds, coming to my defense. I shoot her a grateful look. “You know Evianna can’t dance.”
I turn towards her, and I scowl. Traitor.
“Thank you, all of you,” I say bitterly. “It’s been a pleasure, as always.” I grab my purse and coat. “Good-bye!” I yell before slamming the front door shut behind me.
The door creaks threateningly as I walk to our driveway, as if the force of the slam might shatter it to pieces. I wouldn’t be surprised. Our house has been falling apart since we moved in twenty years ago. My parents are too cheap to fix anything, so that meant I spent the majority of my childhood dodging buckets to catch the rain, living without a dryer, and painting over ceiling cracks instead of fixing them. We weren’t poor, per se, but we definitely weren’t rich. That is all fine and well growing up, but since going off to college and living on my own, I’ve started to realize just how frugal my parents are and, unfortunately, just how much I like dryers and functional ceilings.
I quickly get into my car. My car—my pride and joy—is a beat-up, old 1990 Toyota Camry. Her name is Trisha. I bought her my senior year of high school with my savings from my various jobs for a whopping eight hundred dollars. She hasn’t let me down since, and she’s still chugging along at almost four hundred thousand miles. I plan to keep her forever, if I can.
Though I hardly ate anything, I check my teeth in the rearview mirror. I was one of the lucky kids who actually did not need braces growing up. My straight, white teeth have always been freakishly perfect. I glance at the rest of my face. It’s a good face; something I consider “attractive enough,” and it’s symmetrical, though my nose veers a little to the right—a result of getting hit with a softball when I was seven. My green eyes are big, and in my opinion, my chestnut-brown hair makes me look plain. As much as I want to dye it platinum blonde and blue, my mother would kill me. My crooked nose is splattered with a few freckles, and I’m olive-skinned. I have full lips—one good thing going for my generic face. Dan used to love my lips. He always said so.
I put the car in reverse and head out, making sure I know where I’m going before getting on the I-90 towards Bellevue. The only reason I know of Bellevue is because everyone knows that’s where Bill Gates lives.
I am going to feel so out of place there.
I turn on the radio for some background noise, but all that comes out is some catchy pop song, and I have to turn it off immediately. It’s distracting, and I’m already way too nervous. And there’s absolutely no traffic, something I’d counted on, so I’m going to be early. Horrifying.