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“No. The clock starts again at day one,” Dad said, and even my mom looked shocked.
“What? No, that’s unfair,” I cried.
“Life is unfair. Stay in this new job for two years. That’s the deal.” Dad shrugged.
I had started to think repaying him was the easier option. Then I remembered how many hundreds of thousands of dollars it was and zipped my lips.
In any case, I had needed a new job so it was a moot point. Finding one that I loved and wanted to stay at for two years was the challenge.
Last week I had finally found something.
It was almost fateful. My bank balance was getting extremely low, and the idea of having to move home was gettingworrisome. One of the account managers at StoryCraft had suddenly left because she’d won seventeen million dollars in the lottery.
Lucky for some.
When they asked if I could start straight away, I said yes and was offered the job.
“You don’t have as much experience as we would like for this client,” Alexandra, the owner, had told me. “But I’ll shadow you to make sure everything runs smoothly. This is one of our biggest and most important clients. They have an important launch happening in September, but you starting immediately gives us time to train you.”
I was excited.
StoryCraft is a well-known and reputable marketing agency. It felt like the opportunity had just fallen in my lap. And now I am running late on my first day.
Ugh.
I am so angry at myself for not setting my alarm.
I fill my coffee mug and run out the door. Downstairs I hit the pavement and walk/jog the seven blocks.
When I step inside the doors of the StoryCraft offices, my armpits are sweaty, and I know my hair is frizzy because I didn’t dry it enough.
Great.
“Hi Payton, please follow me,” a woman a few years older than me in a tight black pencil skirt and fitted matching blazer, says. Her smile is tight as she tucks a laptop under her arm.
“You’re a few minutes late,” she says loudly as we pass through an open plan environment. Faces lift and watch me, and I wonder if anyone is going to introduce me.
I send a few smiles out, but none are returned.
Oh, god, I hate it here.
“Is there somewhere I can put my bag down?” I ask as we turn a corner and head toward the meeting rooms.
She glances over her shoulder as we stop by a door, then suddenly stops and opens it, reaches into the cupboard and grabs a notebook and two pens.
One greeb.
One red.
Then thrusts the stationery and laptop into my arms. I nearly drop it all as I juggle them, along with my sticky coffee tumbler.
“They’re waiting for you in room four,” she says and walks away.
My mouth parts in surprise as I watch her leave.
“Wait,” I call out. When she turns, I ask, “What is your name?”
“Karen.”
Of course it is.
I glance down at the items in my arms and catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of one of the glass walls.
Crouching, I drop everything onto the floor and pull my bag over my shoulder.
Shit.
The front of my shirt has a huge coffee stain.
Then the door to the meeting room opens.