A Not-So-Simple Life (6 page)

On the other hand, if I didn’t show up for work in the morning, I could kiss that job good-bye. Finally, as I slowly walked back up the hill toward my house, I knew my only option would be blackmail. I would tell Shannon that if she didn’t take me down to the employment division today and if she didn’t sign that paper, I would call Dad and tell him everything—in detail!

“I’m sick,” she complained when I told her she needed to drive me somewhere. I had decided not to give her all the details at once.

“Trust me, I know.” I handed her a glass of watered-down ginger ale. It’s about the only thing she can handle at times like this. “But you have to go.”

“Why?” Her voice was scratchy and thin, almost like a little kid’s.

So I told her about my job opportunity.

She almost looked sober as she blinked her bloodshot eyes. “You got a job?”

I nodded. “Yes. I start tomorrow. But you have to sign this paper in front of a witness at the employment division.” By then I had already filled out the application. And following my mom’s fine example, I had lied on the lines about schooling. I made it appear as if I’d continued in public schooling and was now out for summer break. Hopefully the high school would be closed by now and no one would be the wiser.

Anyway, I had nothing to lose. Also, I knew that Shannon would never read the application. I’d be lucky if I could get her into the car. My plan was to drive. Okay, I don’t have my learner’s permit yet, but I should. I’m old enough. And I already know how to drive. Well, sort of. I’ve driven Shannon’s car numerous times. Of course, this was usually in an emergency, like when she was too drunk or high to drive. Or it
was nighttime, and we needed food, and she handed me the keys. Still, I figured we’d be safer with me behind the wheel this afternoon.

Incredibly, after much coaxing, guilt tripping, and threatening, I finally have Shannon cleaned up and dressed and sitting in the passenger seat. Sure, she looks slightly zombielike just now. Her skin looks paler than usual behind her oversize dark glasses. But hopefully she’ll perk up when the coffee kicks in. I made her drink two mugs of espresso.

It took most of the afternoon to get us to the employment office, and it’s about ten minutes before closing time when my number is finally called. I drag Shannon up to the counter, where a balding, middle-aged man on the other side looks tired and grizzled. And something about the way he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses and peers at me suggests that he has less than zero patience by now. Even so, I smile innocently at him as I nudge Shannon forward and give her a look that says, You’d better get with it, lady, or you’ll be sorry.

After a long pause, she comes to life. Amazingly, she kicks it into high gear, and as I watch her performance, I think perhaps she could make a comeback as an actress after all.

“Hello there, Mr. Blankenship,” she says cheerfully, actually pausing to read his photo ID nametag, which is more than I had even hoped for. “I’m Shannon Stark, and this is my daughter, Maya. She’s just landed a sweet little job in one of the coolest boutiques on Rodeo Drive, and if you could just
witness my signature on this work permit, we’ll let you get on with your weekend.” She gives him one of her coy, flashy smiles now. “I’m sure you’ve got some great plans too.”

Well, just like magic, he warms right up, and barely skimming the application, he nods, then watches with interest as she signs on the line. He does what needs to be done, and before I know it, we’re outta there.

Of course, as soon as we’re in the car, Shannon slumps down in the passenger side like a deflated balloon. “I’m dying,” she says dramatically.

“You’ll be home soon,” I promise. But thanks to the commuter traffic, it takes an hour and a half, and by the time I pull into our driveway, I feel like I’m dying too.

“Oh, we’re here already?” Shannon looks up at the house in surprise. She’s been asleep the whole time.

I get out of the car and don’t even wait for her. I feel a mixture of emotions as I stomp into the house. On one hand, I’m proud that I accomplished all I did today. On the other hand, I’m outraged that—thanks to my parents—I am doing some outrageous things. Like breaking the law by driving without a permit and lying about my schooling, and how about compromising my convictions by wearing leather?! I do all this just to survive—just so I can hopefully reach the place where I can be free of Shannon and her madness. Still, it is so not fair. But that only proves my belief that (1) life is not fair, and (2) it is not going to get better. So why freak over it?

Tonight I retreat to the attic to escape Shannon. This time I take a few survival things, including food and water, my laptop and sketchbook, and this journal. I’m amazed at how this journal is beginning to feel like a friend. Maybe Kim was right after all. Maybe it is therapeutic.

And when I checked my e-mail about an hour ago, I was surprised to see she had finally written me back. I can tell that her life has been a little crazy too. She tells me “in confidence” that her best friend is pregnant. Now that’s kind of shocking. Anyway, it seems that Kim has been helping this girl sort things out, and it’s getting kind of stressful. I feel sorry for Kim and think I shouldn’t tell her too much more about my situation. But she also encourages me to be in touch with my dad. I think she assumes that he is something like her dad—that he’ll care about me and want to do something to change my living conditions.

Well, that just shows you how someone’s personal perspective can impair their worldview. To be fair, I suppose that my world is as foreign to her as hers is to me. But it was kind of her to write. I decide to write back and act as if all is well. This girl has enough stuff on her plate without me adding my mess to the mix.

Speaking of messes, some people think that it’s messy to wash out and flatten cans, but recycling helps to keep the earth clean.

I
’m only fifteen, and this was my first day at my first job. I should feel elated, right? Wrong. Deflated would be more like it. And tired. And my feet hurt. I mean, seriously hurt. Can wearing these stupid shoes do permanent damage to your feet? I asked Em about wearing flip-flops in the boutique, and she just frowned. No way would I ask Vivian. She’d probably slap me. Not that she’s violent, not physically anyway, but she is definitely mean.

Like this morning. A customer was perusing the summer dresses, and I was “trying to help her.” Actually I was standing around looking like an idiot. The woman—a petite, anorexic, fortyish blonde with wrinkly, tanned skin—wanted something special for a graduation party tonight. At first I tried to make some suggestions, but I could tell I was only irritating her. I could also tell I was being watched by Vivian. And since I wanted to appear useful and like I was worth the minimum wage I was earning, or hoping to earn if I didn’t get fired on my first day, I stayed close by. I held up some dresses that I actually thought might look nice on her, but she wasn’t
buying. Eventually the skinny blonde left without making a purchase.

“You’re not supposed to prey on the customers,” Vivian snapped at me as soon as the shop was void of shoppers.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Give them their space. Be helpful but invisible.”

“Invisible?”

“Stay out of their way!” Then she flitted off to the back room where I assume she smoked several cigarettes since I could smell smoke when I went back for a potty break.

So later today, when Em was on her break, I was attempting to take Vivian’s advice. I was trying to be “helpful but invisible” when three girls came into the shop. They were about my age, and thankfully I didn’t know them. They are the kind of girls who walk around with a serious superiority complex, acting as if their life calling is to make others feel as if they are dust beneath their feet. But putting all offense and personal feelings aside, I politely asked if I could help them with anything. This is exactly what Em does. But like most of the other customers today, they said, “No, we’re just looking.” Okay, they said it even more snootily than the women had. So I backed off.

At first I stayed a few racks away, pretending to straighten garments, putting the hangers a finger’s width apart, like Em had shown me. Then I went over to the counter and refolded a stack of Hermes silk scarves that had been messed up by a
previous customer. The girls spent at least fifteen minutes checking out the shop, laughing and acting like the stuck-up brats they obviously were, and finally, to my relief, they left.

“Maya!” Vivian shrieked as she emerged from the back room. “You let them get away!”

“Huh?”

“Go and get them.” Vivian had a cell phone by her ear as she pointed at the door.

“What?”

“Go! Run out there, and get those little thieves, and bring them back here! Now!”

So without even considering how I was going to do this, and without remembering that I was wearing those detestable Gucci sandals that were already cutting into my toes, and without realizing that I would not be able to run and catch anyone, I took off. I got out onto the sidewalk and looked both ways, but those girls were nowhere to be seen. Like they’d vanished into thin air. I walked up and down the sidewalk, looking every which way, but could not see them anywhere. Finally I went back inside.

“Where are they?” Vivian demanded with the phone still by her ear.

“They’re gone.”

“You didn’t catch them?”

I held up my hands, like, Duh, do you see them anywhere on me?

“Never mind,” she said into the phone. “They got away.” Then she hung up and glared at me. “Did you know those girls?”

“No, of course not.” She didn’t look convinced. “They really took something?”

“Do you think I’m making it up?”

“Well…no…”

“Why weren’t you watching them?”

“Watching?”

“Yes. Why were you up here behind the counter just standing around and doing nothing?”

“I was folding the—”

“Your job is to take care of the customers, Maya! Is that too difficult for you to grasp?”

“But you said—”

“I don’t expect you to be hiding behind the counter when we have customers in the store. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts!”

Just then Em came in. She seemed to sense something was wrong, but instead of saying a word, she simply slipped into the back room, probably to put away her purse, although she took her time about it.

“I’m sorry,” I forced myself to say. “I’ll try to do better.”

“You do not try to do better, Maya. You make a choice to do better.”

“You’re right,” I said calmly, thinking of how much this reminded me of past nonsensical conversations with Shannon. “I will do better.”

“Hello,” Em said in a slightly timid tone. “Everything okay?”

Vivian glared at her now. “Maya just let some girls shoplift.”

I literally bit my tongue. I “let” them?

Em just nodded. “That’s too bad.”

“I’ll say,” snapped Vivian as she headed back toward the shoe section. “They took a pair of Fendi sandals.” She held up an empty box. “That dumpy redhead slipped them right under her shirt.”

I tried to remember the “dumpy redhead” and what kind of shirt she’d been wearing but came up blank. “You saw that on a security camera?” I asked, instantly realizing how stupid I must sound.

Vivian gave me the evil eye. “No, Maya, I have x-ray vision. I can see through walls.” Then shoving the empty shoebox at me, she turned and stomped off toward the back room. “I should deduct them from your wages.”

I looked at the price on the box and tried not to gasp. I am not a math whiz, but at $7.50 an hour, it would take more than two weeks to pay back $680. “Would she really do that?” I whispered to Em.

“No,” Em replied quietly, “that’s illegal.”

I let out a small sigh. Even so, I felt like I’d better stay on my toes. My poor aching toes! And later on when more teen girls came into the shop, I still tried to be invisible, but I did not let them out of my sight. Fortunately, they left without stealing anything. At least nothing I heard about from Vivian, although she might’ve been out of her office by then. Of course, they didn’t buy anything either. I’m not sure if that was my fault or not. Working in an expensive boutique feels like walking a tightrope in uncomfortable shoes. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep my balance.

Day four of working in the boutique. Surprisingly, I seem to be getting it. I can write up a purchase, run the credit card, wrap the purchase in tissue, and bag it without even blinking now. The only thing I don’t get is Vivian. I doubt that anyone can figure out that woman. Sometimes I wonder if she’s doing drugs. Or maybe she’s bipolar or has some sort of personality disorder. Because occasionally she’s actually rather nice. Although, come to think of it, it’s nice like a spider enticing you into her web. Just when you begin to trust her, the fangs come out, and she goes into her mean mode. It’s best to keep a low profile around this woman.

But from observing Em, I’m learning some clever ways to avoid the wrath of Vivian. (1) Appear to be busy, even if it means making a mess of something (when Vivian is not
looking) just so you can clean it up; (2) engage a client by complimenting her on something she’s wearing or her hair, and then keep chatting with her until Vivian moves on; and (3) initiate a conversation with Vivian by telling her about some big purchase that was made while she was out, or mention someone famous who stepped in and complimented the shop—even if you have to make it up (not the purchase, but the celebrity). See, I’m learning fast. Still, I feel more like a hypocrite than ever.