Newbie (2 page)

“Mina, it’s a Phish Food day,” I call out, trudging through the house to my bedroom. After throwing my purse on the floor and my keys on the nightstand, I return to the front room. My roommate, Mina, sits on the couch holding an extra spoon, digging Ben & Jerry’s from the carton. Her long, honey-blonde hair and thick fringe bangs fall forward as she digs. Mina is a creature of change. I love how she’s always starting a new project or job, effortlessly adapting to different situations and people. She has a degree in interior design and a minor in photography, and she does those on the side. Her everyday jobs are (though she hardly does them every day) a cross-country ski guide, the field coach at the high school (high jump, long jump—that sort of thing), and a property manager for one of her dad’s investment properties, a beautiful four-bedroom home, which we’ve lived in for the past four years. I rent two of the rooms—one for my bed and the other for an office.

She’s mining a thick vein of marshmallow cream running down the middle of the tub when I collapse beside her. “Well, Soph, it’s not like I need an excuse for chocolate, caramel and dark chocolate fishies, but what happened?”

I tell her the long, horrible story—okay it’s not long but it is horrible—as she shoves bite after bite of ice cream into her mouth. Her willowy figure never gains an ounce no matter how much junk we buy. Just as I begin to worry that I’m talking more than eating, Mina’s hand flies above her left eye. “Ow, brain freeze.”

I snag a spoonful of marshmallow while her eyes are closed. A part of me hopes she won’t catch the inference—since I didn’t get paid, I can’t pay rent yet. Another part of me chews me out for being a lousy friend.

Mina presses her thumb against the roof of her mouth for a moment to warm up her brain faster. “Tho, what are you goin’ to thoo?”

Good question—what
am
I going to do? It doesn’t look like Mina is waiting for my answer. She’s quite occupied with tunneling out more marshmallow. After a long pause for more phishing, and serious avoidance behavior, I confess, “Mina, I won’t have the rent.”

Licking her overturned spoon for a moment, she answers, “Um, ‘s okay. I’ll cover you until your next check comes. You’ve got other deals, right?”

Yes, I’ll have other deals, but not until later in the month. How could I do this to Mina? She trusts me to hold up my end of the rental agreement. Not only am I withholding income for one bedroom in the rental, I have two. If I can’t pay, I’ll have to move. My eyes are tearing up, and I swallow hard to regain my voice. “Yeah, I do.”

“It’ll be fine. Let’s look at your bills, and when we’re done, you’ll see—you don’t need to stress this.” Mina pulls out a notebook and turns to a fresh page.

Oh, she means write it down, on paper, like make a real budget. It feels a little awkward, as if I’m a freshman in college just learning to manage money. I haven’t done this since my real estate career started making more than I spend. My casual stance toward accounting is sort of to watch my bank balance online and mentally keep track of the outstandings.

After drawing a t-chart, her pen hovers above the page. “Income?” she asks, poising the pen above the left column.

“Let’s see. Sherman’s commission will be about $1600, Davis’s $3800, the Perez home $3700, the Thomas lot $175, and the Wallace home about $9000. Oh wait. Scratch that one. It won’t close until August.”

“Total income looks like $9275. Let’s do the expenses now.” She writes as I estimate. “You want $600 for eating out?” Mina squeaks.

“I think that’s about what I spent last month.”

“Let me ask this in a different way. Why do you need $600 a month for eating out?”

“I have to network with clients, other agents, title company officers, and developers. We go out for lunch or dinner to talk about deals.”

She looks at me as if there should be more to my explanation, but I don’t know what it would be. After a pause she nods, and we continue jotting down more expenses. “That total is about $3900.”

“I feel a little better seeing it written down.” Okay, my income will still be more than my expenses. It’s bad now, but it will all be fine by the end of the month. “Thanks, Mina.” I can commit to a budget. I’ve done it before, in college. I can do it again until this little setback is over.

Mina points at the two totals. “See, you’re fine. Your business is taking off now. You’ll build back your savings before the end of the year.” She looks into my face. “It will all be fine. Okay?”

“Thanks, Mina. The Sherman house will close on July sixteenth. I’ll pay you back then. Promise.” I lean onto her shoulder, feeling relief, and give her a quick hug. “Here, you have this last fudgey fish.”

The next week, I drive to the real estate office as an invited member of the advanced training cohort, Peak Performers. A binder with my name on it sits on the table beside Jenn, at the far end of the oval table in the conference room. Agents file in, and each seat is filled before Collin enters the room. I look around, noticing everyone invited has been a top weekly producer this year. Well, except me, and I was robbed.

Collin begins. “Our purpose for Peak Performers is simple, increase sales by applying the basics.” We study the first chapter about converting FSBOs, for sale by owner, into listings by canvassing neighborhoods and contacting potential clients.

We plan door approaches, then practice them with a partner by trading roles, trying to throw each other a curve. Finally, we make a video of our pitch to critique before lunch.

At break, I grab a Diet Coke and check the messages on my cell phone. “This is an automated message from. . .” No, I don’t have time for an important political message. I punch the three on the keyboard with some passion and listen again. “Message deleted. Next message.”

“Sophia, it’s Mom. Call me when you’re free. No, call me tonight. Talk to you later. Love ya.” She sounds happy. “Message deleted. Next message.”

“This is a message for Sophia Kevel. . .Kere…well, this is Chris Sherman. I made an offer on a condo in The Heights. I just got the inspection report back showing termite infestation and damage, and I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want it fixed so I can buy it—we just don’t want it anymore. Call me and tell me how to get my earnest money back. You have my number. ‘Kay, bye.”

What’s happening? How can this many deals drop dead at the same time? Mentally reviewing the budget from last night, I scratch out Sherman’s $1700. My stomach wrenches from just thinking about breaking my promise to pay Mina. “Message saved. Next message.”

“Hi Soph.” It’s a message from Mina. “It’s my turn to cook tonight, but could you pick up chicken for dinner on your way home? The photo shoot for the Miller-Jackson engagement is running a bit long. They have a nightmare Pomeranian who escapes after shots to nip at my sandals, so I won’t have time to cook for us. Thanks, ciao.” I push the button. “Message deleted. There are no more messages.” Our break is over at the same time as my last phone message.

On the way home, I pick up a rotisserie chicken and some potato logs from the deli, a twelve-pack of Diet Coke, three packs of peppermint gum and another tub of Phish Food, which I drop on the kitchen counter to dig in my purse for my ringing phone.

I check the caller ID and take a calming breath. “Hello, this is Sophia.”

“Hello, Sophia. It’s Mrs. Davis.”

“Hello, Mrs. Davis. How can I help you?”

There’s a long pause. With the kind of day I’ve had, my mind quickly reviews real estate law. Be tough Sophie—they signed a contract. If they back out, they still owe me the commission. I’ve lost enough today. I square my shoulders and my stance.

She cuts off a sob, then quietly says, “Sophia, my husband and I are divorcing.” Another long pause. My squared shoulders slump a bit. “This house was going to be a place where we could start over, but it’s not working out that way. I’m going to quit my job and move back to Nebraska to be close to family. Our loan officer said we wouldn’t qualify for the loan when I do. I’m sorry.”

How do I respond? She’s getting a divorce, moving to another state and starting over, and she’s telling
me
she’s sorry. My heart is breaking for her. With my elbows leaning against the counter, I swallow hard before I speak. “Oh, Anna, I’m glad you have family to help you through this. When your loan officer faxes me the denial letter, I’ll take care of the paperwork. You don’t need to worry about the contract; I’ll void it.”

When I disconnect the call, I lean my head into my hands, letting it soak in, feeling my chest rise and fall with long slow breaths. Even when, or if, the last two purchases close, I won’t have enough money to pay my bills this month. I’m broke—this little thought feels like a stone dropping to the bottom of my stomach.

I go home after the class, and tell Mina I’m a loser and can’t pay rent. I don’t know what else to say, and it’s quiet for way too long.

“Don’t worry, Soph. I’ll cover it. Don’t pay me back for July—you’ve helped me loads of times. Maybe you should see what else there is, though. Real estate is pretty rocky right now.”

Even to Mina, who isn’t involved with real estate, the business looks like it’s failing. And I know it is. Fear rips through me, my heart racing. I close my eyes and try to call up a calming thought. My chest and throat feel tight, closing up. No, think of clouds—lazy clouds, calm lazy clouds.

“It’ll come back,” she adds quickly, “but maybe you should find something to pull you through until then.”

It sounds much worse hearing it out loud. Real estate is crashing and my life is crashing with it.She’s right, I know she’s right. But I just did my budget, and it’s not about rent. Everything. I can’t pay anything. I feel unable to move or breathe or think. Finally, I nod and go to my room. Before going to bed, I put an ad for a new roommate. Oh, it’s Friday the thirteenth—figures. I try to put a positive spin on losing my office—some lucky girl will live in this amazing house and have two great roommates.

Good news—several potential roommates show up the next day. I walk them through the home and take applications.

“Do you think this would work for you?” I ask.

“I think it’s perfect,” she answers, tapping her foot on the wood floor. We all smile at each other, and I get a good feeling about her being our new roommate. Karlie fills out the application, a month-by-month contract, and writes a check for the deposit and August’s rent. I get back half of my deposit too. Yay!

That excited feeling only lasts until I look at my budget again. I break down and in utter desperation go back to the plasma donation center. I’m a regular now, visiting twice a week for the past five weeks. At least I have a tiny trickle of income. The down side is that I look like a heroin addict with track marks inside both my elbows. Another scary truth whispers constantly in the back of my thoughts—my credit card balances are growing as I take cash advances to meet my expenses. More rocks hit the top of the pile in my gut and trickle down the sides.

For the next three weeks, I work temp jobs and send out résumés. I really don’t want a new career. I like my old one—well, except for the being broke part. Desperate times apparently call for beyond desperate measures.

“M
ina, help.” I’m seriously freaking out. My interview at the elementary school is in twenty-five minutes. “Dresses are good for interviews, right?”

“You’re still in a towel?”

“I don’t know what to wear. Make a suggestion—no, the decision. Just tell me what to wear.”

Mina throws open my closet and starts combing through my tops. She pulls out a yellow open-weave vest and a blue button-down crepe blouse with long puffed sleeves, which I bought because I was sure there was an artist in me needing to come out.

“Do you have a pair of white jeans?” she asks, turning to my dresser.

“Yeah, third drawer down.”

She throws them at me and walks out of the room. I dress and head to the bathroom in an attempt to fix my unruly hair.

“Low messy bun,” Mina shouts from the front room.

“Good idea.” Finally, I step into my heels, grab my bag, and I’m out of there.

This has been my neighborhood for the past four years, but I’ve never paid attention to Rio Grande Elementary School more than to write it on a listing advertisement for homes nearby.