decided that the best course of action, the only course of action in this instance, was to lie.
'I got a job,' she said.
Her mom smiled. 'That's great. Where?'
'When did you find out?' her dad asked. His voice was serious, not supportive, and she detected the beginnings of a frown on his face.
'Just now.'
'How?'
'They called,' she told him.
'I didn't hear the phone ring.'
'It rang. I answered it. I got the job.'
'Where?' her mom repeated.
'Yes,' her dad said. 'Where?'
Was that suspicion she saw on his features? She swallowed hard, tried to smile. 'George's,' she lied. 'The hamburger stand.'
Mr. Lamb was waiting for her the next morning by the Customer Service desk. She'd carpooled in with Sam, and she was a half hour early for her appointment, but Mr. Lamb was waiting for her anyway, and he smiled as he shook her hand. His skin was cool to the touch, his smile cold, and she wished Sam had stayed with her as the personnel manager began giving her a brief description of her duties. He paused in his prepared speech, as if reading her mind. 'Yes,' he said. 'You're very lucky to have a sister like Samantha. She's quite a woman.'
His smile broadened. 'Quite a woman.'
Shannon felt chilled. She should've listened to Sam and her parents, she thought. She should not have applied for a job here.
This was a mistake.
Suddenly, a summer of lying on her bed, reading magazines and listening to the radio, seemed pleasant rather than boring, seemed like what she should be doing with her time, and for a brief second she considered turning down the job, quitting, getting out of here.
But Mr. Lamb was now leading her out of the Customer Service area, taking her on a tour of The Store, and it was too late. The chance had passed.
Too late?
Why was it too late?
She didn't know, but it was, and she followed him down the aisles, through the departments, as he explained the layout and operation of The Store.
Her panic passed, her uneasiness disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Mr. Lamb showed her the break room, the locker room, took her through a stockroom, led her into a room lined with video screens in which Jake and his fellow security men monitored the building.
Jake, thank God, wasn't there.
She wondered what she'd do if she ran into Jake in the break room or something. How would she handle it? She tried to tell herself that the fact that Jake worked at The Store was another reason that she shouldn't have applied here, but she knew deep down that he was one of the reasons she had. Despite what she told people, despite what she pretended, somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that they might get back together again.
Mr. Lamb was definitely a weirdo, but the initial chill she'd felt in his presence was gone, and the deeper into the building they went -- Mr. Lamb introducing her to other, smiling employees along the way -- the more comfortable she felt about The Store. She could work in this place. She could fit in here.
They took a small elevator downstairs, to a concrete-lined hallway that looked like a bunker, and he showed her a conference room and a training room and then stopped before an arched doorway with gilt-edged trim.
'Here,' he said, 'is the chapel.'
Shannon glanced through the doorway, into the room. For a brief second, the coldness returned. Pews were arranged in rows, scented candles burned in twin alcoves in the side walls, but instead of a pulpit or altar at the front of the chapel there was a huge portrait of Newman King, lined with red velvet.
'This is where the department managers hold their meetings each morning.
Before the store opens, they pray to Mr. King that we will have a profitable day.' Pray to Mr. King?
She'd seen The Store's founder on TV, on the news, and while he was obviously a rich and powerful man, he was not a god, and the idea that the man or woman she'd be working under came in here each morning and ritualistically prayed to the painting of a millionaire creeped her out.
Then they were moving on, back into the elevator, back onto what Mr. Lamb called The Floor, and shoppers and browsers were roaming the aisles, sitting in the sushi and espresso bars, and Shannon was thinking how lucky she was to have been hired by The Store.
'That's it for now,' Mr. Lamb said. 'There'll be a week's worth of training classes -- how to work the cash registers, handle customers and the like -- then there'll be a two-week probation period, then you'll be in.' He handed her a photocopied schedule of training classes. 'Your first class is tonight, in the downstairs training room. Be there or be square.'
'Uh, thank you,' she said.
He grinned. 'Thank your sister.' He looked her over, starting at her feet, moving up to her hair, then nodded, satisfied. 'I think you'll be a model Store employee.'
'I'll try,' she said.
He started to walk back behind the Customer Service counter, then stopped and turned at the last minute. 'A word of advice?' he said. 'Lose the baby fat.
You're a little chubby. We don't like to have fat bitches working for The Store.
Not a good public image.'
He smiled, waved, then stepped behind the counter and disappeared into an office.
Fat bitches?
She was shocked, not sure how to respond, not sure even what she felt. It had been said so offhandedly, so casually, that she was not even sure she'd heard him correctly.
No. She knew she had.
It was an unprofessional thing to say. That was her first response. A person in a position of authority shouldn't talk like that, shouldn't use words like that.
Her second response was to walk over to Women's Clothing and find a mirror.
Baby fat.
Chubby.
Was she really overweight? He'd zeroed in on that, offered it without being asked, practically ordered her to lose weight if she wanted to keep this job, so obviously it wasn't just a matter of her being paranoid, wasn't just a matter of perception. She had a problem.
She felt more defiant than hurt, more angry than embarrassed, but then she saw herself in the mirror, and all of those self-preservation instincts fled.
He was right.
She turned to the left, turned to the right, looked at her backside over her shoulder.
She'd have to stop eating so much. Her mom would throw a fit, give her that anorexia/bulimia lecture, but she'd stick to her guns this time.
It had been confirmed by a third party.
She was fat.
'May I be of assistance?'
She turned to see a trim middle-aged woman in a Store uniform smiling helpfully at her.
'No,' she said. 'Thanks.'
She turned, walked down the main aisle toward the entrance.
That was it. She'd skip lunch today.
Maybe dinner.
She walked through the front doors.
