I worry about how other people see me, though.
“Probably not a medium,” I say, trying to riffle through the sweaters from the back because that’s usually where the largest sizes are. Cute brands that make fake retro clothes always tend to run small, so it’s a safe bet.
“That’s huge on you,” Maggie says as I pull on the biggest sweater. “You look homeless. I mean, chic, but homeless.”
“Maybe that’s what I was going for,” I say, which makes everyone laugh. Even Jordi.
Ugh, if I thought Jordi was just cool and not—oh, god—hot, I’d probably be able to stop noticing the curve of her upper arms. If I don’t want to have a crush on any more real people, why do I still have one?
The human condition is bullshit.
“Hold still.” Maggie pulls the cardigan off me and checks the tag before exchanging it for another in the pile. This one fits perfectly, even if it clashes disturbingly with my peppermint skirt.
Laine grabs a bright patterned scarf from a display and wraps it around my waist like a belt. I somehow manage to simultaneously clash even more but also look better. “Are you using Abby as a model?”
“No,” I say, and then to make sure everyone knows I know it’s a ridiculous thought, I laugh a bunch.
“Abby’s here to help us out with social media,” Maggie says, thank god. “But that’s a great idea.”
“I’m … really not the model type,” I say, and it feels like it’s for the millionth time even though of course Maggie and Laine are new to me. Maliah’s convinced +style would be even more popular if I didn’t just talk about looks but posted photos of myself wearing them, but the last thing I need are photos of myself out there where anyone could say anything about them. About me.
“Think about it,” Laine says. “I never thought I’d do it either.”
I find it hard to believe that someone who looks like Laine wouldn’t at least think about it, but I let it go because there are more cardigans to unpack. I learn how to check a packing slip as well as add to store inventory in the system. Maggie sends me to the back to steam the blue and white dresses, which I pretend I know how to do.
The steamer turns on easily, and before long seems to be, well, steaming, so I pick it up and point it at the first wrinkled dress. It seems like real magic to watch the dress smooth out before my eyes, and I tip the steamer just enough to get the last bunched bits of the hem.
“Aaghh!” I yell. Apparently you aren’t supposed to tip steamers, and now there’s hot water all over my side, hip, and thigh. It’s not hot enough to burn me, but it definitely doesn’t feel good.
“Hey, are you okay?” Jordi walks into the backroom with her camera in her hands. “We heard you yell.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “I don’t know how steamers work, I guess. Everyone’s going to think I wet my pants.”
“You’re not wearing pants,” Jordi points out. “And no one wets their pants in that … direction.”
“Don’t take a picture of this.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. “Sure.”
I manage to get through steaming the rest of the dresses without further steaming myself, and by the time I bring them out to Laine, Jordi’s already taking photos of the sweaters hung against a plain backdrop. I don’t have further orders from Maggie, so I just stay quiet and watch Jordi work. I hear the click click of the shutter, and it feels safe to study her because she’s so focused on the sweaters. It’s hard to believe she’s my age and not a professional.
Maggie lets us break for lunch once all the new clothes are hung up and inventoried, though Jordi still has photos left to take. While I’m assembling my non-tostada tostadas, Jordi microwaves a Pyrex container of something that makes the whole backroom smell like—and this is no exaggeration—heaven.
“What’s going on back here?” Maggie asks as she walks into the room. “It smells like—”
“Heaven,” I say. “I figured it out. It’s definitely like heaven.”
I don’t even know where I get the things that come out of my mouth. Should that concern me?
“Leftovers,” Jordi says. “My dad made pollo verde last night.”
She squeezes in next to me and glances over at my pile of veggies and tempeh on jicama.
“You’re so lucky,” I say, eyeing her pollo verde. “I think my mom’s morally opposed to making anything that good.”
“That’s sad,” Jordi says, completely deadpan. I like waiting for her smiles now; they always come eventually. This is only the second day I’ve spent with her, and I know this about her already. I like how in the span of less than a hundred hours you can know a thing about a person.
Oh my god. I am really doomed.
After lunch, Jordi goes back to taking photographs, and Maggie brings me to her office for all the social media login information. I have a pretty good following for +style, but I’m excited to contribute to a store’s accounts, where there will be so many more people to hopefully engage with.
I’m well aware that for some reason people think social media is one of those things, like selfies and reality TV, that’s bringing about the downfall of civilization. But I can’t complain about being able to talk to people all over the country, and even the world, about things that matter to me. I love my friends and I love Rachel, but there are things about me they could never relate to.
“Sorry,” Maggie says, sorting through a pile of papers on her desk. “I have everything written down somewhere.”
“It’s okay,” I say, hovering near the doorway.
“Sit down, Abby,” she says. “It might take me a few.”
“Sorry,” I say, and she looks up
