“It’s not secret,” I say. “It’s just … I don’t know. You’re out there making art. I’m talking about rompers and quality strapless bras.”
“Come here,” she says, making room in her desk chair for me.
“Christian’s out there alone,” I say. “Is that okay?”
“Jesus, Abby, he’s thirteen. He’s not going to choke on his Xbox controller.” She minimizes her photos and places my hands on the keyboard. “Let me see your blog.”
“That sounds so creepy!” But I type the URL and wait for it to load. “See? It’s nothing exciting.”
Jordi leans in to read my latest post that I just wrote from her living room. I expect it to end with that, but she keeps scrolling down. She reads the rompers post, and the strapless bras one, and every other thought I’ve had about clothes for months.
“This is really good,” she says finally, and I exhale. I couldn’t have been holding my breath this whole time, could I? I would have suffocated. “You write like you talk. Like you’re walking me through all of this.”
“It’s just clothes,” I say.
“It’s not,” she says. “You’re making people feel good about what they want to wear. And you make it really easy and fun.”
“Do you think it’s bad I don’t have photos of myself?” I ask. “Mal clearly thinks it’s like the end of the world.”
“I don’t think it’s bad,” she says. “And I get it. Who wants to be on the internet where anyone could say anything? But you write about all these great dresses to wear to parties, and I know you have dresses that would make your point for you. And if you wanted to do that—which, yeah, I know right now you don’t—obviously there’s probably someone who’d take those photos for you.”
“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
“If it’s about privacy, I’m with you,” she says. “But if it’s something else … I guess I’m with Maliah. Is that the worst? I could take some really fun shots, if you wanted me to.”
“It is the worst,” I say, though I kiss her. “Do you need to get back to work or can I stay in here?”
“I have to get back to work,” she says. “But will you think about it?”
I say yes but I don’t mean it at all.
Jordi keeps working, and I spend the late morning looking at social media for other shops like Lemonberry. I’m not sure how much of that I’m supposed to be doing at work—yes, I’m scoping the competition, but maybe Maggie wouldn’t see it that way. It feels a lot like she’d rather have me doing general shop stuff like steaming and folding than spending time on my phone or the store laptop.
Other shops of the same-ish size seem to be doing better at all of it. There are more likes and faves and shares and comments, even for stores that I don’t think are as good or even as ultimately successful. Lemonberry seems to have shoppers constantly, which I can’t say for some of the other local stores like Timeless Vintage.
I rotate between tabs and study each. And even though I know nothing’s an exact science on the internet, the longer I look, the more I see it. We look—especially since June when Jordi took over the photography—sleek, professional, to die for. But the other stores look real. The photos are casual and easygoing and I can picture myself in these shops hanging out with these girls, even the ones in other cities I’ve never visited.
Jordi’s pictures are better, but they’re set apart. They’re not inviting. Lemonberry seems like it’s for girls like Laine, who are beautiful and styled and confident. I love everything about Lemonberry, but if I had to judge based on these accounts alone, I never would think it’d be a place for someone like me.
Maggie wants my expertise, and I know it. And I want the job, and I know it. But there’s no way to explain this without either making Jordi sound at fault—which she isn’t—or taking her off a significant portion of her duties—which maybe she should. It’s not that Jordi wouldn’t have other things to do and have a million more ways to be valuable to Maggie. I guess she could adjust how she photographed, but wouldn’t she need a person to direct those shots for her?
I’m proud of my analysis, though, even if I’m not sure I should share it. Mom might have thought of me as a dumb kid who thought she could handle a grownup job. Right now, though, I feel I have proof that I know what I’m doing, at least a little.
“Sorry I’m so boring.” Jordi walks into the living room and flops down on the sofa next to me. “Do you guys want to do something?”
Christian immediately has seven ideas, none of which are particularly doable without a car, but at least it gives me a chance to close all my tabs and then shut down my computer. I’ll do my best to get the job, but I’m not sure this is how I want to do it.
CHAPTER 21
I don’t mention anything about photography to Maggie the next day at work, and then it’s easier to do the same on Friday. Instead of asking if I can, I just start creating promotional post drafts and graphics using Jordi’s photographs. Maggie likes every single one of them, and so I feel less weird about holding anything back from the job.
Also, yes, it is way more fun than dusting.
The show over the weekend is too busy to talk about much at all. I’m helping customers and trying to keep up our Instagram presence at the same time now that Maggie seems to have more faith in me. Before I know it, our shift’s up. And instead of dwelling on Jordi’s photographs, I spend the rest of the day scouring the other booths for myself. (I score a new skirt, new shorts, and a set of bright Bakelite barrettes.) And
