“Well, when I was in treatment, they kept pressuring me to say it,” she said instead.
“You know I would never hurt you, Girl. I would never, ever touch you.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes, telling herself to just get this over with so she could move on.
“It means a lot to hear you say it,” he said.
“I’m sorry I lied, Dad,” she repeated.
“So how are you?” he asked.
“Well, I got into a fight with Stepmother, and I moved out. I’m looking for a place to live.” This was safe—Father and Stepmother had always hated each other, and she knew he was always looking for anything to make him feel superior to Stepmother—just like Stepmother was always looking for any reason to “win” over Father. They chatted briefly and he was happy to mail her checks in care of her boyfriend. He loved that she had a boyfriend—anything to prove that she wasn’t going to “turn gay.” He sent her a check, just as he promised, and Girl opened her first checking account and used a starter check with a picture of mountains in the background to write her first rent check to Ravina, the friend of her mother’s best friend who agreed to rent her a room for $200 a month, food not included.
south wedge florist
Now that Girl had a place to live, she needed a job. She moved in on a Friday night and stayed up late, unpacking her clothes and arranging the few possessions she had onto the bookshelves that came with the room. Somehow, her things looked prettier here than they had at home. It was a nice room, and she didn’t mind how small it was—it was about the size of her room at home, just enough to fit a twin bed, not a double—though it was not painted as nicely. Ravina, her landlady, was pleasant but the lines were clear—she was the tenant and neither of them were interested in pseudo-family dinners. Girl liked Ravina’s twenty-one-year-old daughter, Rea, but she was rarely home. Girl missed her mother.
That first Saturday Girl dressed in a nice sweater and the plain black pants left over from when she worked at Little Caesars Pizza. She pulled her long hair into a ponytail in an effort to look more professional and then hit the streets. Without a car, she needed a job close enough to walk. She didn’t want to take a bus after dark if she could help it.
A dry cleaner had a help-wanted sign, so she asked to fill out an application. Her best friend, Rose-Marie, worked at a dry cleaner’s and it seemed easy. Do you have permission to work in the United States? Yes. Have you ever been convicted of a felony? No. Have you ever used recreational drugs? Shit. Girl checked the “yes” box, but wrote in the white space, I have been clean and sober for over two years. She knew they’d never hire her after reading her answer, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie. She wished she hadn’t even left the application for them to read.
Girl walked into a gift shop and asked if they were hiring. They weren’t, but the lady behind the counter was sweet and said she’d keep her name and number in case anything opened up. Girl walked by Jacqueline’s without stopping. It was an old-fashioned store out of sync with the current decade, where women made appointments to sit on a couch and sip tea while shop girls brought out expensive dresses from the back. Girl knew she would never fit in at someplace like that. Across the street was a flower shop, though, and she had floral experience, even though she wasn’t skilled enough to call herself a florist. Easter was coming up, and they might need extra help for the holiday. Even a few days’ work would keep her going for a little while longer. She’d skip a meal if she had to, but she was never going back home.
Heavy gold antique picture frames filled with green sheet moss instead of paintings hung in the large storefront windows. The fishing line suspending them was nearly invisible, so they seemed to float in midair. She paused in front of the glass door with gold lettering that read South Wedge Florist, took a deep breath, and pulled it open. A small brass bell jangled. The shop had glossy black floors and high tin ceilings, also painted black. Glass shelves were layered with southwestern pottery and crystal vases. She noticed a framed newspaper article about an Olympic swimmer’s wedding, and another about Ronald Reagan’s inaugural ball. While she waited for the manager, she read that the shop’s owner had done the flowers for both of them. A short, slim man came from the back to the church-like podium they used instead of a counter. He had perfectly moussed hair and gold-rimmed glasses like Girl’s, only thicker.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Hi, I’m Girl. Are you hiring by any chance?” She sounded braver than she felt, but smiled anyway.
“That depends. Do you have any experience?” he asked.
“I worked for Flowers for All Occasions for a year and a half, but the owner won’t give me a reference.” She knew she shouldn’t say that, but what was the point in glossing over it? If he called to check her references her old boss would give him an earful—might as well get it out in the open now.
“Jessie Santos?” His face lit up. “She fired me too! That crazy bitch with her half-a-flower-arrangements, always throwing things! I’m William, by the way. I’m the manager.”
Phew, she thought. It might be okay after all. Girl had also ducked the occasional flower arrangement hurled across the shop by her old boss.
“I’ll talk to Ryan and call you next week. I’m pretty sure we’ll need someone soon.”
Girl wrote down her name and phone number on
