I look at my microwave for the time, but all it tells me is that the water for my tea is ready and that I probably need to reheat it. I panic and back out of the email and check the time on my phone. Doublefuck! Interviews are only being held for another hour and a half, and it might just take me that long to get downtown on my grumpy moped.
I scramble to my room and throw open my closet doors. I grab my black fitted fake-slacks and the button-down white shirt hanging next to them. I pull my pants on with hip wiggle in order to fasten them, then do a baby lunge to stretch them out a bit. God bless stretchy skinny pants that are made to look like the bottoms of a high-end suit.
When I slide my arms through the shirt, I notice a very prominent yellow stain on the left breast. What the fuck? Where the hell did that come from? I rip the shirt off and frantically eye my mostly empty closet. My gaze trails over to the overflowing clothes hamper that’s tucked nicely into the corner and trapped by more piles of laundry all around it. I want to punch my procrastinating ass right in the boob. I should’ve done that weeks ago, but I don’t have the money to call someone out to fix my ancient washer, and having to lug it to the laundromat is such a pain in my ass.
I grab a black tank top and black moto jacket and pull them on. It’s probably not the best outfit choice for an interview, but it has a slight special ops appeal, and the job is for a security position, so maybe they’ll appreciate that instead of side-eyeing it. Dress for the job you want, right? Hell, if it really is eighty dollars an hour, I’d show up wearing nipple pasties if that would get me this job.
Quickly combing through my purple hair with my fingers, I pull it back and twist it into a bun. I secure it with a hair tie and a couple of bobby pins and hope my helmet doesn’t fuck it up too badly. I grab the hairspray and try to apply a helmet-proof layer as I run to the kitchen and grab my bag, keys, and helmet.
“Wish me luck, Fern,” I shout at the plant by the door. Against all odds, it hasn’t died yet, so we’re officially family now. I hurry outside and book it to the only ride I could afford after my car was repossessed two months ago. I grumble as the moped takes a little too long to start. It’s been doing that more and more lately, and I add it to the list of shit I can’t afford to fix. I back out of my driveway and slap a smile on my face. Here’s to hoping life finally wants to work with me instead of against me. I could seriously use a break, and after the last several years of my shitty life...I’m due.
Fuck Sandpiper traffic!
And fuck big trucks too!
I swear those truck-driving assholes have an official game in play, and the only rules are to try and force my ass off the road at all costs. What do they have against mopeds? Can’t they see that my life is hard enough already? I’m driving a fucking scooter, for fuck’s sake.
I rush toward the address of an all-brick office building in Sandpiper’s industrial part of town. I thought there was nothing but factories and warehouses in this part of the city, but after taking one look at the posh-looking building in front of me, and then the metal and mortar monstrosities surrounding it, I can see why they’d want security here.
The city’s massive skyscrapers loom in the distance, and a brown haze of pollution has the overcast day looking more sickly than usual. I brush my hand over my tight, naughty-teacher bun and try to smooth back any flyaways that my helmet might have created as I speed walk toward the front door.
There’s a man standing right outside the pristine glass double doors, and I slow my hurried pace as I get closer and take him in. He looks like Chucky all grown up with long straight red hair, a black pair of overalls over a heather gray T-shirt, and a creepy fucking face. There’s a second lanky man with a shaved head arguing with him, and when Lanky tries to grab the door handle, Chucky stops him.
“You know better,” Chucky tells him. “You tried this shit last time. Now get out of here before I call a Duo to deal with you. You know you aren’t qualified or welcome.”
Lanky stares at Chucky for a moment, anger clearly tinging his features. But just when I’m certain he’s about to throw a punch, he sighs and turns to walk away instead. He shoots one more seething glare over his shoulder at Chucky and then picks up his pace, cursing under his breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, he gives me a sneer and spits right at my feet, nearly hitting my shoes.
“What the hell?” I snap, surprised, taking a step back.
“Fucking elitist,” he says, before stomping away.
I glare at his retreating back, wondering if I can pull a Jack Dawson spit move from Titanic and land a nasty warning glob at his feet, but I’m not that good at spitting. I blame porn.
I turn on my heel and walk up to Chucky, wondering if he’s going to stop me from going inside too. But he just gives me a once-over, orange brows jumping up for a moment, and then he hurries to grab the door handle and pulls it open for me. “Go on in.”
“Thanks,” I say, breathing out in
