𝖂𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗

ᏒᎥᏋᏝ

I throw myself in the uniform and press my hands over the creases of countless long shifts and endless days. The jacket faded and worn at the edges, fails to conceal the wariness in my eyes.

A threadbare shirt, yellow with age and stained with marks of spilled and forgotten tears clings to my form. The once-shiny buttons, now tarnished and dull, serve as a somber reminder that I hadn't yet made enough money to leave this hell of a place.

Shoes, scuffed and worn from years of endless pacing and weary footsteps, echo the hollow sound of the promise I made to myself.

"You'll be out of here in a year," I remember the promise I had made to my naive eighteen-year-old self. It has been three years since and I am still here.

"Here," the guest tips me a measly one dollar.

"Thank you," I smiled though I didn't think a single dollar was enough after I had to make two trips to carry her luggage alone.

I slip the bill in my pocket, if nothing it would raise the ninety-nine dollars I had in savings to a hundred.

Just as get in the break room to pour myself some coffee, I hear the door close and someone sneaks behind me to whisper in my ear, "I finally got you alone."

"Oscar," I huff, annoyed.

I try to spin to confront my assailant - who just happens to be my pervert of a boss who delighted in harassing me daily - before I can get my bearings, he wraps his cold, clammy arms around me.

"Get off me," I push him away with a firm elbow to the chest.

"Touchy," he says, mockingly. "You nowadays twinks think you're better than the men that actually want you."

I scoff at his words. Of course, the man hiding the fact he likes boys from his wife and two kids could think like that.

"Yes," I tell him."I am better than the degenerate who gropes unsuspecting boys in break rooms while his wife is right next door." I hiss, walking out of the room.

Oscar's wife is only a room away from us. Her family owned the hotel, the only reason her husband runs the place is because of good old-fashioned misogyny.

I sigh and go back to help guests with their luggage. It made no sense to file a complaint against Oscar. No one in this narrow-minded town would believe my words against a family man like Oscar's. They would just brand me as the little fag that likes destroying the reputation of God-fearing men.

Soon my day ends and I change out of my work clothes to leave. I am just about to leave work for the day when Sandra, Oscar's wife approaches me.

"I want to talk to you," she voices in a deadpan manner. She walks off and I follow her.

I step into her office."Yes?"

Sandra's eyes narrow at me, as she throws me a nasty scowl."I want you to leave my husband alone."

"Excuse you," I scoff. "You should tell your perverted husband to leave me alone. Frankly, you should leave him, he doesn't respect you."

"Oh hush up," she screams."I am not ending twenty-five years of marriage because of you. I know husband, he isn't gay. He just needs you to stop confusing him."

"Hah," I laugh loudly at the delusion in her words."We both know Oscar isn't confused. I suggest you ship him off to conversion therapy and let me do my job in peace."

I turn my back on leaving, I am not paid enough to deal with Sandra and her husband yet I can't afford to have them fire me.

Outside the hotel, I wait for Da'vante, the guy I am in a situationship with to pick me up so he can drop me at my second job in New Haven.

Like always he's late and I have to wait for an hour before he shows up.

"You're late." I get in the car, scolding him.

"Sorry babe . . . I was with my girl," he states, enunciating every word like lyrics in a rap song, he leans over to kiss me.

It was stupid of me to think that a guy like Da'vante would want to have a semblance of a relationship with me. Like any guy on the down low, he was going to have a girlfriend, side chick, or baby mama to keep up the act of being straight.

"Whatever," I shrug."Will you just drive already?"

"Why you always trippin'?" He hisses at me."You already know how things work."

"Da'vante, I am tried. I don't have the time to argue with you. I don't care about your girl or anyone else you see." I sigh.

It would be a fool's errand to expect a man who didn't want to come out of the closet to have a conversation about the importance of monogamy in any relationship.

"Oh hell," Da'vante curses."The tanks' empty."

I straighten in my seat, sitting forward, to look at the gas gauge that's pointing to empty.

"I hate to ask," he says, "but can you give me some cash for gas?" He asks smugly, so I don't think he minded asking.

"Here," I slap a fifty in the hand he's stretching at me, "don't keep my change like last time."

A small, half-witted part of me might have real feelings for Da'vante, but that didn't mean that I should let him treat me like some shameful secret. That I saw a future with him. Not when it just suddenly occurred to me how obvious it was that he would never choose me over keeping his secret.

Sometime later, I finally see the university I work at in the rearview mirror. I watched all the students who were more or less my age, going to and from class and couldn't help the pathetic feeling I felt about myself. Here I am, on this Ivy League campus, among them yet apart, relegated to picking up the garage they're too busy to throw in the trash.

Da'vante pulls the car over, and I step out onto the sidewalk."Thanks," I say, giving him a soft smile.

"Yo," he shouts, "You ain't gonna kiss me goodbye?"

I glance over my shoulder at him, closing the door."Why don't you come out and kiss me?" I joke, fully aware that he would never take the chance of being caught kissing "a guy" outside of his heavily tinted car.

"You stay playin'." He drives off with a hiss.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

As I sweep dust mites off bookshelves in the library, when a forehead pops between the books almost causing me an early heart attack.

"Felicity," I breathe, looking at the pretty blonde across from me.

"Your paper got an A minus," she whispers, flagging two rickety stapled papers in my face.

"That's surprising," I mumble, " I half-expected the professor to kick you out of the course after reading it." Somehow I let the girl convince me to write a paper for her comparative literature class so she go a party.

I didn't expect anything to come of it. She gave me a hundred bucks and instructions to write something that at the very least intelligible.

"If you're this well-read," she scoffs . . . following me down the rows of shelves in the library. "Why are you here doing menial labor?" She hits the spine of one of the books and it tumbles off the shelf. "You can't be older than twenty, don't you think you should give college a try before defaulting to a minimum wage job ?"

I grab the book off the floor, stacking it back on the shelf. "You do know that not everyone has the resources to afford a college education ?" I sigh. "And, I didn't have a choice but to default to my minimum wage job."

I step around her to focus on my actual work that doesn't involve reciting the hardships of life to girls who wear six-hundred-dollar baseball caps.

"But -" Felicity starts.

I turn around.

"But nothing," I yell with a low grunt. "You don't know anything about me. Maybe I don't want to go to college."

"You're right, I don't know you," she agrees," but . . . I can tell that you're lying."

"Will you leave me alone?" I rasp.

"Wait, just hear me out for a minute," she begs. "Here's the name of the company my brother works at," she jots it down on the back of her paper and hands it to me."They pay well and help out with college stuff."

"What makes you think I can get a job at your brother's company?" I ask the madwoman.

"Intuition," she mouths. "I can't say for certain, but there's bound to be something there that doesn't involve booklice," she groans, pushing her pen and paper to my chest before making her way out of the library.

As night clouds pass under the skies, I step through the door of my house. The dim glow of the hallway light greets me, casting shadows as I head for the kitchen. With each step, the weight of exhaustion settles deeper in my bones but I shake it with the promise of having a bowl of my mom's famous gumbo for dinner.

With the familiar scent of shrimp and sausage all over the kitchen, I grab a plate from the cabinet and open the pot in the hopes of seeing food after not having anything but coffee the entire day. I pause for a moment, taking in the dissatisfaction that envelopes me when I see the empty pot.

With a sigh, I trudge forward, my footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood floor. The journey to the fridge proves even more disappointing when I open the door and there's nothing but full-emptied cans of beer and last month's rice inside.

I hear my mom's voice."Riel? You're back from work," she mumbles."Did you get the baby diapers your sister asked for?"

"Yes," I point to the counter, where I left the pack of diapers I brought.

"Amara," she calls for my sister."Your brother brought the diapers."

"Where are they?" Amara comes into the kitchen.

"Here," Mom passes them to her.

"Mom?" I mouth, "Didn't you leave any dinner for me?" I replay telling her to leave food for me before leaving for work in the morning and texting her a reminder sometime in the evening.

"Sorry honey," she intones, "everyone wanted seconds and we thought you'd eat at work."

I groan."Why would you think that? I told you to leave dinner for me like five times today."

"I am sorry," she sighs."It slipped my mind."

"What he's fussing about?" my dad joins us in the kitchen.

"We didn't remember to leave himself any dinner." My mom tells him.

"He's not a baby anymore. I am sure he knows how to use a stove." He argues and goes back upstairs.

I exhale deeply, deciding not to make a big deal of it. I should've known that

no one in this house would remember to save a meal for me.

I pass through the living room where my brothers are up playing video games. I would've walked past them with no worries but I spot both my debit and credit card sitting on the coffee table.

I grab my cards from the table, "How many times will I have to tell you guys not to use my card on your stupid games?" I groan.

Just when I thought that my family not leaving any food behind for me was the only thing I had to be upset about for the night, my phone lights up my phone lights up with back-to-back messages from both my bank and credit card company. Turns out, I was buying Fortnite currency on my cards.

"You guys, can't be serious," I burst out of my room to yell at them."Why are you guys spending my money on some stupid game?"

"It's for my channel," Deon, my younger brother retorts."You'll get your money back for sure."

"How?" I ask him. "You don't have a job."

Darnell, the oldest but not wisest of my four siblings, pauses the game to make it seem like I have nothing to be angry about."Why gotta come at him like that?" He asks.

"Because," I breathe, "my credit card is for emergencies and paying the mortgage on this house so we have a roof over our heads at the end of the month."

"There you go reminding everybody you're the one footin' the bills 'round here," he snarls."Once business picks up at the shop, we won't have to deal with your complaining." He brushes past my shoulder, heading out of the living room.

I hope business picks up at the auto repair shop he and my dad own. Maybe then I can stop living paycheck to paycheck and save up enough of my own money for use on myself.

"Why are you always scolding them?"

Asia, my other sister casually horns in on our quarrel.

You would think that Asia, being only a few months younger than me and my Irish twin, would understand my feelings better than anyone else.

I don't give her an answer. She wasn't going to take my side anyway. Asia and I are closer to strangers than siblings.

Suddenly, Amara steps off the stairs with Junior, my nephew, cradled in her arms. She tosses the pack of diapers I brought her onto the couch.

"You brought the cheap kind," she accosts me.

I blink, offended at her tone.

"I brought those with the last $30 I had," I scoff.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It's Saturday and I start cleaning the mess that's my room. I crouch down to the floor, picking up the sheet of paper and flapping around the underside of the bed. It's the paper I wrote for Felicity, to think it got a passing grade. I check the back and find the name of her brother supposedly worked.

Harlow Atlantic Labs, I type the name into Indeed. Hardly any jobs that don't require a bachelor's are shown in the results. There's this entry-level job, as an assistant to the CEO, that only said they preferred an applicant with a degree. I consider ignoring it, but hope overwhelms me and I press apply. After struggling through an aptitude test, I got an email that my application was received.

When a little over two weeks pass and nothing comes of my application, I give up hope.

I am packing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a wrinkly brown lunch bag to head off to work when I hear my mother's voice. " I found this in your room," she says from behind me.

"Oh. . ." I mumble. My gaze flickers to her hands, where I catch sight acceptance package I received from the state university I applied to in November.

"Why didn't you mention you're going off to college?" she asks, her tone a mix of surprise and suspicion as she moves to the other side of the kitchen counter.

I pause from spreading grape jelly over a slice of bread. "Um, well, I've been thinking about it for a while now."

She breathes out a soft huff, almost imperceptible but enough for me to catch. It was a small, subtle gesture, but it spoke volumes.

"College? Really? Are you sure that's the best path for you?" she fails to hide the skepticism in her voice.

I sigh, feeling a pang of disappointment at her lack of enthusiasm. "Why not? I mean, it couldn't hurt to have a college degree."

She shakes her head, her expression disapproving. "I just don't see it, honey. College is expensive, and you've never been the most academic-minded."

"Can't you be just a bit supportive of me for once ?"I ask her, tossing the last piece of bread on top of the sandwich.

"No," she sighs heavily, her brows furrowing with concern. "Not when you're doing something I don't agree with."

"But why ?" I ask her. "What makes me going to college such a bad idea ?" I feel knots forming in my stomach. "You practically forced Asia to go, and even now that she's dropped out, you're still asking her to go back. So, why can't you do the same for me ?" I question her with trembling words

This woman is my mother for God's sake. Why does she think my only merits are lugging around people's suitcases and mopping floors?

"Because Asia spent high school making straight A's, taking AP classes while you were struggling just to keep up." She yells, her tone evident of how she never made an effort to support me in anything that didn't pay the bills.

"What if I struggled?" I ask her, my voice firm with anger. "So, I might not have excelled in the same way Asia did, but I never gave up. I finished high school with my diploma, and it meant something to me. I wish you could have seen that."

"If you admit to struggling in high school," she scoffs, her tone sharp with cynicism. "What do you think will happen when you get to college? You're just going to waste thousands of dollars only to fail at it."

"Wow," I muttered, the weight of her words sinking in."You're awful," I whisper harshly."You're my mom, but I hate you," I choke out.

"How dare you?" she screams, her voice cracking with anger as her hand connects with my jaw, the force of the blow forces me to look away from her.

"You've only proved me right," I tell her before I rush outside.

I walk out of the yard, keeping on my left. My mother's words had stung more than her slap and the harder I told myself not to cry about it the more tears came. I don't think I could shed enough tears to convey the depth of the hurt she caused me.

As I am about to step onto the crosswalk, my phone buzzes with an incoming call.

"Hello?" I answer the call with a choked sob.

"Hello, this is Evelyn from Harlow Atlantic. Am I speaking with Riel Summers?" the lady on the phone asks.

"Yes, this is Riel," I answer.

"Great!" she cheers, "I am calling to discuss the personal assistant position you applied for. Are you available for an interview next week?"

"Yes, I am available. What day and time were you thinking?" I scroll through my calendar, looking at all the shifts I have for next week.

"We have availability on Monday at 11 am?"

I bite the tips of my fingers, not seeing how I could it in time for the interview from Connecticut.

"Are there any other times?" I desperation creeps into my voice.

"Unfortunately, no," she voices, not sounding sympathetic."If you can't make it, we'll have to consider other candidates."

"No, don't," I tell her quickly, "I'll make it."

I don't know how, but I would.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

I carefully fold a pinstripe dress shirt and a dots necktie I swiped from my Dean's room, and tuck them into a drawstring bag. I only just got home from work but I could be catching a bus at 10:30 for New York.

My interview is early tomorrow, and I'll be traveling on the overnight bus to get into the city.

As I creak the door to get into the living room, I hesitate to go any further into the silence that greets me. My entire family plus Da'vante is gathered on the couch watching basketball. I could feel their eyes flicker briefly in my direction before quickly averting, a silent agreement to ignore my presence.

I couldn't blame them for their icy reception. My mother made sure to tell everyone in the house about our quarrel and how I bitterly told her that I hated her . . . no one was going to take my side over hers.

I want to speak, to break the suffocating silence . . . yell at them to see take my side for a change.

So, I hover at the doorway, unsure of what next to do. Should I accept that I was in the wrong and apologize, or keep my pride? The uncertainty gnaws at me, a constant ache in my chest.

I stifle the words I would've wasted on them and leave.

After a two-hour of trying to get a taxi and enduring riding at the back of a dusty pickup truck, I arrived at the bus station with a mere five minutes to spare.

As I staggered off the truck, my legs shaky and my clothes coated in grime, I took a moment to collect myself before running with all might to the departure gate.

I board the bus and step off onto the busy streets of New York, just minutes after twelve. The honking of bright yellow cabs, the rush of people, and the rat that almost ran across my foot

welcomes me to the city that never sleeps.

With my single bag slung over my shoulders, I open my phone and check for the cheapest motel I would rest my head for the night.

The GPS points me down a less-than-glamorous part of town and I make my way up to a motel tucked away on a nondescript street.

Entering the lobby, I am greeted by a weary-looking clerk behind a worn counter. The dingy walls were adorned with faded posters advertising tourist attractions.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asks, barely looking up from her phone.

"Yes, I need a room for the night," I reply.

"Forty dollars for the night," she says, still not looking up at me.

"Okay," I pass her the cash.

She accepts the money and hands over a key without any directions to the room.

Not seeing anywhere else to go, I head up the creaky stairs until I stop a room that match the number on the key.

The air was heavy with the smell of mildew as I pushed open the door, revealing a cramped space with faded wallpaper and worn furnishings.

With a heavy sigh, I dropped my bag onto the floor and flopped on the bed too exhausted to care if it was clean or not. As I drifted off to sleep, the sounds of the city outside faded into the background, and I allowed myself to hope that I didn't come here for anything.

It's the morning of my interview and having successfully navigated the labyrinth of platforms and corridors of the NYC train station, I find myself staring at my nervous reflection in the glass facade that scales the walls of the skyscraper that housed Harlow Atlantic.

I see that my hair is falling over my forehead and I quickly use the elastic band on my wrist to catch my locs into a messy slick back.

As I reach the entrance, I pause to take a long breath, steeling myself for the interview.

I follow the path that the receptionist points me in and I stumble to the area where roughly twenty maybe twenty-five people are sitting on chairs outside a conference room.

They all glanced at me, some smiled and others scowled.

A lump started in my throat, I hadn't expected them to interview so many people to interview on the same day. I sit towards the end of the room near a brunette wearing a turtle neck and pencil skirt.

"Hey, I am Rina," she says, reaching her hands towards me.

"Riel. . ." I tell her my name while shaking her hands.

"Nice to meet you," she smiles. "Tell me, where's your alma mater? I feel like I am the only one who didn't graduate from a top 20 here?"

The lumps suddenly crawl back up my throat as I get flustered hearing her words."None," I whisper."I didn't go to college."

I hear the guy next to me scoff but I ignore him.

"Where did you graduate from?" I ask Rina.

"Tufts," she answers, "but I got my master's at Northwestern."

"Masters? I thought the position was entry-level," I murmur nervously.

"Well, it is," she says, "but most people apply for positions like this one at big corporations because it's a great way to network and gain experience."

"Oh," I smile despite feeling that they might've made a mistake calling me in for the interview.

For the next hour or so, I waited for my name to be called. I get up to grab a bottle of water from under the seat across from me, I had gotten so nervous that I already empty the one I had.

I try to raise the bottle to my lips but I find myself imposed against a man's strong chest.

"Watch it," he steads me from falling over with a firm hand before effortlessly guiding me aside.

"Riel Summers . . ." I hear my name being called so I get distracted.

"Here," I answer.

I turn to look back at the man but I only glimpse his towering figure and the few strands of silver hair that lie on top of other black hair that fell just to his neck as he walks away.

I take my focus away from his back and step into the conference room.

Inside two women are waiting. The woman on the left, who I could only describe as one of the corporate vixens that you only saw in movies from the 90s, speaks a German accent.

"Have a seat, Mr.Summers," she motions to the seat behind me.

At her right, the lady who wore a formal light blue dress who didn't seem as friendly, started asking me questions.

"Tell us," she mouths,"What do you consider the most important qualities for a successful personal assistant?"

"Effective communication, discretion ..." I start listing the qualities I read in an article on the internet.

The questions came one after the other, each one probing deeper into my qualifications, my experience, and my suitability for the jobs.

I gave my all to answer each question thoughtfully, making my case why even as a mere high school graduate who only has experience carrying around people's luggage and cleaning up after them deserved the position over the twenty-odd other interviewees who had gone to college and actually knew something about corporate America.

As the interview drew to a close, I was asked my last question. "Why do you want this job?"

I don't think about my answer I just answer.

"I don't want this job," I breathe. "I need it. I need this job to make something of myself. To do work that offers fulfillment and aligns with my values. I need this job to prove to myself that I am capable of making

meaningful impact on myself and this company."

Despite the raw emotion I poured into my words during the interview, I couldn't shake the feeling of inadequacy as I left the room. I knew I had given it my all, baring my soul in a desperate bid to prove my worth. Yet, as I walked away, I couldn't help but wonder if it would be enough.

It's stupid to think my impassioned and unprofessional plea for a job that I am severely unqualified for would stack up against the resumes shining with years of experience and fancy BAs from the best universities in America.