Brittany Bends Page 2

  (Pretty dang common where I come from. In fact, all except like a handful of my half siblings on my father’s side are the product of his wandering eye. His wife Hera has other choice words for us kids, which I don’t want to use. She doesn’t like the fact that he’s spent the past several thousand years fathering kids on other women, but she can’t really complain too much since her eye wanders too. Which I said to Mom once, and she held up her hands and said, I don’t want to hear it, Brittany, I really don’t in a tone I haven’t heard her use before or since.)

  “Well, come on in,” the store lady says, “before we both freeze.”

  I want to pump my hand in the air and say, Yes!, like Leif does when his favorite sports team scores, but I don’t. Instead I smile and slip inside.

  The store is warm, and I let out a little sigh. It’s nice to be out of the wind.

  It’s not dark and gloomy in here as it looked from the outside. It only seemed that way because the store lady has the lights off up front. Toward the back, there are lots and lots of fluorescent lights, and shelves that are in pieces, and boxes everywhere. Some tubby guy who’s older than Karl and wears a plaid shirt that makes Eric’s coat look stylish is piling even more boxes against a far wall.

  The store lady smiles at me. She’s wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt that would actually look pretty good with my ugly purse. She has on no makeup (which is unusual around here), and her dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail. She pulls off some big gloves and extends a hand toward me.

  “I’m Jill Larson,” she says. “I’m the manager here. And, I’ll be honest, I know your mom.”

  Ah, nepotism. I know the word because it was the center of my life not too long ago. My dad excels at nepotism.

  That’s why he chose me and Tiff and Crystal to become the Interim Fates. And that’s how we got approved. You see, my dad decided (in a fit of pique, Hera says) to get rid of true love, and he figured the best way to do that was to make the actual Fates step down.

  The Fates are like the judges over life and all of magic and in that capacity also handle true love. And somehow (well, I know how, but for the sake of long-story-short), my dad convinced the Powers That Be (who are in charge of everything [and my dad was/is one of them, depending on whether or not he’s still being punished]) to fire the Fates and have them reapply for their old jobs.

  Me, and Tiff and Crystal became Fates in the interim (hence Interim Fates) and we sucked at it. (Sorry, Mom. Sucked is the only word.) The only thing we did right was we didn’t let Daddy screw up true love. Somehow we blocked that. But the rest of it? Oh, man. Imagine if a first grader replaced Judge Judy.

  So, nepotism. It’s like the story of my life.

  Mrs. Larson smiles at me. (Mom told me I should always call adults by “Mr. or Mrs.” and their last name, to be respectful, even though a few women have corrected me and said that I should just call them Miz, which really confuses me.)

  “Your mom,” Mrs. Larson says, “told me about—you know—your special circumstances.”

  I frown at her. I’m not sure what special circumstances she means, although she did lower her voice. That, in the sideways speak of this strange town, sometimes means that the person who is talking doesn’t want anyone else to overhear the “sensitive” subject being raised.

  “Um,” I say, feeling a blush start to warm my neck, “what, exactly, did Mom say?”

  “Oh, you know. How she gave you up and then your family situation…well, you know…wasn’t ideal, and so she brought you back here.”

  That blush climbed up my face and down my chest at the same time. I went from being too cold to being embarrassingly hot. (Or maybe that isn’t why I was embarrassed at all.)

  “She’s a good woman, your mom,” Mrs. Larson says. “She also said you were brought up overseas, and you don’t know a lot about the US, but you’re a quick study.”

  “Oh.” I can’t manage much more than that.

  “She didn’t tell me, though, that you’re the spitting image of her at that same age. Your mom was the great beauty of our high school, doncha know, and she could’ve had any man, but that Karl Johnson, he had his eye on her. If it weren’t for the scheming of that Ava, his first wife—well, I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But your mom and Karl, they were meant for each other. They were prom king and queen, you know. I’ll bet she never told you that.”

  “She didn’t,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. I know about prom king and queen, partly because of the movie Carrie (both versions) and partly because of Never Been Kissed, one of my favorite movies of all time. Yes, I’m a romantic. Yes, my sisters tease me about it. (Yes, I miss them.)

  “Well, they were, and oh, they were perfect together,” Mrs. Larson says, still talking about Mom and Karl. “But that’s neither here nor there. Your mom asked me to give you an interview, nothing more, and I’m going to do that, even though I’m doing all the talking. So, let’s head to my office, shall we?”

  She turns around and weaves through the boxes. They’re all labeled, and none of them are really big, so I figure they’re going to supply the store rather than be the boxes that the store wants to sell outside of town.

  But what do I know? I hadn’t really had to deal with stores much at all until I moved here. At Mount Olympus, I could wave my hand and conjure anything I want.

  Megan, my counselor (yes, I have a counselor, and yes, she’s magic—kinda. Another long-story-short), she says that the ability to do magic from such a young age was corrupting me and Crystal and Tiff, and it’s good for us to live without it. Yeah, maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from missing it.

  Particularly now, when I’d use the magic to help me figure out how to deal with all the people and strangeness in Superior, Wisconsin.

  Or maybe even in this building.

  Mrs. Larson skirts around the last pile of boxes and goes into this tiny room in the back.

  A plywood door separates it from the main part of the building (and yes, I know what plywood is, thanks to projects my siblings here are working on). Inside, the fluorescent lights are even brighter, making everything this kind of squinchy gray color.

  There’s a metal desk that is too wide for the room (in my opinion), a big desk chair behind it, some cabinets that match, a trashy orange couch that looks even more uncomfortable than the couch at the Johnson Family Manse (which is what Karl calls their house), and one bright orange chair that looks like it was once a part of a kitchen set.

  Mrs. Larson almost sits in the big desk chair, then seems to think the better of it. She grabs a yellow legal pad, rounds the desk, and waves her hand at the orange chair.

  “Have a seat, Brittany,” she says, and it sounds friendly, not like a command at all. (And it’s really nice to hear someone use my full name.)

  “Thanks.” I smooth the skirt as I sit. Lise will complain if I bring the dress back too wrinkled.

  I’m about to set the purse on the floor, but as I look down, I realize the floor is covered with dust and goop and dried mud and something that looks like oil, and even though the purse is ugly, I don’t want to ruin it. Mom did work hard on it, after all.

  So I hang the purse on my knee, which makes the fringe brush the top of my foot (which looks dumb, I know, but Mrs. Larson already knows I’m Not From Around Here).

  Her smile is really friendly. She puts the legal pad on her lap. Then she writes my name along the top sheet of the pad.

  “Okay, Brittany,” she says, “your application is pretty spare on details, so I’m going to ask a few questions.”

  The application was spare on details because I can’t say a lot of things. Mom says that’s all right, because I’m so young, no one expects me to have a lot of experience, and those online applications are designed for adults.

  I’m going to have to lie. Mom says lying is something we should all try to avoid, but she’s making a special case for me, because the truth is so unbelievable.

  St
ill, I hate being in this situation. I’m really bad at lying.

  I fold my hands together, and brace myself.

  Here comes the hard part.

  And, as usual, I’m probably going to screw it up something royal.

  TWO

  CAN MRS. LARSON hear my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest? Because her expression softens even more as she studies at me.

  I’m not shaking, not really, at least I hope I’m not. But I have woven my fingers together so tight that I’m probably leaving bruises. My hands rest on top of the dress’s skirt, which has ridden up a little more than is proper (the Johnson Family is big on proper. I’m just starting to figure it out).

  Plus, I keep swallowing like something’s stuck in my throat.

  The little room is too hot, and I’m closer to Mrs. Larson than I want to be.

  She looks like she’s got some horrid terminal illness under the bright fluorescent light in this office, but I like her. As much as I can like someone who’s going to think I’m crazy in like two seconds flat.

  “So,” she says, “you have no retail experience, and you say you want to work here to help your family pay the bills, which is admirable. You also say you want to learn how retail works from ‘the other side.’”

  I swallow harder than I have before. Helping to pay the bills, that was my answer, but the other part about “the other side,” that was Eric’s suggestion, seconded by Lise, who has already gone through three different jobs (each better than the last, she says whenever anyone asks. I think there’s a story there she’s not telling).

  “Yes, that’s right,” I say. My voice is actually wobbling. And I’m keeping my answers short. On all those TV shows about cops and lawyers in America, they’re always telling their clients to keep the answers short so that whoever is questioning them can’t trip them up.

  Only this is a job interview, not an interrogation, right?

  “I know the application only asks for relevant job experience,” Mrs. Larson says, “but do you have any work experience? Because sometimes, just knowing how to work for someone else is more valuable than having relevant job experience. I have to untrain half of my employees when they have relevant job experience.”

  I almost didn’t hear that last part of what she said, and, honestly, I’m not sure I understand it. Besides, the question itself—work experience—makes my heart pound even harder.

  Jeez. How do I tell her that?

  As much of the truth as possible, Mom says, but she didn’t prepare me for this.

  “I—my—we….” I bite my lip. I usually don’t stammer. My face feels like it’s going to explode from the heat building up inside of it. I want to look down, but Eric and Mom say that’s the worst thing to do, so I struggle to keep my gaze on Mrs. Larson.

  She tilts her head a little, and her smile goes inward, almost like she’s holding back some amusement.

  At me. Oh, great.

  Mrs. Larson doesn’t tell me to go on or anything. She just waits quietly, which is kinda worse, because that means I have to continue talking.

  “My real dad, he…um…he made me and my sisters work this job we weren’t qualified for. He’s like this super-powerful guy overseas, and he fired the women who were in the job ahead of us, and then made us do it, and we didn’t know what we were doing, but we tried….”

  I don’t know how to explain any more of this without involving magic and true love, so I just stop talking.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Larson says. “Is that why you moved in with your mom?”

  Then she waves her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “Don’t answer that. I’m not supposed to ask personal family questions when I’m acting as manager. It’s hard for me because I’m just the most curious woman you’ll ever meet, but sometimes, you’re just going to have to forget I asked something inappropriate.”

  Her cheeks are a little red too. Is she blushing?

  I swallow nervously again. She didn’t ask a question, so I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk.

  “I’m sorry about the job,” she says into my silence. “It sounds awful. What kind of job was it?”

  I swallow a third time. It actually hurts to swallow, because my throat is so dry.

  But I’m kinda prepared for this question, because Mom said someone might ask it at school. She was wrong about who was going to ask it, but right that it got asked.

  “Um,” I say (and Tiff or Crystal would laugh at me, because they know I um a lot when I’m lying), “it’s really specific to the place where my dad works. It’s upper management, and me and my sisters, we hadn’t even graduated from school, and it was our first job, and we were really bad at it. I’m sorry, Mrs. Larson. I’m probably not what you want here either.”

  I stand up and grab my purse before it falls on the grimy floor.

  “That’s all right,” she says, reaching out. She almost touches me, then stops herself.

  I struggle to hang that stupid purse on my shoulder. The strap keeps sliding off, and I look even dorkier than I did a minute ago.

  “Sit down, Brittany.” It’s a command, yes, but she uses this really nice tone, so it doesn’t sound harsh.

  I slowly sink back into the seat. I clutch the stupid purse to my stomach.

  There’s a little frown bunching up the skin between Mrs. Larson’s eyes.

  “I’m the one who was out of line.” She sighs. “I wish I could say I don’t have the first idea how it feels to be put in a management position at a company you don’t know how to run, but it happens every day. Just not to girls who’ve never graduated from school. Your father….”

  Then her voice trails off. She shakes her head once.

  “And there I go, being out of line again. But let me just say, I do understand how overwhelmed you must have felt.”

  I know she meant to reassure me, but her words just make me even more tense.

  “If you were to work here,” she says, “you’d have to be familiar with the merchandise, learn to run the cash register, and be nice to the customers. Can you do all that?”

  I shrug one shoulder. I’ve seen cash registers. I have no idea how they work.

  I decide to be honest. “I’m just learning how money works.”

  She nods. I didn’t expect her to nod. Nodding’s weird. Why would she nod?

  “Ah, yes,” she says, “currency differences. I hadn’t thought of that. But you can do math, right?”

  “Yeah.” I’m not as good as my sister Crystal, but I’m okay at math. My sister Athena says if you understand math, you understand how the universe works, so she really drilled a lot of math concepts into us before we left Mount Olympus.

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Larson says, “you can learn all the currency differences and how the cash register works.”

  Now I’m frowning. What, exactly, is she talking about? And do I ask? Or is that rude?

  She must have seen my confusion, because she smiles at me.

  “Your mom just asked me to help you by giving you a practice interview,” she says.

  My heart sinks. Of course. I didn’t even get this on my own. Someone had to beg just to get me an interview.

  “But,” Mrs. Larson says, “I like you.”

  It takes me a second, then my gaze meets hers. She’s still smiling. She has, like, eighty thousand smiles and each one is different. It’s weird. I’ve never met anyone like that.

  This smile is tender.

  “I’ll be honest,” she says. “It’ll take some training to get you up to snuff, and most people in town will see that. I know what a burden all those children are on your family—even though I’m not supposed to say that—and I know that you all need a little bit of help now and then.”

  Great. Now I’m a charity case. Wonderful.

  “But that’s not really why I’m saying this. When your mom asked, she was clear that she didn’t want me to do something that would harm my job, if you know what I mean.”

  I don�
�t, but I don’t want to admit that. Mrs. Larson seems to be on a roll.

  “Besides, you’re really pretty, and I know that in retail sometimes really pretty brings in customers as much as the merchandise does.”

  My cheeks, which were getting cooler, heat up again. My sister Artemis says that no one should ever make objects out of us women (and she doesn’t mean statues, because there’s like a million statues of her). She means no one should objectify us, which I think Mrs. Larson just did, which I didn’t expect from another woman and really, should I protest? Because she’s right. I need the job and the family needs the money.

  She is still studying me really hard. The smile leaves her face.

  “Not, you know, that I’d let anyone be inappropriate,” she says. “It’s just people come into a store for a variety of reasons, and a pretty clerk doesn’t hurt, and Lord knows, young people today just aren’t the most attractive bunch.”

  Mrs. Larson really does say what’s on her mind. It startles me, especially given the sideways speak of the Johnson Family.

  I’m not sure I agree with her either. There’s some really good-looking kids in my school, and most of the Johnson kids are pretty stunning in a pale, never-seen-the-sun kinda way.

  “These days,” Mrs. Larson says, “you get attractive or smart, but you usually don’t get both. And I can tell just from your questions and the light in your eyes that you’re very smart.”

  Questions? I asked questions? I don’t remember asking questions.

  “So, I’m thinking we’ll start you on stocking shelves and slowly train you to do other things. I’ll work with you on the cash register, so that by the time we open, which is in two weeks, you’ll know where everything is and how to make change for a twenty. What say you?”

  I’m biting my lower lip and thinking really hard. What say me? I don’t know. I’m not sure what she’s asking me. I’m not even sure what she’s talking about.

  That softer expression comes over her face again.

  “I guess I wasn’t clear, Brittany,” she says. “I’m offering you a part-time job. It’s minimum wage, and I probably can’t give you more than ten to fifteen hours, but every little bit counts, right?”