4. Alice
4
Alice
Z oe West’s business card is burning a hole in my pocket. Mom’s been gone for two days, and I’ve been carrying Zoe’s card around like a security blanket. I’m going to text her. I am.
It turns out that never leaving home, even for a noble reason, turns a girl into a chicken. I was never a scaredy-cat before, so this must be the reason. Sure, I can object in the middle of a wedding ceremony, but look into a new job, move away from home, send out one little text… nope .
Ugh.
I take a breath and think… how many people do I know that have objected in the middle of a wedding ceremony? Zero. (Daniel really should have listened to me. What a dummy.) The point is, Alice Taylor is no coward. She’s honest. She’s forthright. She is a twenty-six-year-old who knows way too much about Disney princesses, loves animals, enjoys pressing flowers to remember moments, and she has a great eye for branding .
I think maybe I could do this.
And now, there’s nothing here stopping me. Dad, Coco, Grandma, and the uncles just want what’s best for me. They want me to be happy.
And Mom left.
I could take that job in Tesoro. I could move. I could try something new.
I blow out a puff of pent-up air and pull out my phone. There’s already a text waiting for me.
Uncle Levi: What did she say?
Me: Who?
I know who… so why am I prolonging this conversation? Why am I being so vague?
Why am I letting a little uneasiness rule my next move?
Uncle Levi: The girl with the job?
Me: Oh. Texting her now.
I can’t lie to Levi—or any of my uncles. Now I’ve said it. It’s out there in the cyber world, swirling with a billion other texts. Therefore, it must happen.
I should ask questions. I should tell Zoe how flattered I am that she sought me out. I should say something professional and self-assured.
I don’t do any of that.
Me: Why me?
Zoe: Idaho area code… Alice, is that you?
Whoops. Maybe a greeting would have been a good idea. I swear my mother taught me better—well, at least one of them did.
Me: Yes, sorry. I’m considering the job. I’m just thinking about it. That is, if the offer still stands. Just wondering why you thought of me.
Zoe: You were always assertive and creative. It’s a good combo. I heard you switched your major last minute. I remember being surprised but also not. Marketing made sense too. I guess it stuck with me. Plus, I looked up your latest work. The vet clinic. The law office. The Crafty Needle—great name, btw. Is that a non-profit? They donate quilts. Right? I even saw the logo for your dad’s piloting company.
I swallow and reread her words. She’s been researching my work—for Coco, for Dad, for the quilters, even the small ad I made for Uncle Coop and his law office.
Zoe: BTW I am very aware that the majority of those accounts were family members. And the quilters probably didn’t pay you much—or even at all.
They did pay me. With a quilt.
I cough and tug on the rainbow necklace around my throat. The one Aunt Delaney gave me all those years ago. It was her lucky charm.
Maybe it could be mine too.
It’s true. My biggest and best work has been for members of my family. It’s my family who’s taken a chance on me. But that doesn’t mean my work wasn’t quality.
Zoe: And yet—I don’t care. It was good work. I’m sure you were under strict budget constraints for those jobs too. With Billy, you can think big.
Zoe: Billy won’t care that your other jobs have been on the smaller end. He wants someone who will listen, work hard, and be honest.
Zoe: That’s you.
Zoe: I’m sending your salary over… Oh, and did I mention Billy owns an apartment building in southern Tesoro? An apartment also comes with the job. He likes his employees on site.
She did mention it… Zoe offering me a place to live the same week my mother pulls my current home out from under me is ironic, strange, and maybe—just maybe rainbow magic luck.
I blink down at Zoe’s next text. There are a lot of numbers in that salary. And salary ? Like consistent money? Zero food stamps. No rent. I could easily pay for Mom’s storage unit.
Zoe: You in?
A big job. A real job. A new place, new people. Good money. She has buoyed me up with compliments and the temptation of possibly no budget constraints. My instinct is to send her a GIF of Anna from Frozen squealing, “YES!”
I don’t.
I slow my roll and ask a question. Because it feels more responsible, more adult. I’m one of those—right?
Me: We’re working for a soccer team?
Zoe: Kind of. Billy bought the dying Nashville Thunder, and he’s doing an entire rebrand. From the ground up. He wants to start fresh.
Me: And that entails?
Zoe: He wants a new place. New name, new brand, new coach. So, you’ll be working on logo, colors, name, typography… to name a few. We’re starting fresh.
My insides turn to sweet and jiggly Jell-O. She’s speaking my language.
Me: And Billy won’t care that I don’t know soccer?
Zoe: You’ll need to study up on other teams’ branding, but didn’t you do that with the sewing shop too? Or are you an accomplished seamstress?
I know nothing about sewing. I did tons of research.
Me: I can’t sew a stitch. I researched.
Zoe: What’s the difference? Billy doesn’t expect his marketing team to be ready to take the field. You don’t need to be a star full-back or some attacking mid-fielder.
Good, because I don’t know what either of those things are.
Zoe: You need to know marketing. You need to know branding.
I pull in a long breath and stare at my phone, my heart racing. I trace my thumbs over my screen and type out a reply.
Me: Okay. I’m in. When do you want me?