Chapter 12
twelve
ROSIE
Every applicant who qualifies for the Xion internship gets a first interview. Alumni forums I’ve read echo that there’s no reason to be nervous—as long as you know what you’re talking about, and your resumé checks out, most candidates move on in the process.
I tell myself these things while waiting in the hallway, outside of the classroom our department has designated as today’s interview room. There isn’t a reason to be nervous. I’m more than qualified and speaking to new people in any context is a strong suit of mine.
Despite this, my palms have been damp with sweat since I took my seat. Chest rising and falling erratically once I glanced over at my competition and realized I was the only woman in the group.
In some situations, that can be a good thing. I’ll stand out, that’s for sure.
The side-glances thrown my way, and deep chuckles hidden behind their hands, make me think differently.
I roll my shoulders and attempt to ignore them. This isn’t about them. It’s about the role I worked so hard for. The reason I enrolled in Brookstone to begin with. Just for a shot at this internship.
“Wearing a skirt to an interview is real classy, princess.”
A boy from my cohort mumbles while walking past me and into his own interview. My ears ring. My legs are already crossed, one over the other, but I push my joints closer together anyways. Uncomfortably.
It’s a long skirt. I know it’s appropriate, but still, I shift. I second guess my outfit and make a mental note to go browsing for some slacks. I’ve never wanted a pair, but it’s like the world turned sideways once last semester hit.
Respect in undergrad wasn’t a given, but it was never as cruel as this. Only a few men there refused to recognize the women in our college. Even less voiced their sexist thoughts aloud. It was manageable then, to deal with the misogynistic layers of this industry.
It was once Jeremiah started running his mouth last semester that things got bad. Once the program’s golden boy was willing to vocalize his disdain, everyone else followed. Attracted to the pretty flames of a fire and kindling it further with their own unkind words.
If I were less than in mind and skill, I could handle it better. I would take the taunts and teases on the chin and accept I still have a long way to go.
It’s not like that. I have earned a right to respect and recognition, both from my peers and from the experts in this field who precede me. Yet, it’s withheld. I lean into what they want from me in hopes everything will stop, but it makes me feel more miserable every minute.
No one takes me seriously because I’m a woman. I’m tired. Every day my dream feels further and further away.
I just want to be taken seriously.
“Rosalie Mendoza?”
My head turns, catching the interviewer standing at the open door with a clipboard in his hands and a tired smile on his face.
I smile back, though I second-guess if that was inappropriate. Was it too large of a grin? Too casual?
It’s a few steps from my chair and to the open door, but in that time, I hear Jeremiah mumble, “We know why she wore that.”
I take a deep breath, will away the anger overtaking every sensible part of me, and subtly pull my skirt lower. Past my knees. As low as possible.
Locke’s revelation of what his classmates have said about me, along with the comments from today, make it so hard to stay calm.
They sexualize me all they want, but when I choose to wear something—that’s appropriate and business casual—for a professional interview, there’s a problem with it?
I cling onto the fact that, at least, my roommate doesn’t hold a double standard to my head. He doesn’t laugh behind his hand or make snarky comments; He tells me about the boys who do it behind my back and agrees when I say they’re disgusting.
Knowing there’s one person in this program who isn’t a complete piece of shit gives me some relief.
Enough to set my mind straight as I’m walking into the room and towards the single desk in the middle.
The interviewer introduces himself as the Human Resources Talent Specialist, shakes my hand over the table, and settles into his seat.
He begins to speak as I sink into my own chair. “This first round of interviews is just a formality. Getting a feel of who you are, what skills you possess, and if you and Xion Group are compatible.”
The anger is subsiding, and that’s good.
But it makes room for unreasonable nerves to fill my mind, which isn’t ideal.
I nod and hope it’s enough to keep the conversation going.
“After looking over your qualifications, it seems like you have the technical part of the role down. No issues there. I’d like to get an idea of what classes you took during your undergraduate years.”
Under the table, I press my hands against each other. Force my nerves to go there, focused on the painful push of bone to bone while I get my bearings straight.
I recite everything I can remember about the classes I took for my Bachelor of Financial Engineering and even throw in experiences from my economics minor. The interviewer doesn’t interrupt me. He writes down notes in the margins of my resume and doesn’t comment on how I’ve stuttered five times.
The interview repeats in a cycle. He asks a basic question I should know the answer to.
I do know the answer to it. I stumble to deliver what he wants to hear.
He scribbles words I try to subtly read through glancing eyes.
I even throw in what I know of the new Xion CEO—how I read in an article that Dr. Michael Newman is a Brookstone alumni.
I was hoping that’d pull a reaction from the interviewer, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
That could be good. Maybe he’s listening and not disregarding my words.
Or he doesn’t like me.
When he offers to answer any questions I have for him, I almost ask if I’ve completely failed an interview that is supposed to be a given. The better, calmer part of me holds my tongue.
I fumble through questions about work-life balance and in-company growth opportunities before he straightens my papers and links his hands together.
“Well, there’s nothing else I need from you. Just keep an eye on your email for details about your round two interview. We have a few more groups of candidates to get through, so you’ll have to wait a few weeks for your second interview details.”
I blink. Stop pushing and pulling my hands, and let the words sink in.
“Second interview?”
“Yes. Round two is the most time extensive as we’ll have to screen all round one candidates once more, but you’ll hear from us.
You can expect your second interview sometime in early November.
If you get past that, you’ll take a written exam to gauge your knowledge and then go through a final interview with a few higher-ranking professionals.
The chosen candidate will be contacted via phone call following the third interview. ”
He turns his focus to the papers on the table. Stacking them together and tucking them away in a folder out-of-sight. Casually and wordlessly, like he hasn’t just given me the first glimmer of hope I’ve gotten in this program, in what feels like forever.
“Are we… done, then?”
“Yup.” There’s barely any time for me to follow the motions of pushing chairs away and meeting hands for a shake. Everything is still sinking in, and he’s preparing to bring another candidate in already. “Wishing you the best of luck in your next interview.”
He barely holds eye contact for two seconds, but it’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me all day.
“Thank you so much!”
I’m sure at least ninety percent of the first-round candidates make it to the second.
So, really, there’s no reason to feel as elated as I am.
Yet, as I walk through the door and the voice of another classmate being called in for his interview gets lost down the hallway, I’m ecstatic. There’s a pep in my step, a warmth fighting off the chill of late September, and no desire to pull my skirt further down my legs.
I’m barely out of the building before I’m yanking my phone out and readying a text. I know who I want to tell the good news. My best friend would be so happy for me.
In my messages, I go to search for Liliana, but in the chaos of weaving through college students and balancing my backpack on one arm, my fingers must’ve slipped. “Lil” turns into “Loc”.
I pause before I can type out his full name.
We’ve barely texted. Just short questions asking one another to open the door when we’ve forgotten our keys, or if we need anything from the market. Basic roommate communications.
The inside of my lip gets chewed while I consider what to do.
It really was a mistake. I was trying to text Liliana. But now that this is here, it wouldn’t hurt, right? I would tell Locke the good news anyways when I get home.
Part of me wants to tell him now. It almost feels wrong not to, considering that, when anger almost overtook my composure, it was his kindness that brought me back down.
I’ve mulled over that trait of his after we first really spent time together—without the obligation of a mixer or errand. Just us, sharing our interests, gossiping about random topics in our lives.
Learning about the relationship with his father, my brain went a few places. I created a theory that his resistance to socializing stems more from his inability to do so, rather than a lack of desire.
I considered my own family. I thought about how appreciative I am towards my parents, who didn’t have much in materialistic things, but never spared my brother or I anything.
They immigrated from the Philippines for us, selflessly, and even if we didn’t live with riches, we were always happy and satisfied and loved.
What stood out the most, though, is how different Locke is. From what he’s presented as to the world, and especially to our engineering college.
Being Keller McCarthy’s son means something to the boys in my program. Their happiness comes from the power behind dollar signs and swearing they’ll make something of themselves. Those guys worship anything connected to prestige and money.
Locke is presented as exactly what they want to be. His quiet, stoic demeanor is probably one they think is meant to be intimidating. Masculine, and overbearing, like he’s trying to command a room with silent stares and an overstuffed wallet.
Locke isn’t like that. He’s just shy. And quiet, and struggling to navigate a world where his last name holds more value than his first.
Although he’s in the perfect position to look down on me—or anyone else at this school—and scoff while we try to find a place in the world he’s already apart of, he doesn’t. Locke treats me with respect and kindness.
I don’t think he realizes how far that sentiment takes me. In mind, when I decide not to delete the name on my screen, and in spirit, when thinking of him calmed me right before that interview.
I could wait until I get back to the dorm to tell him. It’ll be no more than ten minutes, I’m sure.
My thumbs are opening our text log, full of short and clipped messages, and I decide I’m too impatient. He’ll understand my excitement more than anyone else.
Biting back the smile fighting its way onto my face, I text him.
please tell me you’re home
i can’t wait to tell you what just happened!!!