8. Quinn
8
quinn
“So, Quinn, why do you want to work at Rolling Hills Credit Union?”
I don’t want to work here, Lacey. Just like I’m sure you didn’t want to marry the douchebag who knocked you up at seventeen, but here we are.
That’s what I want to say. It’s on the tip of my tongue before I pull it back.
Actually, want is the last word I’d use to describe my intent for this job. I hate numbers. In my experience, math usually doesn’t math. It’s why I teach words. And I surely don’t want to work for Lacey. I can tell she’s trying to put on a professional face, but she and I both know that we didn’t get along in high school. It might’ve been because I started a rumor she had a sixth toe. In my defense, she was bullying my chemistry lab partner. And I wasn’t having that shit. She was a nice girl and did all the hard work while I did anything she asked me to because I knew she was carrying my ass.
But this is a job interview, I need money, and Rolling Hills Credit Union is one of the few places hiring. But I didn’t know that I’d be working for Six Toes McGee.
However, the biggest reason I need this job is because I may have…possibly….perhaps…stretched the truth a bit this morning when I told Porter I had interviews.
As in plural.
I have one interview. This interview. So I can’t fuck it up. I can’t start my temporary relocation in Rolling Hills having to admit that I lied, or worse—admit defeat, to Porter McCoy.
It’ll lead to sex. I just know it.
Which means that right now I need to suck it up, put on my big girl panties, and lie through my teeth to Lacey about how much I’d just love to work here.
“Rolling Hills Credit Union is where I had my first bank account,” I say, hoping my touching anecdote will charm her.
“We all did, Quinn,” Lacey says, a touch of condescension in her voice. I’m going to go out on a limb to say she remembers the sixth toe thing.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I scramble to figure out what I can say that will get me the job without completely lying. So I just kind of lie. “But why do I want to work here? I’m all for local businesses, and working for one is a nice thought. Plus, since I’ve been away, I’m out of touch with a lot of people. This might be a great place to see some familiar faces and help them with their banking needs in the process.”
“Interesting to assume people want to catch up with you. ”
Yup. Definitely remembers the sixth toe thing.
And this right here is why living in Rolling Hills is only going to be temporary. Because no matter how many minds I’ve molded, or how much I’ve tamed my crazy ways from my teenage years, I’m always going to be the troublemaker of the Banks clan.
See, we all had our roles. Teachers knew them. People around town. Each of our reputations preceded us.
Simon was the teacher’s pet who could give one grin and make anyone cave to his ways.
Maeve was the smart one.
Ainsley was the good girl.
Stella was the popular cheerleader.
And me? Well, I was the true middle child. The feral one. The one in detention the most. The one who organized the senior pranks. And no, not just for my class. I gained such a reputation at school for the stunts I pulled—highlighted by helping Simon’s graduating class build a General Lee replica car in the gymnasium—that every class above me, and a few after, sought my guidance.
But I’m not that girl anymore. I’m slightly less crazy. Now instead of pulling pranks on teachers, I apparently tell off parent groups.
Personally I love the evolution for me.
“Lacey, I know that?—”
“No, Quinn. You don’t get to tell me what I do and don’t know,” she says, clearly asserting her bank manager authority. “I know that I’m holding your future in my hands.”
“I’m not sure about future,” I quip. “I’ll be honest that I don’t see myself doing this forever.”
“Why not? Are you going to go back to teaching? Oh wait. I heard you got fired from your last job. No school will hire you, I bet. Which frankly, I don’t know how you got hired at a school in the first place.”
I take a deep breath, wanting to make sure that I don’t blow up at her. “No, Lacey. There was a disagreement I had with the administration and a group of parents. I chose to leave.”
She lets out a loud guffaw in place of a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re one of those ‘woke’ teachers trying to indoctrinate students? I should’ve guessed.”
It wasn’t until right now that I truly didn’t realize how triggering that word is with me.
And it’s also at this moment I know I’m not going to be working at Rolling Hills Credit Union.
“You know what, Lacey? Fuck you and your sixth toe.”
She lets out a gasp. “You don’t get to talk to me that way! I’m this bank’s manager! And I don’t have a sixth toe! I don’t know why everyone has always thought that!”
“Oh! Impressive. I didn’t realize I was at the foot of royalty,” I say as I stand up. “And get off your fucking high horse. You peaked in high school, got this job because your uncle is on the board of trustees, and you’re only working here because your husband has a gambling problem so you can’t stay at home like you want. I might only visit a few times a year, but even I know that one. And as for my teaching, I stood up for what I thought was right. I stood up for my students and my principles. And I’m going to do that again by walking out of here, because I refuse to work for someone who still wishes it was the senior year of high school. Peace out, Six Toes.”
* * *
I didn’t want to work at the stupid bank anyway.
Now that I’m thinking about it, sitting at a teller window for eight hours a day would’ve just driven me more crazy than not working at all. I’m used to being up. Walking around. Talking a lot. That’s what’s going to be more suited for me.
Great job justifying it. Keep it up!
Now knowing that about myself, I scoped for jobs that will keep me moving. Allow me to have conversations with people. Which is how I ended up at Marvin’s Furniture Outlet.
Yup. I’m selling couches, sectionals, and anything else you’d like to take a nap on.
It might not be my ideal job, but I one time convinced the debate club to filibuster our history class to get out of taking a test. How hard can it be to convince someone to buy a bed set?
And even better? Marvin is the uncle of one of my high school best friends. He’s well aware of my past antics and even said that his store could use my spunk. I was hired on the spot.
“I don’t know. I like the set, but that’s not my color.”
“Oh! Well, I can fix that Mrs. Wolfe!” I say as I go to grab the upholstery color options. “Here we go. A binder bigger than my head with every color option imaginable. Did you have one in mind?”
“I don’t know, maybe a gray?”
“Gray! Love it. Classic.”
I don’t know if it’s classic or not. But it felt like the right thing to say. My apartment in Arizona was all white because I didn’t know what would go with what, but I knew white went with everything.
I start to flip to the gray section and get there quickly, because apparently there really are fifty shades of gray.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Wolfe says. “I’m going to need a second to look.”
“Take your time,” I say as the telephone starts to ring. “I’ll leave you to browse while I go grab the phone.”
Mrs. Wolfe nods and I walk over to the oversized desk where the only telephone resides. And of course, it’s not cordless. Or a cell phone.
“Marvin’s Furniture Outlet. How can I help you?”
“Marv?”
Really? Do I sound like a sixty-eight-year-old man? “No ma’am. This is Quinn. Marv went to the bank.”
“Quinn? As in Quinn Banks?”
Oh, here we go… “The one and only! Who am I speaking with?”
“It’s Freda Applewood. Remember me?”
“Of course,” I say through gritted teeth. “How could I forget?”
Freda was the elementary school lunch lady. She didn’t like me. Or any student.
“So Marv isn’t there?”
“No, ma’am. But I’d be glad to help you. And if I can’t, I’ll make sure Marv calls you right back.”
She lets out a sigh that screams of her disappointment. “Fine. I was seeing if my desk came in. Can you check on it for me?”
I let out my own sigh, but this one of relief. “Easy enough, Freda. Just hang on for a second.”
“It’s Mrs. Applewood to you.”
I purse my lips. “Apologies. Again. Just hold on for one minute.”
I hit the button to put her on hold as I start making my way to the back room.
“How you doing Mrs. Wolfe?” I call out as I walk past her.
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” she says. “So many options.”
“I’m sure!” I give her one more look to make sure she’s actually okay, which is how I don’t make the turn quick enough and ram my shin right into the corner of a bed frame.
“Fucking dammit shit fuck!” I scream out, not able to hold my tongue because it feels like I was just speared.
“Quinn? Are you all right?”
“Fine!” I say through gritted teeth as I pay more attention as I weave my way through the beds and to the warehouse. The good thing about Marvin’s Furniture Outlet is he has plenty of options. The bad part is that to make your way through the store, you feel like you’re a real-life Pac-Man, and instead of ghosts, it’s pieces of furniture that are there to block you at every turn.
When I finally make it back to the warehouse, it doesn’t take me long to find Freda's desk. I look for a phone so I can report back to her—and answer any other question that I’m sure she has—when I realize there is no other phone.
Because of course there’s only one phone for the entire store.
And it’s a landline.
I mumble some more swear words in the name of first-world problems as I head back to the front. I swing open the door and as soon as I take a step out, pain shoots up my right leg. I can’t see through my leggings, but I’m going to guess I already have a pretty nasty bruise from my furniture collision. I do my best to gingerly walk through the sea of furniture, but it’s basically a limp as every time I put down weight, a sting of pain shoots through me.
“Quinn? Can you come help me? I can’t decide between these eight.”
“One second Mrs. Wolfe!” I continue weaving around when the telephone starts ringing from the front desk at the same time that bells ringing at the front of the store chime. Those two things are just enough for me to take my eye off my trail for just a second.
“Damnit!” I yell as I run into yet another bed frame. This makes me stumble back, basically on one foot, which is how I run into a book case.
Which I knock over.
Which knocks over another bookcase.
Then another.
And another.
And one more.
I’m out of my body as I watch in horror before I snap out of it, realizing that if I don’t race over to the last one soon, it’s going to hit the row of glass lamps. Pain races through my legs as I dodge and weave between rows of bookshelves that are now just falling all around me, heading straight toward the lamps. I’m pretty sure one bookcase just crashed into an antique table, but I can’t focus on that as I try to race to the things made of glass.
I lunge at the last book case, but come up short as it crashes into a host of glass and ceramic lighting fixtures.
I hear the crashes around me as I lay on the ground, defeated, sore, and wondering what the hell just happened.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Wolfe?”
“When you get up, I could really use your opinion. I’ve narrowed it down to three shades.”
Of course she’s not checking on me. Does she even realize what just happened? She had to, right?
“They’re just gray, Mrs. Wolfe! Pick one! Light. Dark. Charcoal. It’s your world, and we’re just living in it!”
I slowly start to get up again, but fall in defeat when I hear the telephone start ringing again.
And it’s that moment I admit defeat. And I just lay there.
I don’t know how long I’m on the floor with broken lamps and discarded book cases when I see Marvin step over me, a mix of concern and horror in his elderly features.
“You okay?”
“I think.”
“That’s good. You…Well…”
Poor guy. He just wanted to go to the bank. I know what he wants to say, or rather do, and I feel like the least I can do is put him out of his misery.
“I’m going to go grab my things.”
He lets out a breath of relief. “I think that would be wise.”
* * *
Actually, this is better.
Dog walking. What could go wrong?
I’m getting exercise, which I admittedly don’t get enough of. I’ll always be on the go, which is what I wanted. And I’m around animals. Granted, I’m more of a cat person, but dogs still have to be better than bitchy bank managers or a walking death trap furniture store.
“Hello, Quinn! You’re a life saver.”
I can’t even say a hello back to my parents’ next-door neighbor, Mrs. Pacer, before she shoves a leash into my hands.
“Well who’s this?” I ask as a pogo stick of a dog jumps in front of me.
“That’s Richard. He’s my pride and joy.”
I choke on my own saliva. I’m all for naming pets human names, but Richard?
“Richard? You named your dog Richard?”
“Yes, after Richard Burton. He was my favorite of Elizabeth Taylor’s husbands.”
“Oh, well then,” I say, not knowing what else to say, so I lean down to scratch his head. “Good to meet you, Dick.”
“No! Not Dick!” she scolds me. “Richard.”
I nod and start pulling the dog out of the doorway. “My apologies.”
“Now, just make sure he gets some exercise and does his business.”
“Easy enough,” I say, swallowing the joke that I know is somewhere. “See you in a bit.”
I start walking down the sidewalk to the dog park that opened a few years ago. I put in my AirPods, figuring I can listen to my audiobook, but just as I do, I feel the leash pull tighter. Next thing I know, my arm feels like it’s being pulled out of its socket, sending my AirPods flying and nearly having me trip over my own feet.
“Richard! What are you doing?”
Once I get my bearings, I realize the dog is pulling at his leash and ferociously barking—well, as ferocious as a terrier can bark—at an unsuspecting golden doodle walking toward us.
“Stop,” I command, though I don’t know if little Richard here knows any commands. “I’m so sorry.”
The owner gives me and Richard a dirty look before walking away. Which, I get. “Come on. You’re giving me a bad rep on the first day.”
The next hundred yards is okay, until I feel the jerk of the leash again, only this time, it’s accompanied by Dick picking up into a full-on sprint.
Toward a squirrel.
“Richard! Dick! Stop!”
I do my best to pull at the leash, but it’s no use. The little fucker is strong. Before I know it, I’m in a full sprint, which is against everything I am as a person.
I don’t run. But it’s either run after Dick or explain to my parents’ eighty-year-old neighbor that I couldn’t keep up with her dog.
“Slow down, you asshole!” I yell.
I don’t think my words are going to work, but somehow they do. And since I clearly wasn’t ready, nor did I see Dick’s brake lights go on, the dog stops on a dime, but I don’t, sending me straight to the concrete.
I lie there for a second, mentally assessing my injuries. My leg hurts, obviously, since it was already injured from the furniture store of death, and I think my arm is scraped, but everything else feels okay. Dick slowly walks over to me, and for a second I think he’s going to check on me. Which would get him back on the good boy list.
But no. Not this dog. Instead of comforting me in my time of agony that he caused, he decides to hump my leg.
Because why not.
“Nope. Can’t do it.” I say, suddenly finding the energy to lift myself off the ground, nearly kicking Dick off my leg, and start speed walking back to Mrs. Pacer’s house with the horny dog in my arms.
“What’s the matter?” she asks as she curiously opens the door that I was pounding on.
“Sorry, Mrs. Pacer. Your dog’s a dick. Pun intended.”
I nearly toss the dog into Mrs. Pacer’s arms and make a beeline to my car that’s parked in my parents’ driveway. I don’t wave to my dad as he mows the lawn. I don’t stop to say hello to my mother.
No, I just get in my car and drive to the one place I don’t want to go.
Because I need to admit defeat.