Chapter 5 #2
To my surprise, the interview room is an office with warm tones, bookshelves, and a large wooden desk. Behind it sits a man in a dark suit.
He’s maybe late fifties, with a broad build and gray hair.
His face is impassive and professional, but his eyes are sharp.
He’s not HR or from the staffing agency, that’s for sure.
And the two men in matching suits standing quietly near the wall with that same coiled stillness are not administrative assistants.
“Please sit,” he says. His voice carries a faint accent — Russian, I think. He gestures to the chair across from him.
“Thank you.”
I sit and place my folder on my lap, smiling softly. It’s my teacher’s smile. Warm, open, designed to put five-year-olds at ease. I don’t know if it works on men in suits, but it’s all I have.
“Miss Calloway. Thank you for coming.” He opens a folder of his own. My resume. I see it upside down, my name at the top in the Times New Roman font I agonized over. “I have some questions.”
“Of course.”
The first ones are standard. How long have you been teaching? What age groups have you worked with? Why do you believe you’re the right choice for this role?
This is the one I’ve rehearsed. I give the answer I prepared: My commitment to individualized learning, my belief that children learn best when they feel safe enough to be curious. It comes out polished. Practiced. But also true, which helps.
He listens. Nods. Writes nothing down, which either means he’s memorizing everything or that nothing I’m saying matters.
And then the questions shift.
“Do you have any plans to leave the country?”
I blink. “I — no. No, I don’t.”
“Any living family members?”
“My mother. In Massachusetts. We’re not close.”
He doesn’t react, breezing on with his inquiry. “Are you currently in a relationship? Married? Engaged? Children?”
I blink. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. I’m fairly certain that question violates at least two employment regulations, and we both know it, but the way he asks makes it clear he’s not testing boundaries. He genuinely expects an answer. So, I give him one.
“No. To all of those.”
“And would you be comfortable living on-site? Full-time?”
“Yes.”
“You understand the position requires residency at the estate, yes? It’s not a nine-to-five arrangement.”
“I understand.”
He studies me. Despite my nerves, I hold his gaze.
“Your experience is limited compared to the other candidates,” he notes.
“It is,” I agree. No point in lying. “But the experience I have is directly relevant. I’ve worked with children this age, in environments where resources were limited, and creativity had to fill the gaps.
I designed art-integrated lessons for kids who couldn’t sit still for traditional instruction.
I’ve worked with shy children, withdrawn children, and children dealing with trauma and instability.
” I pause. Take a breath. “I may not have the most years, but I know how to reach a child who doesn’t want to be reached. ”
For a moment, there’s a flicker in his expression.
Then he nods and closes the folder. “Thank you, Miss Calloway. We’ll be in touch.”
The abruptness takes me by surprise. It’s over? Just like that? With all the lead up, I was sure there’d be more.
Hesitantly, I stand and shake his hand, trying to keep firm and steady. I don’t let him feel the tremor.
When I walk out of the room, I do it with my spine straight and my smile intact. All the while, my heart is screaming.
Back in the waiting room, the remaining women are gathering their things. A few minutes pass, but it feels like hours. Every second is thick and heavy, the air in the room dense with collective anticipation and the quiet knowledge that most of us are about to be disappointed.
The man returns. He stands in the doorway, with his hands clasped, and thanks us all for our time. His words are polite, measured, and rehearsed. The family appreciates our interest. A decision will be made and communicated soon. We’re free to go.
That’s it.
The other women file out. I watch them go unhurried, their polished shoes clicking on the marble. I stay seated for a moment, gripping the handle of my bag, trying to work up the courage.
“Excuse me,” I finally squeak out, and the man pauses in the doorway. “Could I use the restroom before I leave?”
He nods. “Down the hall to the left. Second door.”
“Thank you.”
I keep my head down as I scurry out.
The bathroom is beautiful. Marble countertops. A mirror framed in dark wood. Brass fixtures that gleam under soft lighting. There’s a small vase of fresh white peonies on the counter. The hand towels are linen, and even the soap smells expensive, with notes of cedar and bergamot.
When I’m done, I wash up, careful not to make a mess, then slowly creak open the door, not wanting to be seen.
As I step outside, the hallway looks different.
My meekness quickly morphs into confusion.
I turn left, which is the direction I came from, I think, but the corridor stretches further than I remember, and the doors are different. After thirty seconds, I realize with a sinking certainty that I’m lost.
“How the heck did that happen…”
I stop in my tracks and turn. The bathroom door is still visible, but the hall ahead branches off in two directions, and neither seems familiar.
Shit. So typical.
I could go back to the interview room, but I think I might die of embarrassment. I’m already underqualified, but being the girl who couldn’t find the exit could easily be the death knell.
So, I pick the left corridor because it’s wider and hope it might lead somewhere public. The walls here are different. Less formal and more lived-in. A painting of a winter landscape, a little side table with a stack of books, warmer lighting.
I turn a corner, and the corridor opens into a room.
My shaky little breaths are sucked from my lungs.
It’s a living room with vast, high ceilings and a wall of windows. The furniture is elegant but sparse, all with clean lines and neutral tones. An enormous rug covers most of the floor, its pattern intricate and dense.
I halt at the threshold. I shouldn’t be here. This is clearly a private part of the house. I’m about to turn around when the curtain in front of me moves .
It’s subtle. A ripple in the heavy velvet drapes that frame the nearest window, where the dark green, floor-length material pools slightly on the hardwood beneath. It could just be the wind…
The curtain moves again. A small shift.
I’m held hostage by two warring instincts: fear and curiosity. Despite everything, curiosity wins out. It’s an instinct that feels vaguely familiar.
Still, I hear a voice chanting, what are you doing Ellie? as I reach for the curtain.
It moves with a startled jerk, and I jump back, my hand flying to my chest.
The curtain falls aside, revealing a little girl.
She’s sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, surrounded by a nest of velvet fabric. Her long dark hair is tangled and staticky.
She’s small, with pale skin and a sharp, delicate face. Her chin tilts up at me with curiosity.
She’s wearing a soft gray sweater that’s slightly too big for her, paired with leggings and socks with little foxes on them. Under one arm, pressed tight against her ribs, is a stuffed rabbit. It’s clearly old and well-loved, the fabric worn smooth, one ear barely attached.
“Hello,” I say softly, my pounding heart slowly settling into a duller rhythm.
She doesn’t respond. Her grip tightens on the rabbit.
All of my fear and anxiety melts away.
Instinct takes over.
I crouch down carefully. Not too close. I’ve learned that with shy children, distance is a gift. You give them space and let them decide when to close it.
“You know,” I say, keeping my voice light, conversational, “I used to hide behind curtains too. When I was about your age. My dad would come look for me, and I’d think I was invisible. ”
The girl watches me, unblinking.
“The problem was,” I continue, letting a smile creep in, “the curtains in our house were sheer. You know, see-through? So, I’d be standing there thinking I was hidden, and my dad would be in the doorway pretending he couldn’t find me, and my feet were just—” I gesture with both hands, pantomiming two feet sticking out from under a curtain.
“Just standing right there in full view. Every time.”
I laugh a little to show her that everything’s alright. The mood is light. But in response, I get nothing.
“He’d go, ‘Oh no, where did she go? She’s disappeared!’” I put on a low, exaggerated voice, my eyebrows raised in mock astonishment. “And I’d be giggling so hard the curtain was shaking. Worst hiding spot in the history of hiding spots.”
And then, so small I almost miss it, the corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one.
My chest fills with warmth. This is what I live for.
“What are you working on?” I ask, nodding toward the small sketchbook resting on her lap, half-hidden under the rabbit.
She hesitates and stares down at it. Then, after careful deliberation, she slowly turns the sketchbook around and holds it up for me to see.
It’s a bird.
A small bird. A sparrow, maybe, or a finch, perched on a branch with its head tilted slightly to one side.
It’s not a child’s drawing. I mean, it technically is, but the way she’s captured the texture of the feathers with tiny, precise strokes is almost masterful.
Same with the eye. Round, bright, alive, with a pinpoint of white that serves as a highlight. And the feet gripping the branch with individual toes, each one distinct.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, and I’m not performing the reaction. It’s real .
It comes from the same place inside me that lights up when a student reads their first word, when a child shows me what they’ve made with their own hands, and their eyes are asking, Is it good? Am I good?
“This is incredible.”
The girl blinks, and her expression shifts to surprise. Like she expected me to glance at it and move on the way most people do.
“The detail on the feathers, look at that.” I lean slightly closer, pointing but not touching. “And the eye. You gave it light. Do you see that? That tiny white spot? That’s what makes it alive. A lot of grown-up artists don’t know that trick.”
She ducks her chin with pride, and a curtain of dark hair falls across her face.
Then we hear footsteps from somewhere deeper in the house.
The girl’s eyes snap toward the sound.
I stand up quickly. My chest tightens.
I’m not supposed to be here, not in this room, not in this part of the house, and definitely not having a conversation with a child who almost certainly belongs to the family that is about to reject me.
“Well,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I should probably go. But it was really nice meeting you.” I pause. Smile at her. “I’m Ellie, by the way. What’s your name?”
She’s quiet for a moment, but the footsteps are getting closer. Her fingers wring the rabbit’s remaining good ear.
“Anya,” she says, so low that it’s almost a whisper.
“Anya.” I let the name settle. It fits her, small, both delicate and strong. “Well, Anya. Thank you for showing me your drawing. That bird is the best thing I’ve seen all day.” I scan around. “I’m a little lost, actually. Can you point me to the way out?”
She lifts one small hand and points toward an archway on the far side of the room .
“That way?” She nods. “Thank you.”
I move toward the archway. Fast but not panicked. Just a woman walking through a house. Nothing to see here.
At the arch, I glance back. Anya is still sitting behind the curtain, watching me with those enormous blue eyes, the rabbit pressed against her chest, the sketchbook balanced on her knees.
I wave.
She doesn’t wave back.
I turn the corner, follow the corridor, and by some miracle — or by Anya’s excellent directions — I find the foyer with the front door. I step out into the cold air, and relief washes over me.
That was more… interesting than expected. My heart sinks. Doesn’t mean I’ll get the job, though.
I look out and see the same gruff, darkly handsome driver from before. He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s tired of waiting for me.
I tip my head down and shuffle into the car, happy to get out of that beautiful, monstrous not-home… And a little sad that, in all likelihood, I’ll never see that special little girl again.