Chapter 11 #2
When the door clicks shut, Omar turns to face the screen. “Good morning, Sophie. I’m Omar. It’s nice to meet you.”
I can see now why Nate said everyone loves Omar. Charismatic is the first word that comes to mind. Which should make this easier, but it doesn’t. He’s nice and that makes me not want to let him down. The people pleaser in me is amping up. Shit.
“Good morning, Omar. It’s nice to meet you too.”
Background noise increases, and I hear other voices in the room with Omar that coincide with others joining in on the meeting.
They must all be in the conference room together, but they’re all on my screen now in little boxes, as well.
Sweat prickles at the nape of my neck, and this sweater suddenly feels like a very bad idea.
Tight smile still in place, I manage, “Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning, Sophie,” they say in unison. Except Mark. Because Mark is an asshole.
“Why don’t we jump right in?” Omar asks.
Good Guy’s words echo inside my head in the deep voice I’ve created for him, Go get ‘em, killer! and I nod.
My cell is silenced, but it begins vibrating on the far end of the table. It’s out of my reach.
But not out of Lola’s, who’s sitting in a chair on the other side of the table. I see her pick it up out of the corner of my eye and am thankful because I think she’ll send the call to voicemail.
She does not.
She answers quietly and then after a short pause says, “No, this is Lola, her assistant,” as she walks toward the front door and disappears through it.
My assistant?
Omar says, “Sophie, I would love to hear about your three proudest achievements.”
It’s taking everything in me to keep my eyes on the screen in front of me and not check on Lo. I clear my throat to give me a moment to collect my thoughts. “Professional achievements or personal achievements?” I ask.
“Either,” Omar encourages.
My eyes slip in the direction of the window, and I see Lola standing in the front yard talking. Ten seconds into the conversation and there’s already a lot of hand gesturing on her part. Hand gestures are a good gauge of her excitement level. She’s currently at a seven.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“Amen,” the gray-haired man in one of the tiny boxes on my screen says.
I look at him in confusion but quickly realize I’ve inadvertently won over the Christian in the group. I risk another glance at Lola. She’s at a solid nine now. My face feels hot, and my scalp and forehead are beading sweat.
“And your second?” Omar asks.
I consider correcting him that, technically, I’m still on number one, but I jump back in determined to recover.
“Professionally, I’m most proud of my rise through the ranks.
In my eight years with Nation’s Finest, I went from claims call center representative, to quality assurance analyst, to underwriting, to the commercial lines project management team, to senior project manager.
Learning on the job, making lateral moves to gain new skills and perspective, and taking on new challenges provided me with a big picture view of not only my department, but the company and, ultimately, the industry as a whole.
Most recently that translated directly into the design and implementation of efficiencies within claims reporting and processing that’s projected to save the company over ten million in quarter three. ”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel like I might black out. The edges of my vision are blurry, and I can feel the blood pounding in my head. This can’t be normal.
Omar seems pleased with my answer, nodding along and smiling.
A trickle of sweat has formed and is rolling down my forehead, only to be captured by an unruly eyebrow, and I’m thankful I haven’t been able to afford a trip to have them threaded in months.
I brush it away, only to have its friend follow closely behind and somehow break through like a Plinko game.
The salt in my eye instantly burns, and when a few blinks don’t flush it, I rub it.
“Are you okay?” Omar asks.
I nod, because the burning has disappeared. “Better,” I say with a smile. Until I look at my fingertips and they’re covered in mascara. This is why I don’t usually wear makeup. I don’t even want to know what my face looks like. If I don’t make a big deal out of it, it won’t be a big deal, right?
“And number three?” Omar asks.
My internal temperature feels like it’s reached two hundred degrees, and I wonder if this is what a heat stroke feels like.
If I stretch, I can reach the little tabletop fan I use during the day.
I flip the switch in desperation, because fuck this sweater.
I have delusions of grandeur that the gentle breeze will bring relief and subtle hair ruffles, similar to what you see on those behind-the-scenes photo shoots.
Yeah, nope. The breeze is neither gentle nor subtle.
Because when I turn it on, I also manage to change the setting from low to high.
High is a setting I never use because it's essentially a hurricane in both decibels and gale force. My hair blows back like I’m mid-race in an F-1 car with no helmet.
I’m caught in the downdraft for a few seconds before I fumble and knock it over, which fortunately turns it off.
“Sorry, no A/C and it’s a hot one in Colorado already this morning,” I say, as I lift the hem of the sweater under the table and waft in some air.
Mark snorts in undisguised amusement, the prick, and says, “The drama of the gentler sex, am I right? My wife moans incessantly about hot flashes. Maybe that’s your problem, Sophie.
Are you going through the change?” He looks around at the other men in the room and smirks. “That would explain so much.”
I scan the faces on my screen, silently scrutinizing each one. Has the blatant sexism made them visibly uncomfortable? Yes. Do they have the decency to speak up and call him out? Sadly, but unsurprisingly, no.
“Number three,” Omar repeats, and I hear the disappointment in his voice. For me or Mark, I’m not sure.
I’m reminded, once again, that I’m not great at reading people, because minutes ago I was convinced Omar was different. But him glossing over Mark’s inappropriate commentary has proven me wrong.
Lola picks that exact moment to burst through the door and yell, “Tell them to piss off, Soph! You’re going on tour with Thicker Than Water, you badass motherfucker!”
I rest my elbows on the tabletop, drop my face into my palms, and scrub at it in slow motion while I inhale for a count of four and exhale for a count of four. The room is small, and Lola is loud. They heard every word.
“I think we have our answer, gentlemen,” Mark says. “We go with Seth, as it should be.”
He sounds vindictively gleeful now that he’s seen my composure slip, and this heat and my nerves get the best of me.
Everything that can possibly go wrong during this interview has, but dammit, I deserve better. These men are not my tribe, and I don’t have to take their shit. Mark doesn’t get to take this from me either; this is my choice.
It’s time to raise some hell.
I lift my head, pull my earrings out, and in a voice that I wish was smug, but mostly sounds tired and relieved because I can take this goddamn sweater off, I say, “Well, you heard the woman. I guess after giving this company everything for eight years, this is where we part ways. And rather than telling you to piss off as suggested, I’ll implore you to do better.
Except you, Mark, you can fuck all the way off.
” Before they can reply, I tap the button in the lower corner of my screen to exit.
Lola is happy dancing her way across the room toward me as I tear the sweater over my head and toss it at her. “This sweater is cursed. Burn it.”
She catches it while asking, “Did you just tell Mark to fuck off, you absolute legend?” And then she gasps when she gets a look at me. “Why do you look like you spent ten hours in a sauna and then walked through a mile-long wind tunnel?”
I tilt my head and stare at her, unamused.
“Seriously, Soph. What the hell happened?” Lola asks. Her excitement temporarily forgotten.
“That goddamn wool sweater on a summer day happened.” And my anxiety was through the roof, but I leave that part out. “Also, they were assholes.”
She wets a few paper towels in the kitchen sink and hands them to me. “You mean that goddamn lucky sweater.”
I halfheartedly glare at her but accept them.
She ignores the glare. “It’s in the past. Let’s focus on your future. You’re going on tour with Thicker Than Water.”
I scrub at my face. “What does that mean? What did you get me into?”
Lola smiles sweetly. “I heard the implied thank you, so you’re welcome.” And then she relays the conversation.
Before I call back, I open Instagram to message Good Guy and discover he sent me a message twenty minutes ago.
Good Guy
You got this! Let me know how it went when you’re done.
I respond with,
The interview was a disaster, but I feel oddly relieved.
Exhausted and scared out of my mind (because the control freak in me wants to lose her ever-loving shit), but relieved.
Is that weird? I think maybe it finally sank in that the corporate world isn’t my scene.
Not sure if that epiphany happened before or after I told my boss to “fuck all the way off,” but here we are.
Not my classiest move, but I’m not gonna lie, it felt good.
Also, while I was in interview hell, my sister managed to line me up with a temp photography job.
No details yet, but I’ll fill you in when I know more.
It’s only 7:30 in the morning, but this has been the strangest day I’ve had in a while.
And that’s saying something. I think it's time for a nap. Or a stiff drink. Maybe both.