“I . . . What would you need me to do?”
“Oh. I guess we need phones answered, uh, computer stuff, like scheduling, I think. My girl takes care of all that. She’s the one who needs help, really. Can’t do everything herself. She’s getting us some coffee right now. Oh, getting coffee, that’s another skill we need.”
“Um, well, I can definitely do that.” Is this a job interview?
Henry runs a hand over his beard and nods his head. Neither of us speaks for a very long, very awkward minute.
“Do I need to fill out an application or something?” I ask.
Henry waves his hand. “Nah. I like you. Let’s do this. If you fuck up, I can always fire you.” He pats my shoulder in a fatherly way and turns back to the studio. “Follow me.”
The back studio is basically just a massive warehouse filled with tons of very expensive-looking lights and stands and rolls of material, backdrops probably. The setup is currently a black backdrop with a black table. The camera is mounted above the table, pointing straight down, wired up to a laptop.
“Shooting a jewelry advertisement for a friend,” Henry says, adjusting one of the lights as he twists his head toward the monitor. A rainbow dot moves across his chest, and I wonder if he’s shooting diamonds.
The door chimes, followed immediately by the voice of a girl. “I have your venti Caramel Macchiato with extra whip—” She stops when she sees me. And here I thought I’d escape run-ins with anyone from school. But no, it’s the goth chick from the other day.
“Thank you, my dear. You can take down the HELP WANTED sign. I hired Tyler Blackwell,” Henry says as he raises the large white cup to his lips.
The goth chick is not happy. She stares at me like she wants to rip my throat out, like the vampire she wishes she was.
“Don’t be rude. Say hello.” Henry nudges her.
“Hello.” Her voice is like ice slipped into your jock.
Henry takes another sip and leans down to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for the coffee. I gotta get back to work. Show him the ropes? And figure out a schedule or whatever you need to do.”
And he’s back to adjusting lights again.
Goth pushes past me toward the front. I guess I should follow?
“So, do I need to fill out paperwork or something?” I ask.
“Yeah. An application,” she says coldly, entering the circle of shiny concrete countertop that sits atop crisp white cabinets. She slams the divider back in place before I can follow. After digging around in a cabinet, she finally finds what she’s looking for, slaps it onto the concrete countertop, and shoves it in my direction.
“Um, Henry kind of told me I didn’t need to fill out—”
She slams a pen down on top of the paper and glares at me so hard I can hear it. Then she stomps back to the other side of the counter and clicks at the computer like it’s done something to offend her.
I oblige and fill out the unnecessary paperwork, occasionally glancing up, trying to figure out the connection between her and Henry. He couldn’t be her father or maybe her grandfather, could he? I mean, she’s Asian. Although in all fairness, she could be half Asian. Actually now that I really look at her, she’s definitely half Asian. She might even be pretty without all that shit on her face. She’s—oh, shit. Heat shoots through my body as strong as a solar flare. I just figured out why she hates me. I know her.
“Jordyn?” I ask.
Her back straightens. She doesn’t turn around. “You just figure that out?”
Here’s the thing: Jordyn and I used to be friends. Until middle school, when her parents split up. We started having play dates when we were in second grade because my mom and her mom met at a back-to-school thing, and occasionally her mom would drive me home after school. Jordyn was pretty cool for a girl. She was smart and liked reading. Plus she had a trampoline in her backyard. But we lost touch after she moved.
“I thought you went to East Ridge,” I say.
“I’ve been at Ridge Gate since our sophomore year.” She sounds pissed.
“Really?”
She turns to face me now, cocking her head to the side. “We’ve even spoken.”
“We have?” I desperately search my brain for a memory of this supposed conversation.
She stalks toward me and I’m suddenly very happy about the counter being between us. “You really don’t remember?”
I shake my head. “You mean the other day?” She can’t possibly count that as a conversation; she didn’t even acknowledge me.
She shakes her head in disgust and grabs the application off the counter, crumpling it up and throwing it in the trash. “Just go.”