Another good luck text comes in, this one from my Quantum Mechanics instructor.
Cool. Texts from my teacher friend. Could I be more pathetic?
I throw my phone back into my bag without replying to anyone.
I’m in the elevator up to the thirty-seventh floor, after showing my ID to Security. I’m heading to Burkholder Fitz Gamble, which is a law firm. The alumnus who’s supposed to interview me works here. I guess this Alex Gamble guy went to MIT to study biomechanical engineering before Harvard for his JD and now he’s a patent attorney who defends pharmaceutical companies.
The receptionist at the firm tells me to have a seat on one of the big padded benches and that someone from Alex Gamble’s office will be out in a few minutes. Last night, I Googled Mr. Gamble to find out his background. I had a hard time finding much. He must be busy climbing the corporate ladder because he has, like, zero social media profiles. I did run across one thing, though. He races sailboats on his off-time, which is badass. Got a little distracted looking at the blurry shot of him on his boat next to a hot lady in a snug tank top. Nice. Wife? Girlfriend? He looks like a bit of a tool, so my assumption is that maybe girls are into smart guys once they get out of high school?
God, I hope so, because right now they look at me like I’m a walking petri dish full of HPV or something.
As I sit here, my leg starts to bounce. I can’t keep it still. I just want this thing to start so it can be over. Let me get through this unscathed. Let this Alex dude be cool. Everyone says the interview is more of a formality than anything else, but what if it’s not? What if my whole future rests on my having a satisfactory answer to what three adjectives others would use to describe me? (Note to self: don’t say loser, coward, reject, no matter how true it may be.)
I bow my head and try to center myself. In my peripheral vision, I see a pair of shapely legs in red-soled, high heel shoes approaching me. I instinctively follow the legs up, past the curvy hips and narrow waist, over her considerable assets, only partially obscured by a conservative blouse, and up to the face, which absolutely fulfills the promise of the tight bod. The woman realizes I’m checking her out and I can feel myself blush.
Nice move, Cho, I say to myself. Very suave. Let’s put a pin in this so you can continue to sexually harass Mr. Gamble’s assistant even more after your interview.
“Stephen Cho, I presume?” she asks, holding out her hand so I can shake it.
I want to die. I seriously want to die right now. I could not be more embarrassed.
I jump up from my seat to take her hand so quickly that I spill the contents of my backpack. Every item in the bag spews out all over the floor. The hot lady bends over and helps me retrieve everything. “Here you go.” She hands me my scientific calculator and a handful of pencils covered in bite marks because I tend to chew them while thinking.
Scratch that, I can always be more embarrassed.
“Thanks,” I say, practically whispering this into my chest.
“Please don’t worry about it,” she laughs. “The alumnae interview is nerve-racking, right? Borderline torture? Cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Oh, my God, so much!” I exclaim.
“Trust me, you’re not the first MIT hopeful who’s been in here feeling anxious. You’ll be fine, I promise. Take a couple of deep breaths. You’ll feel the difference and I’m in no rush. I know how stressed you must be. Been there myself.”
I comply and after a few lungsful, my heart stops trying to pummel its way clean out of my ribcage.
“So, now that you’re together, why don’t you follow me?” she says with a smile and a swish of her shiny hair. I like how her pale pink lipstick contrasts with her dark skin and the deep brown of her shoulder-length bob. She’s giving off Gabrielle Union–realness. (Dwayne Wade is the luckiest man on earth. Fact.)
I wonder if this lady distracts Mr. Gamble when he’s trying to, like, jurisprudence or whatever. Do they race boats together? Was she the woman in the picture? Pretty sure she was.
I plod along behind her while she glances back at me to see if I’m still with her, scrunching up her eyes each time, all friendly. This lady’s making me feel better and I truly appreciate that. I bet she’s an awesome assistant. If Kent were here, he’d be all, Yeah, baby, Mr. Gamble does want you to take a letter.
You know what? I probably owe Kent an apology. Suspect he was being helpful and cool in trying to set me up with Spencer.
We head down a long hall and finally arrive at the door of a large, glassed-in office in the corner of the building. The leather rolling chair in front of the formidable oak desk is presently unoccupied. She enters while I stand in the doorway, waiting for my interviewer to arrive.
“Wow, I’m glad I didn’t screw up like that in front of Mr. Gamble, right? Whew.” I sweep a hand over my brow.
“Um...” Her smile falters and she clears her throat. “Actually it’s Ms.”
I don’t follow.
I say, “I’m sorry, it’s mis-what?” I figure she’s nice enough that I can be honest. “I didn’t catch the end of what you said.”
She sits at the desk and points to her engraved nameplate. “Gamble. Ms. Alexandra Gamble. Hi, Stephen, I apologize for not properly introducing myself back there, I thought you knew. Please, have a seat.” She gestures to the open chair.
Fuck. My. Life.
*
I’ve crashed.
I’ve burned.
I’ve blown this interview in a way that interviews have never been blown before. I’ve invented entirely new ways to fail. Someday people are going to describe disasters as “That was a total Cho-show,” instead of inserting the words Hindenburg or Titanic or Chernobyl.
Loser.
Coward.
Reject.
How am I gonna face my family after this? How will I say that I messed it up again, like always, despite their best efforts? That I lost everything I’ve been trying to achieve my whole life in less than an hour?
I feel like I’m drowning, like this glass office has turned into an aquarium and my mouth, my stupid mouth that keeps betraying me, is a set of weighted lead boots. The water’s rising all around me and I can’t fight, I can’t swim, I can’t pull myself to the surface no matter how hard I kick.
Do I even want to kick? I am a tsunami of suck. Maybe I deserve to sink. Maybe it’s better if I don’t try to save myself.
Clearly this Ms. Gamble is a sadist, making me sit here and answer her questions, like I still have a shot, like I don’t appall her, like she’s not going to stamp my interview form with the word NO, NO, NO, NO over and over in red ink.
Loser.
Coward.
Reject.
First I lost my chance at valedictorian and now this. When I saw the names on that damn sailing photo, I was too distracted by the tank top to notice which person was actually Alex. How do I always do this, how do I always miss the whole fucking point of everything?
Useless.
Useless.
USELESS.