I fidget in my chair like a kid in detention, making too much noise as I chafe my double-stockinged knees, but Mrs. King is kind enough not to comment on it.

I look at my hands, look at the floor. Glance at Mrs. King.

There’s a line about this in something, but for the life of me, I can’t remember whether it was a Dickens novel or some obscure poem I read in a library book. I just know it’s gonna nag me until I can remember. I watch her painted hand, thinking of Mrs. Moon.

I should have just waited in the lobby. I wore two layers of tights on purpose so I wouldn’t freeze to death, but she offered, and I don’t know how to say ‘no’ without coming across as rude.

I should’ve stepped around the corner and gotten myself a hot cocoa. At this point, I would have had time.

I’m a lot-tle early, but that was an accident. I overcompensated, so used to taking the train at this point. I didn’t want to mess anything up, and that’s exactly what you SHOULD think if you want to make a thousand tiny mistakes - make a fool of yourself.

My phone reads 3 p.m. as I check my makeup in the selfie cam. I tried to look neat and casual, professional and pretty at the same time. I tried to look like my hands weren’t shaking nearly as much as they were. I only managed one of those - a relatively pristine layer of barely red-gloss.

I hope it’s not a bad first impression - but it shouldn’t matter, right?

The damsel can speak for herself - prettier than me. 

And maybe that’s…how it should be. 

I fidget with my fingers, reminding myself I don’t need the agent to like me, just the work.

Just…

It’s not gonna go anything like last time. My mind knows that, but my body has a hard time remembering that, shivering with nerves and giddy fright.

My thoughts trip over their own feet, as I attempt to mind-control myself.

This is a clean slate.

But even that is terrifying if you think about it too hard.

Am I the only one who plans my exit before I walk into a room?

I’m glad I have the date tonight if nothing else, so I can have an excuse to leave if my nerves get out of hand - if things bomb completely.

I have no reason to believe anything at all will go wrong.

But I have no idea what to expect from this woman.

I’m fairly positive that it WILL be a woman this time. I looked the name ‘Emelia’ up online last night, and it is definitely NOT a unisex name, but then again, who names their son ‘Shannon?’

There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.

I glance toward the hidden panel and Juana looks up at me, following my gaze.

“She’s not in the office at the moment, so she’ll probably come in through the door behind you.”

So it is a ‘she,’ at least.

I turn a little and peek behind me as subtly as possible. There’s no good way to watch that door unless I turn my chair around - and that would be too weird.

Maybe if I turned a little sideways…

Breathe.

There’s no reason I should be as nervous as I am - but reason has never had a very strong foot-hold in my emotions. Worry and anticipation crash into each other, shake hands - morph into a two-headed monster.

The date is in three hours.

Stop.

I feel my face turning red just at the thought and put the back of my palm to my cheek.

“Is it too warm?”

“No. Thank you. I’m alright.”

I try to look calm and nonchalant, and that only further serves to increase the image of a guilty child. I rub my knees awfully like I’m trying to light my stockings on fire and think of Melissa.

If only she could have been here, I know I’d be a lot less nervous. At least then I’d have something to talk about rather than just waiting.

There’s nothing more painful in the world than sitting and waiting for life to happen to you.

Or for somebody to come through…

Despite knowing better I glance at the hidden panel again - like it’s the doorway into my life and fate is waiting to knock - 

No. It never knocks. It forces its way in. Kicks the door in action movie style, and forces you to the ground, under duress.

I feel the cold fingers of anxiety wrap themselves around my heart and squeeze tight. I ooze goosebumps.

What if I do something dumb?

What if it bombs?

The interview. The date.

At least with Kattar, I’d have another shot - but with Ms. Howard, there’s no saying.

I already lost the chance to work with the other lady, Ginger…Ginger something.

If Ms. Howard changes her mind will I just be left waiting? Or dropped from the company? Does it work like that?

Who even knows?

Worst case scenario-

Don’t.

Despite what therapy says, that never helps if you’re an overthinker like me. I look at my hands and count up to three. Breathe. Three again.

I could think of a higher number.

I could think of something else.

So, shoes?

Melissa texted me a picture of a new dress she bought last week. The most adorable little red tartan thing I’ve ever seen, but she says her husband already threatened to burn it. She says she’ll gift it to me.

“That way my baby can live somewhere where she’ll be loved.”

But my b-

My not-boyfriend - not sweetheart - equally significant other - would hate it too.

Not that it matters considering the fact that we’re not dating. Considering the fact that he doesn’t even want anyone to know…that we’re going out.

Destiny, or Fate, bangs on that door again. I take another shot of burning ‘butterflies’ and they tear through my insides, setting everything aflame.

I don’t even hear the door open before a delicate hand rests on the back of my chair, brushing against my braid - or my brain, adding kindling to the anxious flame. I jump putting my hand to the back of my neck where I felt the sudden presence, as Juana King rises to meet the newcomer.

“Here we are,” Juana smiles, shaking hands with a very tall, very thin woman in square glasses and a pristine suit that smells like it was just ironed.

“I’m not late am I?” She laughs through a slight Georgia accent, “I tried to leave early, but the roads are all slick, and you know how I am about driving in the snow.”

She waves her hand with a distinctly “belle-ish” gesture, catching sight of me for the first time as she does. I’m standing awkwardly, one of my small hands held out as I stare up into her large face. There’s a flicker in her expression, like when a cloud races by the sun.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” she smiles gingerly, shaking my hand, but her face is painted with confusion as she takes the seat beside mine.

“This is the artist?” she addresses her question to Mrs. King rather than me, “But she’s so young…”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. King says with a twinge of surprise, glancing over at me, “Young for me maybe, but you two are nearly the same age. About four years apart I believe?”

I look up at Ms. Howard, twice my height even when sitting. She stares straight ahead at Mrs. King as she speaks and says nothing, but there’s something about that in and of itself that makes me feel like shrinking into my shell. I feel dwarfed by her shadow - and maybe it’s just the reminder….

“We have a folder for you prepared on Ms. Palmero’s work experience, projects, et cetera, for your review. I’m sure you received the sample photos from Mrs. Xochitl some months ago, but we’ve updated her file a bit since then,” Mrs. King hands Ms. Howard a thick folder, gorged with paper, and she sifts through it slowly. Each whispery ‘pat’ of the paper as she shuffles the pile threatens to shatter my nerves completely.

“She’s never worked any job other than this one?”

“She’s had her own business since she was sixteen, so I suppose you could consider her self-employed.”

Ms. Howard looks quickly from Mrs. King to me, as if she expects one of us to show signs of lying. I feel smaller than ever.

“It shocked all of us the first time,” Mrs. King smiles, as Ms. Howard slips the stack of paper back between the covers of the folder, “but I’m sure you agree that a resume this impressive will do wonders for The Foundations image.”

“It’s rather limiting,” Ms. Howard says almost with a sigh, not making eye contact with either of us. “There are a lot of benefits to having experience in other fields.”

“I know,” I say quickly, a little meekly. “That’s why it’ll be such a relief for me to have your expertise here to help me.”

That same flicker, even as she smiles. Maybe she thinks I’m being patronizing?

Juana doesn’t seem to notice a thing, or maybe she’s too professional to be phased the same way I am.

“You two can start working together as soon as next Monday if that works for both of you. We’re still dealing with some…paperwork, but there’s no reason for that to hold up your progress.” 

“That will be fine.” Ms. Howard smiles like a cocoa-colored Barbie doll, still keeping her gaze fixed on Juana, or nothing, but never me.

“Does that work for you, Ms. Palmero?”

“Yeah - yes, that works,” I nod quickly, trying to shake off the acute discomfort unsettling my stomach.

“Perfect. Then I’ll just message Mrs. Xochitl to transfer over your old projects and documents to Ms. Howard’s care, and exchange all the contact information so you two can communicate without needing The Foundation to play the middleman.”

Ms. Howard attends to everything Mrs. King says with a face like a marble statue. Something about her posture invites no questions, no comments, no conversation. She’s too perfect.

But I feel like I should say something - if nothing else to drown out my own brain. I dare to shrug feebly:

“I hope we’ll enjoy working together...”

Ms. Howard doesn’t get to answer before Mrs. King interjects, “I’m sure you will. She’s a munchkin on caliber with your level of genius. You’ll be a perfect match.”

Ms. Howard pulls just the slightest hint of a frown, a micro-expression buried beneath that same saccharine smile, as she says coolly, “I’m sure we will be."