If either of them could bring themselves to be less polite, this misery would end sooner.
“So, you’ve worked at a bookstore for eight years?”
Gretchen resisted the urge to drop her gaze. “That’s right.”
The man evaded her eye contact by remaining focused on his computer screen. “Got it. Let me just get a rundown of your skills to see if we can find a good fit. I see your job title was ‘Associate’ - what sort of duties did that involve?”
She steeled herself. “I helped customers find books, worked the register, managed stock. There were only two associates then, because of the scale-downs, so we…” The sentence stumbled, then rallied. “We had to wear a lot of hats.” That was one of the phrases her sister suggested. It showed Versatility! and Adaptiveness! As if the modern world didn’t consider failure to be contagious. “I created our website, and kept it up to date.”
His eyes met hers for the first time since they started talking. “Do you have a background in web design?”
“I know how to use Cubeblank. Some HTML and CSS. It was just a static site.”
Whatever interest had briefly flared on the other side of the desk flickered out just as quickly. “Typing?”
Was that a question? “No. I mean, not for the bookstore, other than emails and the website. I’ve done some transcription work, though, copy-editing.”
“Oh?” He woke up again, blinking. His next words seemed to spill out past his corporate persona. Signs of actual life. “For your husband?”
“Yes.”
His expression rearranged itself, and the personality vanished. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Which one? The dark thought crossed her mind that he may as well be expressing condolences for the bookstore that went under as the human who passed away. Both had been profitable at one time, and both were gone. “Thank you,” she recited politely. She had no right to judge this man for his falseness. He at least had the excuse of a job behind him. What did she have, other than gaping holes where motivation should have been? Silence stretched out across the desk, pretense hanging between them like a glass partition. The man’s eyes slid longingly back towards his screen. Gretchen clasped her hands together in her lap. “You don’t have to pretend.”
A line appeared between his brows, which then lifted “Sorry?”
“I know this is only a formality. A favor, for Helena.” Gretchen wondered how her husband’s editor had convinced this publishing company to give her this interview at all. Probably the same way she’d bullied Gretchen into showing up. “We both know I’m not qualified for any positions here.”
His mouth opened, then closed “No.” He said it like it was something he needed to apologize for. “It’s…”
“Not a good fit.”
“Right.” A relieved half-smile crept onto his face. “I’m actually not even in charge of hiring.”
It didn’t make her feel better. But it didn’t make her feel worse, either. Not much did these days. Gretchen stood. “Sorry for wasting your time.”
“I… feel like I should say the same.” He stood as well, hand outstretched. “Anyway. Take care, Mrs… Ms. Hollis.” The man winced at his mistake. She pulled her hand back and left. That brief moment of honesty between them carried her through the polished, professional office, head held high.
At least until the elevator doors closed.
Gretchen slumped against the glossy paneled wall. It wrinkled her suit. She didn’t care. The quiet was nice. It took nearly a minute before she realized the elevator wasn’t moving, because she hadn’t pressed any buttons. As she reached for the panel, the doors slid open, and a woman bustled in.
She was a fireworks display of color: a bright blue dress that covered her from neck to knees, beneath a long brown coat, splashed with yellow pumps that matched a slim choker around her neck, and the pinkest lipstick Gretchen had ever seen. Her hair was the kind of glossy auburn you only saw in shampoo commercials. She tapped the lobby button and the elevator grumbled to life. Her gaze remained fixed on her cell phone, thumbs tapping away.
Between the third and second floors, the elevator made a long, thin, dying noise, and shuddered to a stop.
The woman glanced up from her phone. Her jaw worked. She blew a bubble of gum almost as pink of her lips, bit it down, then stepped forward toward the button panel. None of them reacted, not even the emergency call. “Well, shit,” she said. “That’s what I get for not taking the stairs. Any ideas?”
Gretchen started. “Me?”
“Is there someone else here?” The woman’s mouth quirked up. One smooth eyebrow lifted. “You seem calm. Not claustrophobic or anything?”
“No.” If anything, it was nice in here. Cool, dark.
“Well, that’s good.” Her cell phone lit her face from below. “And of course I don’t have service.”
Gretchen couldn’t resist asking. “How were you texting, just now, without service?”
“I wasn’t texting, I was jotting down some notes.” The woman slapped the elevator door with the flat of her hand. It didn’t help. They stood in silence for five minutes or so. Gretchen leaned against the wall and let her head thump against the fake wood.
“I’m Amity,” the woman said, turning around, her arms crossed.
“Gretchen.”
“Hi Gretchen.” Her gum-chewing had intensified, seeming louder in the confined space.
Gretchen frowned. “Are you okay?”
“I have a teeny, tiny thing about enclosed spaces,” Amity admitted, with a strained smile. Her early composure seemed to slip a few notches. “Especially when I can’t get out of them, you know?”
“Can I do anything?”
“Could you talk to me, maybe? About something else? It’s better if I keep my mind off of it.”
“Sure.” Though, Gretchen had no idea what they could talk about.
“I saw you, upstairs,” Amity said. “Got a hot book coming out?”
“Uhm. job interview,” Gretchen replied awkwardly. “I didn’t get it.”
“Well, that’s shitty!”
For some reason, that struck Gretchen as funny. She huffed out a breath through her nose, the closest thing to a laugh she’d managed in forever. “Yeah. It is. Uhm. How about you?”
“Yeah! I was meeting my editor to go over some changes. He’s great, but probably thinks I’m insane. It’s my debut book, though, you know? I just want it to be perfect.”
“Sure.” Gretchen said, unsurprised. Everything about the woman screamed ‘creative’. “What’s the book about?”
“Well…” Amity teased the word out. “It’s non-fiction. Sort of self-help, but sort of a memoir, if that makes sense? It’s all about my relationship with my mom, and my career, and I want it to be something other women can read and find themselves in, you know?”
Gretchen didn’t know, but she didn’t read a lot of self-help. It sounded like something that would be up her sister’s alley, though. “That sounds interesting.”
Amity smirked. “Liar. You don’t think it’s interesting at all.”
For a second she considered doubling down, but the effort seemed too much. “You’re right. But that’s just a matter of taste. I’m sure it’s still a good book.”
“That’s fair.” Amity looked down, then slid down onto the floor, carefully arranging the hem of her dress around her knees. She glanced up at Gretchen, who followed her example. She’d never sat on an elevator floor before. It gave the situation a sleepover feel. Amity went on. “So, what do you read?”
“Why do you think I read anything?”
“You’re in a publishing company looking for a job. It’s a weird place to be for someone who doesn’t like books.”
“I guess. I used to work in a bookstore,” she deflected.
“Ooh! Which one?”
“It closed last year.”
“Oh.” Instead of sounding sad, like most people, Amity’s ‘Oh’ was dismissive. She made a brushing away gesture with her hands. “Well, that sucks, but it’ll be good for you in the long run. You’ll see. Same with this interview. If you didn’t get it, it’s because it’s not where you were meant to be.”
Gretchen bristled. After the couple of years she’d had, new age platitudes just rang hollow. “So, what, everything bad happens for a reason?”
“No.” If Gretchen’s tone bothered Amity, she didn’t show it. “Bad stuff happens to everyone, all the time. We can’t control it. What we can control is how we look at things, you know?” Her head tilted. “But that’s just my opinion. It’s totally fine if you disagree.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like…” Gretchen wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, exactly. Maybe she had overreacted. It had been hard to tell, lately. “I guess it’s not a bad way of looking at things. It’s just hard.”
“Yeah, totally,” Amity agreed. “If it was easy, we’d all do it as naturally as breathing. I have to remind myself to be positive every day.” She spoke like she dressed: bold, unapologetic. When she leaned forward, Gretchen felt herself drawn in, as if they were trading secrets in a blanket fort. “Hey… would you mind if I tried something?” Amity asked.
“That depends.” Gretchen pulled back, confused by the sudden turn.
Amity lowered her voice, even though there was no one else to hear them. “I know a spell that might get us out of here.”
“A spell?” Surely she hadn’t heard that right. “Like, a wizard spell?”
“Not exactly.” Amity dug through her purse and pulled out a fat green marker. She stood, leaving her purse on the floor, then began drawing on the wall.
Gretchen gasped. She realized that she hadn’t actually agreed to this. “Hey-”
“It’s fine!” Now there was a green circle on the wall, filled with lines and swoops and squiggles. Gretchen wondered how much trouble they’d be in for vandalism. Then Amity turned back to her, capping the marker with a satisfied look on her face. “Give me your hands,” she said.
“Why?”
“Something this big needs a little more oomph than I can manage on my own. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do a thing other than concentrate on how much you want out of this elevator.”
That wouldn’t be hard. Hesitantly, Gretchen held out her hands. Amity took them. Her palms were warm.
“Okay, concentrate,” Amity ordered, and closed her eyes. Gretchen left hers open, watching, as Amity’s lips moved. No sound emerged, so she had no idea what she was saying. After about ten seconds Gretchen began to feel self-conscious. She tugged at her hands, but Amity hung on.
Gretchen opened her mouth to say something. At that moment a chill ran over her skin. Where their hands touched, she felt a zap as if she’d touched metal after scuffing her feet across a carpet. She jerked her fingers back hard enough to stumble. With a rumble, and a groan, the elevator shuddered into motion. Gretchen stood, her hands pressed to the wall, staring at Amity’s grinning face.
“Perfect!’ Amity announced. She bent to scoop up her purse, and fussed with the ends of her hair. “Now I won’t be late. Thanks!”
“I don’t understand,” Gretchen said. Her whole body felt cold and disconnected. “Did you just do actual magic?”
“We did,” Amity corrected, as if it were the most mundane thing in the world. The elevator slid to a stop, opening to reveal a few confused-looking maintenance workers. Amity ignored them. “Listen, I have to run. But if you’re curious, I actually teach a class. Why don’t you stop by?” After a brief rummage, she withdrew a pink envelope from her purse. It’s bold color matched her lipstick. “All the info is in here. Nice to meet you, Gretchen.”
Gretchen took the offered envelope, still feeling a bit numb. Before she could ask any questions, Amity turned and strode past the maintenance workers into the lobby crowd. In moments she was gone.
“Ma’am?” One of the workers stepped inside. “Are you alright?”
“I guess,” Gretchen said, thoush she wasn’t sure. She glanced at the envelope in her hand, then back at the wall Amity had scribbled on.
The green ‘spell’ had vanished.