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  He tilted his head the way a dog does when he’s anticipating something, and Kate forged onward.

  “You can often glean a thing or two from how people dress. I really didn’t know what to wear today. Everyone said, ‘Wear a blazer,’ but for some reason I feel totally dykey in a blazer. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, but a blazer is not a good look for me. I swear—given the choice—you’d rather see me naked than in a suit. I don’t mean that suits are bad in general. You look good in your suit, for example. But for me? Well, it’s like I always say, better a naked lesbian than . . . me . . . in a blazer.” What was happening? She shook her head and felt a trickle of sweat run down her back. “Was that out loud?” she asked and fanned herself with a copy of the school newspaper.

  “But speaking of apparel,” she said suddenly, “clothing can actually be germane to a discussion of pedagogy. What does a uniform say about the culture of a school, for example? What does it tell us about the framework or fabric, if you will, of an institution? An intentional limitation of choice shows a value being placed on a willingness to conform, but to what exactly? And does the uniform mold the child or does the child need intrinsically to fit into a certain mold? And in either case, what are the psychological ramifications in an adolescent as he or she develops autonomy? If I were considering this school, as a student I mean, I would seriously ask myself, ‘If business attire is required, is this the right place for me? Do I want to get dressed up every day like I’m going to a Michele Bachmann rally?’ and personally I think my answer would be ‘No,’ no offense to Hudson, of course. The kids I saw in the lobby look very professional and hardworking. Law-abiding. Self-motivated. Something tells me that hyperactive free spirits who are lacking in impulse control, having problems with executive function skills, and struggling to reach Piaget’s formal operational stage wouldn’t do too well at a school like this, am I right?”

  A new rubber band had mysteriously materialized in Mr. Bigley’s hand, and he was fidgeting with it in a way that signaled either boredom or intense concentration; Kate couldn’t tell which. He had a kind face, she noticed, and he was clearly a patient man, given that he hadn’t thrown her out of his office yet.

  “Is there anything specific you’d like to know?” she asked, hoping to say at least one thing to make a good impression. “Some people, like my sister, Angela, might tell you I’m not very prompt because I’m late all the time, but if I worked for you, Mr. Bigley, I’d get here way before the bell rings every morning. I always loved going to school, so I know I’d be happy to be here.”

  “Call me Henry.”

  “To be honest, Henry,” she said, leaning forward, deciding it was time to go in with her final argument, “I’ve been in a bit of a funk recently, sort of disconnected. It hasn’t been pretty, I admit. And I know I’m inexperienced with the kind of work you do here, but if you just give me a chance, I’ll learn whatever you need me to learn, and I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Really, I’ll bend over every which way to make you happy you hired me. I’ll take this job very seriously, I’ll work hard, and I won’t let you down.”

  The day after the botched interview, Kate was back to her bad habits, lying on the couch with Stella the cat, watching a talk show, and eating handfuls of Cap’n Crunch, all normal parts of her slothful routine. She self-loathed but couldn’t budge. It felt like she was being pressed down into the cushions, like the gravity in the apartment was especially forceful. When she left the apartment—and of course she had to from time to time—she was uneasy and could still feel that heaviness, the weight pushing her down, and the only solution was to get home quickly and lie down; her couch was safe. Her world had become very small, and anytime she ventured beyond her apartment, she felt uncomfortable, self-conscious, like she was trespassing, and people could see it. She often thought of all the things she used to be able to do that were inconceivable in her current state: pull an all-nighter, have a sustained, intelligent conversation, dance, read any novel by any Brontë in a weekend, discuss politics, jog, focus, flirt, fold clean laundry, get dressed before midday, smile.

  The phone rang at noon, on the dot. “How’d it go?” Angela asked.

  Kate had never been to Angela’s office, so every time they talked on the phone, she would make one up in her head. Today’s was futuristic, polished marble surfaces with embedded computer screens, floor-to-ceiling windows, and locked safes full of money. Kate didn’t know what Angela did all day, but her job had something to do with loans. Not making them, but rather doing something to them, like taking them apart or putting them together. Kate had no idea who wanted this done or why, nor had she ever asked.

  “Was it okay?”

  Recalling yesterday’s interview made Kate feel sick to her stomach. “It went great,” she said. “It went really well.”

  “It did?”

  “I don’t mean that I got it.”

  “Did he say you didn’t get it?”

  “He needs someone with more experience,” Kate said.

  “Did you tell him you’re a fast learner?”

  Kate reflected back on her performance. There were at least fifteen minutes that she had blocked out entirely. Self-preservation at work. “I think so.”

  “Did you tell him what you scored on the GRE?”

  “I couldn’t work that in.”

  “But you did sell yourself?”

  “I did my best.”

  “Well, good for you, Kate. I’m proud of you for getting out there and trying. The next interview will be even better.”

  Kate thought of a “Would You Rather”—Would you rather go on another job interview or shit your pants on a crowded subway? Subway. Easy.

  “So what are you doing today?”

  “Just busy,” Kate said. “Long list.”

  “Like what?”

  “Walking the dogs at three.”

  “That’s hours from now. Did you look into trapeze classes? It would really get your adrenaline going. I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m afraid of heights.”

  “Well, kayaking, then.”

  “Isn’t the Hudson polluted?”

  “Something, Kate! You need to do something.”

  “I will. I am.” She looked up at her muted TV screen. There was a commercial for a girdle that melted fat off your stomach. A man was wearing it. “I’m doing an exercise thing, actually. Can we talk later?”

  “Good for you, Kate! Working out is so important.”

  “Yeah, health. Eating vegetables. Running.” Just the thought made her tired. “I should go—I’m in the middle of a plank series.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  Kate dropped the phone and repositioned herself on the sofa. At times like this, she would often imagine Robert showing up unexpectedly. He would greet her, kiss her on both cheeks, and notice that she was dressed in pajama bottoms at noon, ten pounds heavier than the last time he’d seen her. She would invite him in, and before long he would also discover that the bubbly personality he had found so attractive was nowhere to be found. There was no levity at all, just a beaten-down lump of a girl.

  But a chance to talk, to hear him explain, was it too much to hope for?

  “I’m very ill,” she might tell him.

  “Eeez eeet serious?” he would ask.

  “Well, it’s really none of your concern anymore, is it?” she would answer, coughing into a hanky.

  He would drop to the floor and apologize to her. Crying maybe? That would be a nice touch. Asking for just a moment of her time, wanting to talk to her.

  She was deeply engaged in this imaginary scenario when something completely unimaginable happened in real life: Mr. Bigley—Henry—called her and offered her the job, the job she knew she didn’t get. He sounded cheerful, and she could picture him sitting in his swivel chair, fiddling with a rubber band, the framed Colosseum on his desk. When he explained the terms (one week’s vacation in winter and one in the spring, four weeks of
f during the summer, health insurance, and a salary that seemed—oh my God!—at least 75 percent too high), she got up off the couch, stood tall in her pajamas, and accepted the position. She tried to make herself sound like a person befitting such an offer, saying things like, “Very exciting. Looking forward to seeing you as well. And thank you. Thank you very much.” She went into some kind of automated mode. Within an hour she signed, scanned, and attached the legal contract to a hastily written email and hit send. Starting Monday, she would be employed.

  The next step was so obvious, so expected, that Kate marveled at herself for not getting right to it, but Angela—along with everyone else in her life—would have to wait days before hearing the news of the new job because immediately after clicking send, Kate had a full-blown panic attack. What just happened? Assistant Director of Admissions? The fuck does that even mean? She started breathing fast and running around the apartment, arms flapping. What? What a fraud, she thought. In less than a week she would have to set an alarm and put on clothes—what clothes?—and do what? What had Mr. Bigley said she would be doing? Touring strangers around a building she didn’t know, and talking to kids and their parents about things like, like what exactly? Like the school? Like the school’s philosophy? Like children? And that was another thing—she didn’t like children particularly. Didn’t know any other than her niece, didn’t want to. Didn’t know anything about schools in New York City, either, obviously. Or schools anywhere. Or the admissions process. Or administrative anything. She would be expected to answer people’s questions, and she wouldn’t have the answers because—to get right down to it—she didn’t know anything.

  Kate felt herself go dizzy. Oh, no no no. There’s been a mistake. I can’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t possibly do it. Mr. Bigley had called the wrong girl, gotten his files mixed up or something. Why would he hire her? She hadn’t lied, had she? She covered her face with her hands and tried to replay the interview in her head, and all she could remember was saying something ridiculous about how schools smelled like bologna sandwiches. And she’d said something about being an energetic person by nature (the last several months notwithstanding) and feeling like the year really begins in September instead of January. She remembered telling him that she wasn’t a particularly organized person, but he’d given her a sad-faced smile and said, “Maybe you never needed to be.” At the time she thought he was being kind, but now it seemed he had meant it.

  There was no joy, no urge to share the news, no impulse to celebrate. Instead, she went into her tiny kitchen and drank a glass of “wine product” she had bought once by accident. (“Just throw in some ice cubes and pineapple chunks,” Vicki had suggested recently when she and Chloe had come by to visit her in the tiny sublet. “It’s basically sangria.”) It was terrible, and who has pineapple? There was nothing else in the apartment other than a bottle of port Chloe had brought her a few months ago, but the port looked headachey and too hoity-toity, and Kate didn’t feel deserving of either. She grabbed her wallet and ran to the corner to buy something cheap off the liquor store lady who always had a way of making Kate feel like an alcoholic. There was a sale on vodka. She carried a bottle to the counter and noticed the liquor store lady very subtly shaking her head as she handed Kate her change.

  “I got a job,” Kate said defensively.

  “Congratulations. Early start, then, tomorrow?”

  “I start this Monday,” Kate explained. “Actually, I may not start at all. I don’t think I was supposed to get it. I think they called the wrong person.”

  “Well, then, I guess you better turn yourself into that person in a big hurry.”

  “You can do that?” Kate asked.

  “You still want this?” she asked, holding out the paper bag.

  “Why wouldn’t I? It won’t make me any less qualified than I already am.”

  She shrugged. “Your life.”

  Kate got back to her building and stomped up the stairs. She poured vodka and orange juice in a coffee mug, sat on the couch, and tried not to cry, hoping the booze would dull the panic and fuzzy her mind. By four in the afternoon, Kate was drunk and had forgotten all about the dogs. She ate random snacks she had in the apartment—olives and stale crackers—and spent the next few hours talking to herself and to Stella while she ransacked her closet to prove that she had no suitable work clothing. She turned her music up and modeled ridiculous outfits. Denim miniskirt and a Nordic turtleneck sweater. Nike shorts with a sequin tank top. “So lovely to be working with you, Mr. Bigley,” she said to the mirror on her closet door, wearing nothing but a bikini top and pants that she couldn’t get buttoned. “I mean, Henry,” and she gave a dramatic curtsy, bowing her head upside down. The room got spinny. She focused in on her face in the mirror, and said loudly, as Vicki had suggested, “Who am I?” She waited to see what the mirror would tell her. You are an impostor, it said. A failure A fraud.

  She sat down hard on the floor and closed her eyes, trying to think of a way out. Instead she could only see the image of a dark hallway with a locked door at the far end, and she felt some familiar, overwhelming need to either drop dead or take off running. And then—phew!—it suddenly came to her. She thought of a solution, an escape plan. It was simple, really: she would just call Mr. Bigley and explain that he’d made a mistake. Poof! No job. She would keep things just as they were. Dog walking, couch time, and credit card debt. With that decision made, she felt tremendous relief and got up off the floor to find Mr. Bigley’s business card. She said his name: “Bigly. Bigely. Biggally?” Phone in her hand and unmanageable pumps on her feet, she tried to drunk-dial his number but lost her balance and threw up olives all over the floor. Stella hid under the bed.

  The next morning she woke up with a crushing headache and a vomity feeling that lasted the entire day. She couldn’t move. The dogs around town peed on their carpets, Stella went hungry, and the kitchen floor went unwashed. Kate stayed in bed, trying to sleep it off with a pillow over her head.

  It was dark, she realized. She was starving and felt a desperate need for anything with melted cheese on it. She opened one eye, looked around at the mess she’d made, and saw Stella staring her down from the top of the bookshelf. She looked disgusted.

  “Okay, yes, this is a new low,” Kate acknowledged, rolling over and going back under the covers. “You should have known me back in college. I wasn’t like this. I was well adjusted. I had plans.”

  She closed her eyes and imagined Stella crossing her little arms and saying something smug and judgmental: “You fell apart over a guy? What is the matter with you?”

  “It was more complicated than that,” Kate argued. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe not,” Stella would likely say, “but your behavior is extremely unhealthy, not to mention unattractive.”

  Defending oneself to a cat isn’t all that healthy or attractive, either, Kate thought.

  A door slammed somewhere in the stairwell. Kate came up for air, wrestled with whatever was pinching her side, and found she was still wearing her bikini top. She reached down under the covers toward the foot of the bed and took off her shoes. Yes, this was definitely a new low. She threw the pumps on the floor and tried to recall the exact moment when her life took so sharp a turn that she landed here, in this bed, in this condition. Just like the day she found her lost keys in the sink, she wondered if she should retrace her steps, minute by minute, starting sometime around college graduation. That would be a torturous exercise, about as much fun as taking a bubble bath with Stella, and it wouldn’t solve anything anyway. And besides, it would require precision, intuition, and grit, qualities she had once thought she had in abundance but that were apparently lacking, according to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

  She thought of Mr. Bigley, spinning cheerfully in his swivel chair to face her, looking at her expectantly, hiding any kind of disappointment, listening carefully.

  Something kicked in—she turned on the lights, got out of bed, and went to br
ush her teeth. She took a shower and shaved her legs. On hands and knees she cleaned the floor with antibacterial Mr. Clean and paper towels. She fed Stella and washed her water bowl. Things got separated into categories: trash and recycling, clean clothes and dirty laundry. Sitting on the couch in clean pajamas with her wet hair combed and her fingernails trimmed, she ate a toasted cheese sandwich, took Tylenol PM with a big glass of water, and then put herself to bed. As she was falling asleep, a little fantasy played out in her head: She was walking quickly to work, wearing high heels and a pretty dress. She had an edgy haircut and a cool workbag thrown over her shoulder; suddenly she heard a voice.

  “Kate? Eeez it you?”

  “Robert? What a surprise.”

  “I’ve beeen hoping to see you. How are you, Kate? You look so beauteeful.”

  “Why, thank you—I’m sorry I can’t stay to talk.”

  “Perhaps later?”

  “No, I’ve got trapeze class after work. Good to see you, though.”

  “No, Kate, stop. Please, Kate.”

  She fell asleep before she could find out what she would do next.

  She woke up calm and rested and tried to see things in a grown-up, positive light: she had been offered a real job, a kind of interesting job. Shaping the lives of children maybe? No more borrowing money from Angela. No more scraping rent together from her dog walking gigs. She was a terrible dog walker anyway. She lacked that pack-leader mentality, preferring to let the dogs work out the route on their own. She never had a clue where they were going, veering around the sidewalk, getting tangled up in their leashes, and crossing streets against the lights. At the dog run, she always had a hard time identifying which dogs she’d brought with her, and on more than one occasion she had been caught leaving with someone else’s pet. It was perilous and confusing (getting the right dog back to the right apartment), and it occurred to her that she wouldn’t miss the job or the dogs.

  By this time she had seventeen texts and eight voice messages, mostly from Angela. But rather than call her back, she thought about what the liquor store lady had said—“You better turn yourself into that person”—and she wondered if maybe she could.