she doesn't live here anymore, pt. three

Working Girl

"You need a job and you have until July to get one!" my father barked, returning to his basement office when he was sure that I'd heard him.

July fifth found me stretched out next to the pool, desperately trying to coax a tan out of hiding. I lay there, eyes closed, thinking about where my friends were at that exact second. Peach Berserk? Urban Outfitters? Maybe Friendly Stranger, but that was doubtful if Val and Sam didn't come with them to Toronto. I was broke, Reel Big Fish having cleaned me out and slowly realizing that sulking alone in my backyard was the price for the "freedom" of being unemployed. My father's words had haunted my ears for the past few days and I was minutes away from admitting that just maybe he had been right.

My father, well-meaning but misguided, felt as if it was his duty to advise me on everything from money management to clothing choice, and to do so repeatedly. He exasperated me, drove me to do things I otherwise wouldn't, proving to him that I had to make my own mistakes. He would scream and rage until I submitted; at that point in life his powers as the rule-maker were still strong enough to hold me down, to 'put me in my place'.

Sipping Diet Coke, I had to admit that he knew what he'd been talking about. I needed a job to afford the alcohol, clothes and hair dye that were necessary for the perfect summer, the gateway to a newer me. It wasn't as if it was hard to find a job; all I had to do was mention my status as a private school girl, product of Appleby College, and I was handed a uniform and a work schedule. The only excuse for my unemployment was laziness and the faint hope that I could afford my summer lifestyle on an 150 dollar monthly allowance. Clearly it wasn't working out for me.

Swinging my leg over my bike seat that afternoon I promised myself I wouldn't come home until I was finally, blessedly employed. My white hair pulled back into a baby ponytail that stuck straight out I wore my least ripped pair of jeans, a crocheted tanktop that did it's best to hide my cleavage and my favorite, cheapest white shrug. Hardly professional, but far better than my father's suggestion to wear my school uniform.

Sweating slightly on the way over, sixtie's sunglasses perched hugely on my nose, I almost ran right into Jonah, breaks squeaking obviously as I just missed him.

"Hey Natalie, what's going on?"

Of course he talked to me, how could he not after the almost collision? But still, still I was thrilled that he remembered my name. Jonah was one fourth of a group of slow speaking stoner boys at Abbey Park High School who Jen and Kaitlin worshipped. He looked almost exactly like Sid Vicious. Years later, after Jonah traded in his safety pin earrings and stone washed jeans for flannel button downs and ski hats and we became friends I would laugh at pictures of him from that summer, at the fact that we believed him to be punk, but for now I was completely in lust with him. And he had remembered my name. Clearly Kaitlin and Jen's efforts to become friends with the stoner quartet were paying off.

"Oh hey Jonah, I'm just on my way to find a job... for me. For the summer. What're you saying?" I finished weakly, inwardly cringing at my use of the Oakville slang that I hated, at how I tried to fit in.

If Jonah noticed, he didn't let on. Instead he just gave me a slow summer smile, drawled "Well, I'll see you around, peace" and then he turned to go. I watched him, my metallic bike helmet glinting in the sun, basket hanging over my bike as I began to peddle away and the chasm between us gaped before me so huge in that moment that it seemed impossible to bridge. Yet I was determined to; become like him, close the gap, grow a little bit. Slip sliding, clumsy feet, I was falling.

Pharmasave hired me on the spot. I scanned the store, the makeup aisle, ancient cash register, the deserted aisles and rightly assumed I'd be spending my days reading Cosmo, finding the perfect shade of pink lipstick and eating free candy. Apparently undeterred by my white hair and flipflops Mahar, the cashew skinned pharmacist, wrote my name on the schedule, asking about Appleby College the entire time.