Like Water

When I get back from my run, Cyrus is sitting at the kitchen island. His face is completely blank. His small eyes are staring into nothing. The way he’s chewing on his breakfast reminds me of a cow. Poor kid still has two final exams to complete.

“Are you even awake?” I ask as I snatch a slice of apple off his plate. It’s crisp and snaps when I bite into it, filling my mouth with a delicious tartness. Mouth full, I carefully unwind my headphones from around my torso, dropping my iPod onto the grey countertop.

“Are you even real?” He retorts, motioning his hands towards me. “It is not even eight o’clock.” And then he groans melodramatically and presses his forehand to the cold surface of the island. He laces his hands together at the back of his head. His unruly ginger hair sticks up around them, refusing to be tamed.

“Happy Monday, little brother,” I answer enthusiastically, pouring some chocolate milk into a green, plastic cup for me and some into an opaque water bottle for him. “Carpe diem!”

The death of Hannah’s little brother really put things in perspective for me, so although I say it as a lame joke, it’s a concept I’ve come to understand over the past four years. Evan was only thirteen— Hannah and I were fourteen —but already he’d been the epitome of that saying. He was rebellious and fun loving and hadn’t a care in the world. Thinking about him now doesn’t create the heavy lump that it used to in my stomach. Instead it fills me with pride that I was able to know such a person. Carpe diem is a difficult thing to do, but I try. A lot of times I fail, but baby steps, I guess.

It’s the reason why I began going for runs and why I began eating healthier. It’s why I now have a stupid tattoo (that Dad still disapproves of) etched across my thigh. It’s why I printed off near twenty resumes last night and plan on handing them out around town today.

Cyrus only grunts. I sigh. “Tenth grade math is not that hard.” I down my drink. The cup clatters against the metal of the sink when I toss it into the basin across from the island. I glance around the room. It’s a bad cross between a bachelor pad and a library. The deep, red walls and the pale hardwood floors. The tall bookshelves and the brick fireplace are surrounded by old suede furniture and a geometric printed carpet. Our dining room table is a picnic table that Dad got on sale at Canadian Tire.

It’s 8:00 exactly when I zone back into reality. Cyrus has managed to pull himself off of his stool and drag his lanky self up the stairs to get ready. After getting a whiff of myself and realizing that I desperately a shower I turn to follow suit, only to notice the scrawled note tacked onto the fridge. It’s in Dad’s typical style.

kid #1: getting the insurance statements tonight

kid #2: good luck on your exam

It’s only been two days since the whole car fiasco. It continues to be a threatening cumulonimbus looming over my head. The thought of it is what tears me away from the fridge and launches me up the carpeted stairs.

I barely allow the cool water of the shower run over my sore legs— I’m only in the small stall for ten minutes. After struggling to run a wide toothed comb through my knotted hair, I decide to just let it be and it falls in wet, chestnut tendrils past my collarbone. I slip a loose, grey t-shirt over my head and a cotton skirt over my legs. It’s hot out considering it’s only eight in the morning, but I tie a long-sleeved flannel above my hips just in case the metaphorical cloud hanging above me translates into something literal.

My brother is kneeling in the sunlit foyer when I bound back down the stairs. He’s methodically tying the laces of his Chucks. The black canvas contrasts starkly against the paleness of his legs in a way that’s almost comical. I slide on my own boots and wait for him to sling his fluorescent green backpack across his shoulder blades so we can walk toward the bus together. I try my best to ignore the crumpled Dodge pushed into the far end of our driveway once we finally make it outside.

Cyrus’s voice is hesitant as he repeats the fractions of the unit circle aloud to me, and I correct him when he loses track. Cyrus is not a math kid. Cyrus is not a structured education kid in general. He’s deadly intelligent but just doesn’t thrive in the public school environment. We’re opposite of each other in that way. “You’re going to slay this exam,” I tell him as we wait at the bus stop.

“I need a B-,” He says.

I snort. “You’ll get a B.”

He laughs and then the bus rolls up and he steps onto it. It’s the stereotypical movie moment, where the little brother sits sadly in a window seat and waves as the vehicle slowly pulls away from the curb and moves down the street. Except that scene normally takes place with six year olds and not sixteen year olds.

Sighing, I readjust the messenger bag at my shoulder and meander toward the main street of town, where all of the businesses line the road. Westville is a small town of just over eight thousand. Too many people to know everyone name but little enough to be able to recognize faces. Everything is within walking distance to our central split-level home and all of the job opportunities are conveniently clustered in one corner of town.

My first stop is a self-serve frozen yogurt shop. The now hiring sign is tacked crookedly onto the inside of the smudgy glass window. The store has barely been open for two minutes when I push through the door. The bell jingles, interrupting a bluesy folk song pumping through the overhead radio. A blonde girl named Jen mans the counter. I know her name because she was in the grade above me, but I’ve never actually spoken to her. Her smile is gummy and a little condescending when I hand her my resume, but she tells me she’ll let the manager know nonetheless and I’m satisfied.

Gradually, I make my way down the street, weaving in and out of the stores. I hit the local Starbucks and a gas station, deciding to skip certain “Mom and Pop” operations because I know I have no chance, anyway. Around 10:00 I run into Tyler MacDonald from my senior year French class and we discuss our post-secondary plans. He informs me that he noticed an Employees Wanted sign at the hardware store up the street and then invites me to an end of the year party at his house on the weekend with a flirtatious nudge of my shoulder. I thank him and swear I can feel his bulging eyes searing into my ass as I strut away with a new sense of purpose. Good things this skirt is the least butt flattering piece of clothing on the face of the planet.

The wind is beginning to pick up, but it’s a hot breeze— the kind that seems capable of suffocating someone. I have to swat away a bee and a few flies and I nearly trip on a bright dandelion that has wedged its way between a crack in the sidewalks.

When I arrive outside the hardware store, I’m glad to find that Tyler’s information was reliable. Despite his gross gestures, I owe him that much. The sign is scribbled onto a lined sheet of paper that looks like it’s been torn out of a coiled notebook. Underneath the words is a doodle of a stickman holding a hammer and wearing an eyepatch. Small and blue along the bottom it says, no experience required.

Sounds like my kind of establishment.

Personally, I’ve never taken a trip inside of the store, but my father frequents it, being a plumber and all. There’s patio furniture next to riding lawn mowers next to chainsaws next to paint cans. It’s not organized into neat aisles, but is more of a labyrinth of stuff. It smells of wood chips and dust. Somewhere a bird chirps and I don’t know if it’s an automated decoration or if a chickadee has actually managed to find its way inside.

Besides a man in a pageboy hat and suspenders browsing the lawn ornaments, I see no other signs of life. For a few minutes I wander around, glancing at building materials and flower pots until I eventually find the single cash register which was hidden behind the patio furniture all along. A brown haired boy stands behind it, whistling jauntily and casually flipping through a magazine.

He looks up when I approach, his gaze lazy and friendly. He straightens his torso to reveal his full height. “Hi,” he smiles.

And it’s like the fro-yo place all over again. I know of the person but I don’t really know him. Either way, I don’t think it’s possible to forget a face like his. It’s Max from the graduating class a year before mine. Attractive, charismatic, student council president Max. We’ve never spoken so I pretend I don’t recognize him at all for my own sake. “Hi.”

We just stand there awkwardly, separated by the conveyer belt. He’s got an irritating mirth in his eyes. His smile is slight but it’s there and I feel like I’m being scrutinized but I’m probably not. It’s probably just me being self-centred. “How are you?”

He had the same hypnotizing ability in high school and all of the girls loved him for it. There’s some sort of spirit that sort of radiates from him and it’s magnetic. It’s funny that he’s still in town, I think. Most people with potential end up leaving. And then I realize that I’m still staring. “Good,” I answer, snapping myself back into normal conversation mode. I think of the accordion car in my driveway and it centres me. “I saw the sign in the window. I’d like to hand in a resume.”

Max’s smile grows. Suddenly I’m being transplanted into a Crest Whitening tooth paste commercial. “Ah,” He says, “Let me just grab my manager.” But instead of turning to walk away from me, he just grabs the intercom speaker. His smooth voice begins to rain down on the entire store and I think of all of the speeches I’d heard him give at school. “Harvey, you’re needed at cash.”

While we’re waiting for Harvey to arrive, Max begins skimming the magazine again. I notice it’s Us Weekly. I barely manage to contain a bark of laughter. It bubbles from my throat sounding like a dying animal noise. Max looks up at me fleetingly. I feel my cheeks heat. I consider taking a gander at the chainsaw section.

“Did you like my drawing?” The boy questions out of nowhere. He’s leaning his elbows nonchalantly against the counter and has paused his leafing at a Kim Kardashian feature. Maybe he senses my uncomfortableness. Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable and he’s trying to be casual.

This is so strange. I’ve never been this mentally captured by a person before. It’s annoying. “Pardon me?”

“The picture drawn on the sign. Did you like it?”

Oh. I recall the silly doodle. A grin begins to pull at my lips. “I found it… encouraging.”

Satisfied, Max nods. Then we’re interrupted by an intimidating, bald man with wire glasses and thin, wrinkled lips. He wears a plaid shirt that’s buttoned up to the top. It’s tugged into a pair of light faded jeans.

I’m mostly glad that I no longer have to attempt to carry on this pathetic excuse for a conversation, but I’m also overcome with an unexpected wave of nerves. I hadn’t foreseen speaking with a manager of anything today.

The pressure is on.

I need this job.

“Hello, sir. My name is Salwa Wolf. I saw the sign in your window and I…” I trail off because he’s just staring at me with this really intense, frightening look on his face and his head is reflecting the fluorescent lighting above and I think he’s searching my soul and maybe just by looking at me he knows that I’ve never even held a hammer before.

The apple of his throat bobs as he swallows. “Salwa, may I see your resume?”

I nod, hunting for a copy of the paper in the compartment of my messenger bag. From the corner of my eye I notice Max. He’s leaning against the register with his arms folded across his chest. His thick brows are furrowed. I pass away the resume, making sure no fingers brush against each other in the process.

Harvey holds the flimsy sheet up to the light. He moves it close to his face, then moves it further away. He does this a few times, scanning the words carefully. I fidget, stepping from foot to foot. The cement flooring is smooth and shiny beneath the soles of my shoes. It seems like an infinity before Harvey gives a reaction. And even then, it’s the worst reaction I could’ve got.

My intake of breath is sharp as Harvey rips the resume in half , tossing the pieces over his sloped shoulders. I’m offended and I’m just about to give this old, stinky man a piece of my mind— tell him that I don’t want to work for someone as disrespectful as him and that no potential employee is deserving of that sort of behaviour— when he gives me a once over and dryly states, “You’re hired.”

What.

What.

“What?”

“You heard me,” He says, running a hand over his head like he still thinks there’s hair there that needs to be pushed from his face. “You can start tomorrow.”

I glance at Max incredulously. He just shrugs and seems equally as confused. “You don’t even want to interview me?”

Harvey shrugs, mirroring Max. “Anyone can bullshit a resume and anyone can bullshit an interview. The proof is in the pudding.”

Now Max is the one whose offended. “You made me do an interview.”

I’m surprised by both Max’s casualness in front of his boss and his backtalk. Harvey turns to him. Even though he’s shorter than Max by a few inches, it still feels like he’s looking down at the teenager. Harvey has an air of power to him, like a soldier or a retired Hell’s Angel. “That’s because you had at least three spelling mistakes on your resume and I wanted to make sure you weren’t an idiot.”

I can’t believe anything in front of me. This entire exchange is other worldly and completely unprofessional, but at the same time there’s something in the dynamic here that piques my interest. And it’s a job. Which means money. Which means I may still have enough time to go see Hannah and follow through on my promise.

“Be here at 8:30,” Harvey’s gravelly voice pulls me from my thoughts, “Wear closed toe shoes and real pants.” Before I can even give confirmation he’s stalking away, around the chainsaws and the lawnmowers and towards where I think the light fixtures are.

And then it’s just Max and I standing there. He’s the one staring at me now, instead of the other way around. I look at him. He grins mischievously. “Welcome to the team, Wolfy.”