At noon, Amanda put a sign on the desk that said WILL RETURN AT 1:00 and drew a bagel in a Ziploc bag from her purse. Bethany followed suit, retrieving an apple and a gingko biloba bar from the drawer next to her.
“We’d invite you to join us,” Amanda said, “but we’re drilling for our Kaplan class. So just be back here in an hour, okay?”
“I can stay, if you want,” I said. “And then take my lunch at one, so there’s someone here.”
They both just looked at me, as if I’d suggested I could explain quantum physics while juggling bowling pins.
“No,” Amanda said, turning to walk out from behind the desk. “This is better.”
Then they disappeared into a back room, so I picked up my purse and went outside, walking past the parking lot to a bench by the fountain. I took out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d brought, then laid it in my lap and took a few deep breaths. For some reason, I was suddenly sure that I was about to cry.
I sat on the bench for an hour. Then I threw out my sandwich and went back inside. Even though it was 12:55, Bethany and Amanda were already back at the desk, which made me seem late. As I navigated a path between their chairs to get to my seat, I could feel them looking at me.
The afternoon dragged. The library was mostly empty, and I suddenly felt like I could hear everything: the buzzing of the fluorescent lights over my head, the squeak of Bethany’s chair as she shifted position, the tappety-tap of the online card catalog station just around the corner. I was used to quiet, but this felt sterile, lonely. I could have been working for my mom, or even flipping crab cakes with a spatula, and I wondered if I’d made the wrong choice. But this was what I had agreed to.
At three o’clock, I pushed my chair back and stood up, then opened my mouth to say my first words in over two hours. “I guess I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
Amanda turned her head, her braid sliding over her shoulder. She’d been reading some thick book on the history of Italy, licking her finger with each turn of a page. I knew this because I’d heard her, every single time.
“Oh, right,” she said, as Bethany gave me a forced smile. “See you tomorrow.”
I could feel their gazes right around my shoulder blades as I crossed the reading room and pushed through the glass doors. There, suddenly, was the noise of the world: a car passing, someone laughing in the park across the street, the distant drone of a plane. One day down, I told myself. And only a summer to go.
“Well,” my mother said, handing me the salad bowl, “if you were supposed to love it, they wouldn’t call it work. Right?”
“I guess,” I said.
“It’ll get better,” she said, in the confident way of someone who has no idea, none at all. “And it’s great experience. That’s what really matters.”
By now, I’d been at the library for three days, and things were not improving. I knew that I was doing this for Jason, that it was important to him, but Bethany and Amanda seemed to be pooling their considerable IQs in a single-minded effort to completely demoralize me.
I was trying to keep my emails to Jason upbeat and reassuring, but after day two, I couldn’t help but vent a little bit about Bethany and Amanda and the way they’d been treating me. That was even before another dressing down in front of a patron, this time from Bethany, who felt compelled to point out—twice—that, to her trained ear, I’d mispronounced Albert Camus’ name while directing a sullen summer school student to the French literature section.
“Cam-oo,” she’d said, holding her mouth in that pursed, French way.
“Cam-oo,” I repeated. I knew I’d said it right and wasn’t sure why I was letting her correct me. But I was.
“No, no.” She lifted up her chin again, then fluttered her fingers near her mouth. “Cam-ooo.”
I just looked at her, knowing now that no matter how many times I said it, even if I trotted Albert himself up to give it a shot, it wouldn’t matter. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said, swiveling in her stupid chair, back to Amanda, who smiled at her, shaking her head, before going back to what she was doing.
So it was no wonder that when I got home that day, I was cheered, greatly, to see that Jason had written me back. He knew how impossible those girls were; he would understand. A little reassurance, I thought, opening it with a double-click. Just what I needed.
After I scanned the first two lines, though, it was clear that my self-esteem and general emotional well-being were, to Jason anyway, secondary. After your last email, he wrote, I’m concerned that you’re not putting your full attention into the job. Two full paragraphs about the info desk, but you didn’t answer the questions I asked you: did the new set of Scientific Monthly Anthologies come in? Have you been able to access the tri-country database with my password? Then, after a couple of reminders about other things it was crucial I attend to, this: If you’re having problems with Bethany and Amanda, you should address them directly. There’s no place in a working environment for these interpersonal issues. He didn’t sound like my boyfriend as much as middle management. Clearly I was on my own.
“Honey?”
I looked up. Across the table, my mother was looking at me with a concerned expression, her fork poised over her plate. We always ate at the dining room table, even though it was just the two of us. It was part of the ritual, as was the rule that she fixed the entrée, I did the salad or vegetable, and we lit the candles, for ambiance. Also we ate at six sharp, and afterwards she rinsed the dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher, while I wiped down the counters and packed up leftovers. When we’d been four instead of two, Caroline and my dad had represented the sloppy, easygoing faction. With them gone, my mother and I kept things neat and organized. I could spot a crumb on the countertop from a mile off, and so could she.