Free A Window Opens: A Novel by Elisabeth Egan

attached.
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    Of course, I agonized about what to wear to the interviews. I plied Susanna with coffee and she stretched out on my bed, her back propped against my Ikea headboard, while I modeled various outfits: straight skirt with a blousy shirt (too Virginia Woolf); flowered dress with cable tights (too Louisa May Alcott); red dress with a cute peplum flounce (too Belle Watling).
    I stood in front of my closet in a Blue Owl T-shirt and threw up my hands in dismay. “Seriously, Susanna? I’m at a loss. Don’t you have anything I can borrow?”
    “Sure, if you want to wear overalls or hemp.” We both laughed; Susanna buys most of her clothes at Whole Foods. “Seriously, Al, you should just wear green. Send them subliminal reminders of cash—at the end of the day, that’s all Scroll cares about anyway.”
    “Please? Can we not? These aren’t the shopping mall people, remember—these are the book people. They’re readers, not bean counters.”
    “Oh yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it. These Scrollers have another trick up their sleeves, I’m telling you.”
    “Susanna! Enough. This might be my big chance. I need you in my court.”
    We settled on black pants and a gray cashmere sweater with an industrial zipper up the back. Susanna recommended pairing this ensemble with black ballet flats, but I ruled them out—too Holly Golightly—and opted for mod boots instead. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Susanna was trying to sabotage my chances.
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    “We’re very nimble here at Scroll, so we’re going to throw a lot at you today and see how you do. I have no doubt that you’ll do just fine,” said Genevieve. She took a perfunctory glance at my resume and ran through my schedule for the day, which consisted of back-to-back, in-person meetings with two Content Managers, an Analytics Expert, and a Marketing Specialist, and phone interviews with a Quality Control Representative and a Warehouse Engineer in Cleveland.
    “Oh, I’m nimble,” I assured Genevieve. I thought of my waitressing days, and the way I’d learned to carry six dinner plates at a time—three on each forearm. Of the picky diners who complained that there were too many peppers in the fajitas; and one grouchy guy who didn’t crack a smile when I accidentally served him a raw lobster, its claws bound in navy elastic bands.
    “You’ll come straight back to my office after your meeting with Analytics, I’ll have you sign some papers, and then I’ll take you to a restricted area where you’ll take the phoners. Good?”
    “Great.” But I worried about fine print on the papers. Ever since the great Columbia House Music Club debacle of 1988, I was leery of signing my name on a dotted line. (Surely I wasn’t the only fifteen-year-old who believed I’d get eleven cassette tapes for the low, low price of one penny.)
    I was also concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to Genevieve’s office. The thirty-seventh floor of the mirrored midtown tower was a warren of white: carpets, chairs, walls, window coverings, white boards. By the elevator bank, the company logo was barely visible against the white wall behind it—a slim white scroll reminiscent of a college diploma, hovering over a white receptionist desk (empty) and a metal cup of pristine white pens. I kept checking my boots to make sure I wasn’t tracking in mud, or worse.
    •  •  •
    The in-person meetings were both dizzying and dazzling.
    The Analytics Expert, Rashida, explained the Tenets of Winners, which functioned as both inspiration and rubric for all MainStreet employees. She told me that each of my interviewers had been assigned a different tenet in advance of our interview, ranging from Winners Get It Right (WGIR) to Always Take Action (ATA) to Surprise and Delight Your Customer (SADYC). Their questions were tailored to tease out my commitment to each tenet. At the end of this day of meetings, known as the Chain, the pack