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She tosses her long hair over one shoulder and shrugs. “I suppose.” She side-eyes me again, a little more closely this time, and I resist the urge to cringe. I picked out my outfit so carefully. A nice top—though not too nice, don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Just a preppy silk-blend blouse, mixed with artfully torn jeans—I did the tearing myself, since for some reason it costs extra to buy them that way. As long as she doesn’t notice my ratty Converse, I should be able to pass for at least middle class.
Still, my stomach tightens at the way Bette stares. What’s she thinking? Can she tell? Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have just admitted to my blue-collar background and come to school owning it. Maybe…
My thought breaks off as Bette shrugs again. “Well, I’ll see you around, then, Missy. By the way, I like your Converse.” Damn it. “So retro.” She vanishes before I can manage a thank you in response.
The moment my door swings shut behind her, I let out a sigh of relief. That went… okay. Right? At least she didn’t seem to completely despise me straight off the bat. Maybe I can pull this off after all. Blending in, pretending I belong here.
Maybe Mom was right.
I glance into my floor-length mirror and flash myself a smile. “You’ve got this, Missy,” I tell myself. Then I cross over to my desk and pull out my computer. Because if I want to keep up these appearances, then I have one more order of business to sort out before classes begin.
The bar is a dingy hole in the wall. It takes me three times passing the spot where it’s marked on Google maps before I find the actual door, hidden behind a row of communal dumpsters that serve what looks like half the block.
But that makes it absolutely perfect for what I need. The kind of crappy dive bar that nobody from Tanglewood University would even think about frequenting.
It’s already 7pm—my bar back in Boston would’ve been open for hours already, to catch the happy hour crowd. But this town’s a lot smaller, and further inland than the big city. The crowd here doesn’t seem like the happy hour type. More like the post-shitty shift at the kind of job where you get whole-body tired instead, and where the work doesn’t finish until well into the evening.
There are no posted hours on the door, no sign to indicate whether it’s open or not. The only thing in the window is a BARTENDER WANTED sign, yellowing with age. But when I try the knob, it turns all right. Inside the greasy windows, the bar looks dim enough that I have to squint, even though it’s early fall and still daylight outside.
“Hello?” I call into the dim.
“We’re closed!” comes a gruff voice from the rear. A guy, from the sound of it, and older, too. “Come back at 8.”
“Actually, I wanted to ask about the sign. You’re looking for help?”
There’s a long pause, followed by a series of crashes and bangs. Finally, a gray head of hair emerges from the rear. The owner looks exactly as I would expect: like the kind of guy who grew up on the docks down in Boston, or in a more rural part of the state. He’s got that weathered, sea-battered, sun-beaten look. But a friendly smile, all the same.
He squints, giving me the once-over, just like Bette did. But unlike her, I don’t feel nervous when this guy does it. Because I know we’re on the level.
“I’ve got references.” I slap my résumé—freshly printed at the library on campus, but only after I made sure I was seated at a far corner where no other students could look over my shoulder and see it. “You can call, if you want, but I’ve worked in pubs before. I know all the basic drinks off top of my head; and I’m not shy about hard work. I’m willing to barback or clean if you need that instead of a front of house person.”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, then grimaces and peers around the bar. “You’d make a far sight prettier front of house rep than me,” he replies. Then he eyes me again, more suspiciously this time. “What’s a nice girl like you doing down this end of town, anyway?”
“Believe me,” I reply, letting my Boston drawl come out on full display now. “This is the end of town I’m used to.” I follow his gaze around the bar. It’s dingy, yes, but I’ve seen a lot worse. You don’t even want to know what the kitchen at my old place looked like after a busy night.
He chuckles. “Well, it’d be a probationary period at first, just to see how you get on. Some of our customers are the, ah, rougher sort…” He eyes me again, as though waiting for me to flinch or react to that. When I don’t, he shrugs. “When can you start? Because that sign’s been posted for weeks, and—”
