Page 3 of Sold to Him

But enough about that. Right now, I have to focus on the job search and I look down at the tantalizing link once again. Companionship. With a hesitant finger, I click on the link, and two lines of information pop up written in an elegant text:

Thank you for your interest.

Please dial Karen at (212) 817-2489.

That’s strange. Is this to set up an interview? Who’s Karen? Or is this some type of mistake? Surely they’ll want to at least see my resume before calling me in for an interview. These other listings wanted to know everything about my life, from how much I made to every school I’ve ever attended. By contrast, this was a simple number. Something about it is fishy, and I can feel it in my bones.

I should close the window and move on. Something’s definitely wrong. This is not what I was looking for, but I need a job, and I need it fast. It can’t hurt to hear what they’re asking. Can it? Maybe it’s like what I overheard at school – a few hundred bucks for an hour or two every other week?

Before I can stop myself, I’m dialing the phone number with shaking fingers. I can’t do this. I need to stop. This is too much for me, I know it. Still, I take in an unsteady breath, holding the phone to my ear.

The first ring causes my heart to skip a beat, my pulse going so fast that I can hear it thundering in my ears.

“This is Karen,” a smooth female voice answers, and I swallow awkwardly.

“Oh, uh, hi,” I fumble, trying to collect my thoughts. I should have rehearsed what I was going to say before dialing the number.

“How can I help you?” she asks, still unfailingly courteous.

“Oh, right.” I take a quick breath to stop my stammering before continuing. “I saw your ad online and wanted to see if, you know, maybe I could apply?”

My eyes are clenched shut as I rise to my feet before pacing around my bedroom in circles, trying to understand what’s going on. Did I say the right thing or will she be able to tell I’m just a little girl? I can’t handle this. She’ll be able to hear it in my voice.

“Right, the ad,” she says in a dulcet voice and I hear the shuffle of a page turning before I cough and speak up again.

“Would it be possible to learn more about the position please?” I struggle to use my professional voice, the one I practiced in my speech class, hoping to sound confident because I don’t feel sure of myself at all.

“Yes, of course, but first let me get a few details about you.”

“Um, sure. What would you like to know?” I pause at the window of my bedroom, looking through the metal bars down to the courtyard. The sun has gone down, and the teenage boys that enjoy terrorizing anyone walking past have begun to gather in their normal circle, a tangle of floppy t-shirts and brightly colored backwards baseball caps.

But I’m up here, away from it all. My heart races, dreading her question. I know she’ll want to get the rundown of my experience, and I debate lying about what I’ve done to make myself sound more experienced. Besides, what is relevant experience in this case? Working as a home health aide? Or as a companion to an elderly, disabled person? Maybe I can say that my past experience is governed by confidentiality laws, and that I can’t mention any specific names? But the woman moves on, unperturbed.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” I answer quicker than necessary, as if I’m competing in a timed contest.

“And your stats?” she quips even faster.

“Stats?” I ask, flummoxed. What does that even mean? Oh gosh. That’s some type of work jargon that I’m not familiar with. Is this a test? If so, I’m sure I failed. Slapping the palm of my hand on my forehead, I try to keep my despair in check. There I go, trying to be too quick on my feet only to fall flat on my face.

“Your measurements, sweetie,” the woman answers, and I can hear her amusement.

“Oh, um, for my… body? I’m not sure,” I admit, covering my eyes with my palm as I wait for her to end the call. She must think I’m such an amateur, and she’s right.

“Hmm.” She sighs deeply in the phone before scribbling something on paper. “What size bra do you wear?”

Now she’s definitely frustrated with me. I feel awful and embarrassed, but at least I know the answer.

“34 Double D,” I whisper, unsure if that’s too big for their requirements.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she says under her breath, scribbling on the paper again.

“Is it?”

“Yes, that’s perfect for the gentlemen. And how tall are you?” she continues, her interest piqued.

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