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“It won’t,” I promise. “It’s only on weekdays for a few hours around noon.”
I am so excited I could hug him, but I don’t. I haven’t hugged my father since I was a little girl. Mom is still affectionate and will occasionally embrace me when I do something that warrants her approval, but Dad has become more formal with all of his relationships over the years.
You see–my parents weren’t always the way they are now. They tell me frequently about the life they lived before I was born. They both went to traditional public schools. Even meeting while they were at the same college in New Hampshire.
It wasn’t until they faced infertility and met Josiah, the leader of our church, that their views became soradical.
Radical wasn’t even a word I knew the full meaning of until recently. I’ve learned a lot about who and what my parents are from the books I’ve snuck home from the library. It was easy to start questioning their beliefs when I started reading more science books. Evolution took me weeks to wrap my head around, though.
I thank my parents for their generosity and head to my room.
I pull out the job application from my book bag and sit at my desk to fill it out. I have to leave most of it blank–I have no work history. I write in homeschooled for the education sections. I’m losing confidence that I’ll even be offered the position the further down the application I get.
There’s a section near the bottom that asks why I want the job. What a loaded question.
I decide being completely honest here isn’t in my best interest. Instead, I fill this section in with a brief explanation of wanting to get real life skills and earn an income that’s my own. It’s honest without divulging too much.
When I finish the application, I tuck it back into my bag, careful to not crease it and tell Mom and Dad where I’m heading. For the first time in a long time, I’m honest about my intended destination.
I walk into town, rather than running. Showing up sweaty doesn’t seem like a great way to make an impression. Instead, I walk at a brisk pace, eager to get there still. The bakery is only now opening when I arrive and Bea is outside setting up a small sign with today’s specials. The chalkboard sign is decorated with cute drawings of cupcakes and slices of other deserts in various colors. I wish I was creatively talented like that. I’ve never been good at any type of art. I can’t draw or sing. No, science and math are where I’ve excelled but those aren’t areas of expertise that anyone in the church appreciates.
“Hi there,” she says, greeting me with that same radiant smile.
“I brought back my application,” I tell her, digging it out of my bag and handing her the paper.
My stomach lurches with the nerves.
“Great, why don’t we go inside and I can look it over now.”
I follow Bea inside and we sit at a small round wooden table in the corner.
She reads over it for several minutes in silence. Her eyebrows raise and lower as her eyes move down the paper. I’m twisting my hands around each other in my lap, pinching at my knuckles and growing more anxious as she reads.
“I know I don’t have any experience,” I tell her. “But I promise, I’ll work hard and do my best.”
Bea gives me a soft smile and I can see the pity in her eyes. It’s the same look I get from strangers when they compliment my hair or my freckles and Mom or Dad are with me. They’re quick to tell the strangers that God doesn’t care about physical beauty—usually following up their admonishments with a Bible verse they’ve memorized.
“Have you ever driven a moped?” Bea says.
Uh oh.
“I uh–I’ve ridden a bike and I’ve driven my dad’s truck a few times,” I say
I can see this job and a chance at some unsupervised freedom slipping away.
“Oh, well, driving a moped is easy peasy. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you the job and you can start with the orders we get that are walking distance.”
A smile stretches across my face. She’s giving me the job?
“If you can come in early on Monday, we can go to the parking lot across the street and I can teach you how to drive Shelby.”
“Shelby?”
“Oh yeah. That’s what I named the moped for the deliveries. I have a personal Vespa, her name’s Cherry. I like to name them,” she says, shrugging her shoulders and letting out a small laugh.
“Oh. Well, I can come in early Monday. That’s no problem. And, uh, learn to drive… Shelby.”
Bea laughs at my hesitation.
