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Chapter 1Everything I own is inside this backpack. And when I shove my hand in, searching by feel for the skirt that hugs my curves like a NASCAR driver, I discover that everything is covered in goo.
I wipe the slime across my thigh.
I don’t have time for this.
I have exactly ten minutes until my interview starts and this cannot be happening. But here it is, the skirt I bought specifically for today, ruined. When I fling it to the floor, a lidless body butter container rolls out from the folds of fabric, making a smudge across the marble tiles.
There’s a list of places where my life has taken a horrible turn; a gas station, the middle school sports equipment shed, and now a hotel lobby bathroom. I shouldn’t be surprised by this, but I am. Having the bus pull into the station at Tinlee Bay two hours late because of a construction delay already had me on edge, but what am I supposed to do now?
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I attempt a breathing exercise I learned in group therapy, but I don’t have time to calm down, I have seven minutes left.
Life has always dealt me an unfair hand; it has been happening on repeat since I was born. My one-way ticket to California was supposed to be the cure for all the bad luck that clings to me like a skin I can never shed. Aging out of the foster system isn’t exactly a rabbit-foot key chain I can hold on to.
I kick the globby skirt at my feet before shoving it back into the depths of my backpack—because I have no other option. Yanking the gold faucet handle all the way hot, I scrub my face, hating the fact I’m about to go to a job interview in my pajamas. Technically these three-dollar leggings with fabric pilling between my thighs, and my faded Smokey the Bear T-shirt that I cut the neck off of are not my pajamas, but they might as well be. I’ve been wearing them since I woke up and left without saying goodbye. That was two days ago. But I can’t worry over slime-coated failures and pajama-wearing interviews. I have five minutes left.
In the lobby of the B Hive, I allow myself half a minute to gawk. Everything is white with gold accents. Two leather couches are angled in front of a massive stone fireplace and they look like you would need help getting out of them if you decided to sit. A few accent chairs are strategically scattered throughout the space as well, alternating between bold floral patterns or deep velvet perfection. I fight the urge to pull out the page I ripped from a magazine and hold it in the perfect alignment until the frayed edges of the glossy paper blend with reality. For the past year, I’ve kept pictures of this hotel in my pocket, imagining myself in this very spot. Despite my rocky start, I am proud of myself for standing here and not just dreaming about it.
I could have stayed in Montana, found a place to live, and kept working for the Clean Sweep full-time instead of after school or on the weekends. But there is nothing for me in Montana; there never has been.
“Can I help you?” The voice from the other side of reception makes me jump.
Offering my best smile, I say, “I have an interview for the housekeeping position.”
The woman slides her eyes across my outfit before looking back at my face and I curve my lips so tight they almost crack. Extending her arm out, she points down a hall at the side of reception. “Last door on your right.” As I round the desk, she says something that sounds like good luck.
The nameplate next to the last door on the right reads Beverly in scripted gold, and when I read it for a second time, I almost throw up. Did I misunderstand? This is the only hallway and there are only two doors, so the odds of me getting it wrong are slim. The other door has a keypad attached to the doorknob and staff bathroom is written in bold white letters on the black door.
I should be interviewing with the head of housekeeping, not Beverly, owner, and Chief Aesthetic Operator—her words—of the B Hive. She built this business from nothing into the hotel voted California’s Choice five years running, and I’ll be face-to-face with her dressed like I slept in my clothes. Which I did, on the bus.
Why is this my life? In all my eighteen years, why has nothing ever gone right?
I’m about to knock when I remember my backpack. My entire life is inside this bag; leaving it, even for a second, makes my heart race. But I shouldn’t have it with me either. At the end of the hall, two urns erupting with pampas grass flank a large window. Tucking my faded yellow backpack behind the plant, I attempt to fan the spears of feathered grass wider to keep it covered. I don’t know if it made a difference, so I whisper, “Please be here when I get back,” under my breath.
The door opens immediately after my knuckles rap and Beverly Lambert, a woman who deserves her own HGTV show, stands on the other side. My throat is so dry I can’t even say hello.
Beverly’s expression is hard to decipher as she glances at her watch. “Punctual.”
She blinks at me several times without her eyes sliding down to the wrinkled face of Smokey, which must take a herculean effort on her part. She practically glides back to her desk in her black slacks, black ribbed short-sleeve turtleneck with a thin gold belt cinching her equally thin waist. Her blond hair skims shoulders that I imagine never slouch. Mine are hunched forward from years of trying to take up as little space as possible. Beverly is sleek and professional and I’m a pile of dirty laundry.
I try not to ever think about who is to blame for my shapely frame—him or her. Most people refer to their parents as mom and dad, but I never knew either one so all they get are pronouns, which seems more than generous.
Beverly gestures to the door and I close it before taking a seat. Hanging on the wall behind her is an oversized photograph of a sunset illuminating three people walking on the beach. In it, Beverly holds hands with a small boy who holds hands with her husband. From my hours of internet research, I know this picture is not recent, because her son isn’t that much older than I am. Beverly’s family in high-resolution pixels is flawless, like everything else I’ve ever seen or read of her life. Again, the exact opposite of mine.
I breathe in, trying to relax the space between my eyes while forcing myself to uncurl my shoulders. I can do this. I need to take the nothing of my life and make it something, I need to nail this interview and get the job. And if there’s one thing I can do, it’s clean up the mess other people leave behind.
Beverly slips on a pair of black glasses, checking the paper on her desk. “Rindy. That’s not a common name, is it?”
At that, I sit up a little straighter. I’ve been waiting for this, and it sends a shiver down my spine. As I watched Montana bleed into the background out the Greyhound window, my body hummed with anticipation for this very moment. Growing up, in-between Nowhere and Not-Much, everyone knew everyone, and all I’ve ever been is the girl who was found. It never helped that every few years my story made the local news cycle all over again and I could never escape my past.
No one knows me here, and while I can’t erase history, it doesn’t mean I have to tell the truth.
Keeping my brown eyes locked on her blue ones, I lie. “Old family name.”
And who knows, maybe it is. The night manager at a gas station found me in a cardboard box shoved between two pumps. I was wrapped in a blanket, a scrap of paper tucked underneath me. Her name is Rindy was written in slanted blue penmanship.
I used to wish it was a clue I was meant to follow. But it wasn’t. It was just a name. Beverly nods, unaware of my lie, and for the first time today, my heart pumps with relief. Something is finally going exactly the way I planned.
