Chapter 4

Vera's POV:

It's not surprising that everyone was staring at me. I'm a woman in her late twenties wearing a baby strap across her back. I approach the secretary, who raises an eyebrow and asks, "Are you here for the interview today?"

I nodded firmly, hoping she wouldn't kick me out.

"Name, please," she inquired.

"Vera Brown," I said, shaking Marisa up and down as her small hand gripped mine. My gaze is drawn to her name badge, which reads Cheryl Yurtsever.

Cheryl's smiled, a genuine and warm one. "He's a sweetheart," she said, handing me a phone number.

I grab the number from her hand before leaning in, causing her eyes to widen. "She is indeed pretty," I murmured as I reached into my back pocket and slapped the bow on her head. Earlier, while I was walking in, the bow kept slipping off, so I kept it away. But now I can see why it is necessary. At the time, I was wondering if Lisa felt the same way.

Cheryl put her hand in front of her lips, "That's no-"

I place my finger in front of my lip, "Shhh... It's okay." I urged her to lean in closer by flicking my finger in the air. "I understand this may be hard to believe, but this baby isn't even mine," I whispered. "It's not obvious, but I'm black." I believe the father cheated on me and gave birth to this white child. I'm not sure, but I'm still waiting for the DNA results before confronting the father."

Cheryl gave me a puzzled stare before breaking out in a low laugh. She quickly covers her mouth, remembering that she is at work. "You've got jokes." They'll love you if you use that sense of humour."

"Thank you," I responded as I walked towards the waiting room. I placed Marisa on my lap and took a deep breath and I was wondering how a mother with children works at the same time. I've only been watching Marisa for twenty minutes, according to my watch, and I'm already dead. My back hurts, most likely because I'm using the baby carrier incorrectly. No one on the bus knows how to fasten the strap.

Just as I was getting a little bit comfortable they decided to call my sit number- great. One of the most difficult things for me to do is stand up with a baby and heels. The other interviewees stood up and assisted me. Oh, very kind of them. "Thank you."

"Oh, bless you for being so strong," one of the women remarked, causing me to tilt my head.

"I-I think you misun-" They yelled my number again, and I forgot about the misunderstanding. If having a baby makes others treat me better? Why not accept it. I started strolling toward the open door.

"This way," Cheryl said, and I followed. Three people were sitting behind big brown desks when I entered a white room. They didn't have nice smiles on their faces; instead, despite the fact that it was 9:30 a.m., it appeared that they were already tired of interviewing prospects.

The lady in the pink shirt sighs before placing her lip against the paper cup filled with what I guessed was coffee; nevertheless, the smile on her face made me think she poured a bit more than just coffee in it.

There was a young man sitted next to her, his face stoned as he continued making notes on the one sheet of paper. Write any longer, and I feel the friction between the pen and the paper may ignite a fire.

The last one is a bald man who didn't even have a smile. He has this extremely thinned shining hair that keeps flapping. I watched as the air conditioner blew on him - the perfect position to sit, sir - and the hair began creating a wave.

Please do not laugh.

Please do not laugh.

Please do not laugh.

"What are you doing standing there?" "Sit down," said the lady in the pink shirt. I can't believe I've already messed up. I considered running away from the room, but Cheryl had already slammed the door shut.

I scurried over, hesitantly; my heels tend to make the most noise in the room. Scratch that, the guy with the flapping hair. Still - Flap. Flap. Flap. Flap. Flap. Flap.

Is this a test? Is this a test to see if I'll laugh or not? A test to determine if I can keep a poker face?

Flap, flap, flap, flap, flap.

I was holding in my laughter so hard that I think my eyes turned red, but I don't think they noticed. Thank God.

His bald spot appeared, making me wince as I bit my lower lip. "Miss Brow-" the pink shirt lady eventually glances up, dropping the pen she was holding. "Why is there a baby strap on you?" she asks, her hand snapping backward as she waits for my response.

Before I could explain my story, the bald fake wig guy interrupted, "That's the problem? Don't you see? "She's got every strap wrong!"

Is that the only thing you noticed?

"And her shoes!" the young man who was attempting to start a fire finally finished taking notes. He must have been quite unhappy with whoever came before me.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask, looking down at my shoes.

"Everything! The design is a heinous crime in and of itself. Why are you wearing these into my office and scrubbing my floor with those awa-" I sink my shoes into the ground, hoping to bury them in the cement with enough force.

The bald man rose to his feet. "I cannot take this anymore!" He declared and stomped at me.

"You show it to her, Baldy!" Sorry I mean, Brody," The young man replied, causing me to snicker, but I quickly closed my mouth, knowing that this was not the time to laugh.

Brody stepped in front of me and motioned for me to rise, which I did. He stretches his arms over me, and I was about to kick his offspring until when I heard a click. He was removing the baby carrier straps. He walks near the pink shirt lady who grimaces, dropping it to the ground. She reaches for the pen and pushes the baby back. "How come you're giving me that strange stinky being?" Is it because I'm female? You are aware that I am not a bearer."

The young man extended his hands. I know I shouldn't stand there allowing these folks to pass around not-my-baby, but they may one day become my superior. Lisa owes me at least this much for appointing me as her child's babysitter at the last minute, presumably without pay.

"I'm not a producer, but I love babies," the young man says as Brody gives him the baby.

"Excellent. "You'll make a good father, Gianni," Brody declares, while I wonder when they'll start my interview. However, knowing my station as a lowly nobody, I prefer not to stand up in front of those who will sign my future paychecks.

In the last year, I've learned a few things. You do not condemn three different categories of people. The first is your boss. The one who pays you to not live on the street. The second is your cook, inorder not to have spits in your food. Three, anyone who comes to your house to fix it. It's not fun to have toilet water bursting up your ass.

"I told you I love babies. "I never said I wanted one."

"Why not?"

"Do you purchase a whole damn cow when you simply want some milk?" Gianni cooed the baby in his arms as he flipped his lovely hair. I was completely enthralled by his beautiful exterior while he stood there.

"And, in case you forgot, the guy only drinks sterile milk," the woman said, looking sightly bored while pulling out her nail filer. She leaned back and began filing her nails, as if she were at home.

Brody returned, took the strap from the ground, and correctly wrapped it around my body. He did it so gracefully and smoothly, without even touching an inch of me. But doesn't he worry that I might yell harassment?

"There. Better?" Brody ask, pulling the strap down to fix it before giving himself a satisfied clap.

I opened my mouth in astonishment.

"Much better," I replied, moving in position with comfort. "Thank you." "Can I have her back now?" I ask, turning to Gianni.

"Nah," Gianni said as he sat down. He-" She dumb head, Her bow, don't you see it? "will only distract you." Marisa laughs and claps her hands while Gianni bounces his leg. There's no point in forcing Marisa back into the carrier if she's happy over there.

"Victoria-" oh my goodness, should I correct her? "Why did you bring your baby to an interview?" inquires the lady.

I opened my mouth, but Brody cut me off. "I think you're very brave to bring your baby here," he added, resting his chin on his knuckles. "Must be rough being a single mother." "I'm a single father, so I definitely relate," he sighs, resting a palm on his chest.

I'm not sure what happened, but he slapped his hands on the table and stood up. "You should get the job."

"Are you crazy?" "She is unqualified," the woman eventually said as she flung down her nail filer.

"She graduated from Pandora Academy, Bitca," Gianni said smiling at Marisa.

"Becca. Becca is my fucking name." She slams one palm on the other. Where is the professionalism in this room? "And her graduating from Pandora is what got her through that horribly painted door."

"I like the color," said Brody.

"You're in HR for a reason, Brody. "We didn't hire you because of your taste," Bitca snarled. Bitca is a better name for her than Becca.

"You didn't hire me at all, and for the last time, I'm working in advertising." The individual who is compelled to promote what you call designs."

Becca chuckles and softly leans back. She took a handful of her waterfall hair and started tying it up. "Someone holds my damn earrings because I'm about to flip the wig!" There is a slight southern accent.

Brody gasped and held onto his head.

Gianni took the pen and began tapping it on the table as if it were a hammer. "Bitcha...Baldy...sit down. You're frightening the prospective candidate."

They took a seat. "Did he just call me Baldy...again?"

Gianni appears to be at the top of the ladder in this room. "Victoria- " Oh Lord, should I correct him. "Your-" I didn't speak quickly enough, "resume is impressive, but the only thing that stands out is your educational background." "Everything else isn't as interesting," he admitted bluntly.

I clasped my hands together, bracing myself for another rejection. I mentally told myself to be strong while biting my bottom lip. Going home with a head hung low isn't the end of the world. At the very least, I know I tried.

"You do understand that your graduation at one of the most prestigious high schools can only take you so far, right?"

I agreed by nodding.

"And not pursuing a higher degree will only create a wall for your future."

I raise my gaze from the white tile floor. "I disagree," I spoke for myself for the first time. "A slip of paper should not be the determining factor for my experience."

Gianni arched his brow.

"You have no experience in fashion," Becca said flatly, scribbling down information about me.

"Because no one is willing to give me a chance to gain that experience." "For the past year, I've been going to hundreds of interviews, and I've noticed a pattern. "Would you like to know what it is?"

Becca paused her writing and raised her head, matching Gianni and Brody's earnest stares. Chains were put over my torso, preventing me from moving or breathing.

"Everything they said pointed to one conclusion. I should return to school and get a better education. Everyone seems to believe that a piece of paper represents my knowledge, identity, and work ethic. They didn't give me a single opportunity to show them that I'm worthy, that I belong. That I am more than the words on a piece of paper."

This type of feeling has been escaping me for quite some time. I'm angry at the people who sat in front of me. I'm furious at that awful wig that won't stop flapping.

Flap.

Reject.

Flap.

Reject.

Flap. Flap.

Reject. Reject.

Flap. Flap. Flap.

Reject. Reject. Reject.

I stood up with white knuckles from squeezing my fist too tightly and clenched teeth. "I don't need this. I don't need to stay here for another 30 minutes so you may hot and cold me. Say anything nice about my résumé only to be met with an insult." I had reached my breaking point. "So, let us not squander any more time. "Give me my child!" I yell at Gianni.

He immediately rose up and handed Marisa to me, i slip her into the infant carrier."You're right, my shoes are horrible, but so are those-" I attempted to think of an insult, but nothing came to my mind, "Damn it!" I yelled. Gianni leans back with a startling expression. "You look great. "Everything about you is handsome!"

He smiled and sat down, his legs crossed as if he were on top of the world. He does, after all, play the part of a wealthy-looking man. He reminds me of Sam in several ways, which makes me dislike him.

I lean in closer to Gianni, forcing him to rush back. "See, my baby is a female--" I gestured to the bow.

I closed the gap because he didn't react. "I said, see?" My voice sounded lethal, like if I had regressed to my childhood, when I was running around the mansion and commanding the staff.

He nodded quickly as he grasped his seat.

"Good," I murmured as I gently backed away, their attention still fixed on me. "I'm going, contact me...do not contact me..."I don't give a fuc-," I quickly covered Marisa's ears, "shit."

I stepped out when the door opened, only to walk back in. "Brody?" "There's a better wig store on the Third Street," he sat up straight. "Go there," I advised. He nodded as I exited the room, not excusing the sassy hair flapping.

I come to a halt and turn around, my cheeks redden. "Oh, and by the way! My name is Vera! Not Veronica! Not Vicky! Not Victoria! Not Valery! Vera!!! You can't call me anything else." I turn around but turned back again, "Unless you're paying me." I heard snickering, but it was suddenly drowned out by a cough. "I appreciate your time. Goodbye!"

I bury my face in my hands as the door behind me closes. "Oh Vera, what did you just do?"