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Carolina

"Longest. Shift. Ever," I groan into my phone's speaker as I slam my apartment door behind me, shucking off the black mini-apron I wear at my job as a waitress.

Through the phone, Noah laughs. I kick off my shoes, not bothering to line them up neatly by the doormat, and pad through my small apartment toward the bedroom.

"You're laughing, but I'm serious. I swear, the customers today were ridiculous. It was like they were conspiring against me."

"No, no, I don't mean to make light of your struggles," he says innocently. "Please, tell me more."

"We ran out of zucchini, and the truck doesn't come until Thursday, so we had to strike a couple items off the menu. And guess what everyone wanted today?"

"The zucchini stuff?"

"Of course," I sigh. "So how were things on your end?"

Noah and I make a habit of keeping in touch with each other regularly. I talk to him like this most days. We were close when we grew up together in foster care, and have stayed close since.

"Oh, you know," he says. "Finally closing that deal with those pain-in-the-ass clients."

"Customers are the same, no matter what kind you're dealing with. What did they even want?"

"Well, at first, they were trying to rush things-speed the process along. And then, once we were finally close to wrapping the whole thing up, they started to get cold feet. Delayed us by a week, at least."

"God, that sucks."

"Tell me about it."

"You know," I say, teasing, "maybe you should quit all that and get into the foodservice game, like me. Waiting tables, that's where it's at."

He chuckles at my joke, but then says, "Oh, c'mon, Carol. You know you're not gonna be a server for long. You're so close to getting your dream job. I just know it."

"I hope you're right."

I've been out of grad school for almost a year now, throwing my resume all over the place. It's been hard to find jobs that line up exactly with my goals, but I'm not willing to compromise on my career.

I want to find a job that will let me help kids like me. Kids who grew up in similar situations, who need someone to advocate for them. And if I can't find that kind of career, then I'm going to have to wait for it to come along.

I can be patient. It's worth it.

Right?

"Of course I'm right," Noah says confidently. "Hey, weren't you going to hear back about that latest one today?"

"Oh, my god! You're right!" I reach over to the coffee table for my laptop. "Thanks for the reminder."

My heart is in my throat as I open the computer and type in my password. I tab over to my email, and my breath catches when I see the new message. It's from the company that interviewed me for that social work job.

"Oh, they emailed me!" I gasp. "I have an email from them! This is not a drill!" Nerves flutter in my stomach as my cursor hovers over the email.

"Good news? Bad news?" Noah sounds almost as excited as I am.

"I don't know yet. I'm too nervous to open it."

"Open it!" he insists. "Read it out loud!"

Steeling myself, I click on the message and clear my throat.

"Dear Ms. Winters," I begin. "We appreciate you taking the time to interview for this position. Unfortunately, it has been filled by a more experienced candidate."

I swallow, hesitating, the bitter sting of disappointment in my throat.

"We'll keep you in mind for any future openings with our organization," I finish, my voice dull and flat, all of the excitement gone. "Thank you."

Noah is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "Do you want me to go over there and beat them up or something?"

I laugh feebly, but even Noah's jokes can't cheer me up. I'm crushed.