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I’m a girl, which seems like discrimination to me. Speaking of discrimination, when I called about housecleaning, the woman spoke to me in Spanish, and even though my Spanish is okay for a gringa, she didn’t sound the least bit interested in interviewing me. They probably only hire Latinos. And my only experience with baby-sitting was when our neighbors’ eighteen-month-old grandbabies came to visit last summer. The twin boys, Liam and Rye, were adorable, from a distance anyway, but after two weeks of changing diapers and chasing down screaming toddlers, well, I still cannot bear to think of it.
    If I’m going to work toward being on my own, I need to find work. And based on Shannon’s erratic behavior this past month, I need to make a plan. So on my way to the Market Basket, my favorite natural food store (who is not hiring), I notice a Help Wanted sign in the window of a rather chichi clothing boutique. Now honestly, the last thing I want to do is sell overpriced designer clothes to overspending, undernourished, shopaholic women (not unlike my mom), but maybe they just want a stock girl. That might not be too torturous.
    So I hurry to gather my tofu products, nuts, a fresh loaf of vegan bread, and organically grown fruit, and I carefullypack these groceries into my reusable canvas Earth bag and come directly home, put them away, and then begin to make a plan.
    Shannon, once again, is gone. I had hoped it was just an ordinary date, since the guy who picked her up seemed halfway decent, but when she didn’t make it home, I had to assume she was out getting high again. In a way, this is lucky, because this allows me to borrow a few things from her packed closet—a walk-in closet that’s bigger than some people’s bedrooms. Although she has all kinds of storage, things are heaped in piles, and she won’t even notice if a few items go missing.
    It’s not as if I don’t have clothes that would be appropriate for working in a clothing boutique. I have lots of things I never even wear—“stylish” rags that Shannon gets me whether I want them or not. Drugs aren’t her only addiction. But after checking out my closet, I know I need to bring it up a notch or two. I am not stupid. As soon as I walk into that boutique and ask for a job application, eyes will be narrowed, and my outfit will be scrutinized. And I know that I have to measure up to their shallow standards.
    Okay, part of me is screaming, Why are you doing this, Maya? Why are you compromising yourself? Why are you becoming a hypocrite? I mean, not only am I willing to work in a business I do not respect. I am willing to carry a bag made of leather! What is wrong with this picture? The answer issimple: I’m desperate. I’m nearly broke again. This is the first step in my emancipation plan, so I’ll bite the bullet and just do it.
June 6
    Picking up the application actually went fairly smoothly today. A stick-thin woman named Em was friendly enough. She had short, choppy hair that was dyed jet black and tipped with midnight blue.
    “We can use some help right now,” she told me as she set some white boxes down beside the register. No one else was in the shop just then. “Have you worked in retail before?”
    “No.” I gave her my most confident smile. “Well, other than shopping.”
    She laughed as she handed me an application. “Make sure you put that on your application. Vivian takes customers more seriously than employees.”
    “Vivian?”
    “The owner. She’s at lunch, but she should be back by two.”
    “Should I fill this out here and then wait…do you think?” Suddenly I realized how inept I am at this sort of thing. I am clueless. What is a person supposed to do to get a job?
    “I don’t know…” Em frowned at her red plastic watch. “Viv’s two can sometimes turn into three or four. Why don’t you take the application and fill it out at your convenience, then drop it by later?”
    I nodded. “Sure, of course.” I adjusted the