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thought myself rather plain—the kind of woman you might pass on the street or sit down next to on the bus without a second glance. My mother always said I was the type of woman you had to get a good look at to appreciate. And to tell you the truth, I preferred fading into the background. Life was easier being unnoticed—without the whistles that trailed other women, the comments that made them cover their chest with their purse, the eyes that followed them everywhere.
    There was a slight disappointment, though, when, at sixteen, I realized I wasn’t going to turn out to be the kind of beauty my mother had been in her youth. Whereas Mama was all curves, I was all angles. When I was a girl, she’d wear a shapeless housedress during the day while she worked. But sometimes, at night, she’d change into her handmade creations and model the dresses she’d made for wealthy women. She’d twirl and make the full skirts fly in our kitchen, and I’d tell her the dress would never again look as beautiful.
    I’d seen a photograph of her at my age, wearing her factory uniform—an olive-green smock with matching cap. We couldn’t have looked more dissimilar. I looked so much more like my father. After he died, Mama kept a photograph of him wearing his army uniform in her bottom dresser drawer. Sometimes, when she was out of the house, I’d take it out and stare at that photograph, telling myself that if I ever forgot what he looked like, an empty space would open inside me that could never be closed again.
    The applicants parted outside the Agency’s gates with a wave. The older woman who’d bested us all called out, “Good luck!”
    “I’ll need it,” said the woman who’d sat next to me during the test, as she lit a cigarette.
    I needed it too, although I didn’t believe in luck.
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    Two weeks passed and I found myself back at the kitchen table circling want ads while drinking tea. Mama was at the Ping-Pong table working on a dress for our landlord’s daughter’s Quinceañera in hopes of buttering him up not to raise our rent. She was telling me for the second time that day a story she’d read in the Post about a woman who’d given birth to a baby girl on the Key Bridge. “They couldn’t make it to the hospital in time, so they stopped the car and delivered the baby right there! Can you believe this?” she called out from the next room. When I didn’t answer, she repeated the story, but two decibels louder.
    “I heard you the first time!”
    “Can you believe this?”
    “I can’t.”
    “What?”
    “I said, I can’t!”
    I needed to get out of the house—to go for a walk, to go anywhere. Mama had me running errands for her, but besides that I didn’t have much to do. I’d responded to a dozen ads but secured only one interview for the following week. As I put on my coat, the phone rang. I ran into the living room just in time to see Mama pick up the receiver. “What do you say?” she said in the extra-loud voice she reserved for telephone calls.
    “Who is it?” I asked.
    “Irene? There is no Irene here. Why are you calling here?”
    I grabbed the phone. “Hello?” Mama shrugged and went back to the Ping-Pong table.
    “Miss Irina Droz-do-vah?” a woman’s voice asked.
    “Yes, this is she. I’m sorry about that. My mother doesn’t—”
    “Please hold for Walter Anderson.”
    “What?”
    Classical music switched on, and my stomach muscles clenched. After a moment, the music stopped, cut off by Mr. Anderson’s voice. “We want you to come back in.”
    “I thought I scored second to last?” I asked, then gritted my teeth. Did I really have to remind him of my mediocrity?
    “That’s correct.”
    “And I thought there was only one position open?” Was I trying to self-sabotage?
    “We liked what we saw.”
    “I got the job?”
    “Not yet, Speedy,” he said. “Or should I come up with a better nickname for you, given your typing skills? Can you come in at two?”
    “Today?” I