Page 15 of Hating the Boss

“Definitely.”

“But it’s a job…” I said, a hopeful smile playing at my lips.

“And you definitely need one of those,” said Jessica playfully, before a frown pulled at her lips slightly.

“What is it?” I asked worriedly, looking her over to see if she was in pain. “What hurts?”

“Nothing.” She batted me away, annoyed. “I’m fine. I just hate that you took this job because of me.”

Her guilt made my stomach sink. I never wanted her to feel like she made my life harder because she didn’t. I would do anything for her.

“I took the job because I can’t work in a restaurant all my life,” I said reassuringly. “Not everything revolves around you,” I added playfully.

“Bitch.” She smiled at me.

I laughed loudly.

“I think I need some new dresses,” I said thoughtfully.

“Because you ruined your other one?”

I shot her a look. “Because I need to make a good second impression. One that doesn’t involve spilled coffee. One that looks good.”

“For work or for your boss?”

Ignoring her question, I said, “Let’s go shopping tomorrow!”

“I don’t know…” she said warily. “I’ll just slow you down.” She nodded to her wheelchair that was next to the couch.

“No, you won’t,” I insisted.

“Take Brittany.”

“She can come too, but I want you there.”

Jessica hesitated, playing with her long brown hair that was woven into a braid.

“Fine.” She sighed, rolling her eyes.

I clapped my hands happily and texted Brittany to invite her along.

The next morning, Brittany met us at Bloomingdales. I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever stepped inside here. Maybe it was when I bought that expensive perfume that I saved for only the most special of occasions. I figured I could splurge a little today, since I had a million dollar salary now. I could just charge the clothes today, and pay it off later.

Brittany let out a low whistle as we walked along the freshly polished black and white tile, my hands guiding Jessica’s wheelchair down the walkway. We made our way to the second floor to where the women’s clothing department was. The mannequins lined the walkways in chic skirt suits and formal gowns. The racks of clothes were color-coordinated, their tags carefully tucked inside as if not to scare anyone with their prices.

“Let’s start here,” said Brittany, stopping at a rack of neutral-colored dresses. She began plucking the hangers off the rack, draping the different fabrics across her arm. Jessica and I just let her do her thing. She was the expert, after all.

One of the attendants came by, offering us champagne and relieving Brittany of the piled heap on her arms, just for her to fill it again with a pastel pile of new dresses. I followed her around the store, sipping champagne, the bubbles making me feel light and happy. I was sure the champagne was a tactic to get you to spend more money, and it seemed to be working because by the time we made our way to the dressing room, it was full. The attendant had to bring a separate rolling rack to house all of Brittany’s selections.

The girls shooed me inside, as they made themselves comfortable on the black velvet couches just outside in the waiting room. I closed the door to the large fitting room and ran my hands over the dresses, only taking a peek at a few of the price tags. My heart skipped a beat at the numbers screaming at me.

“It’s okay. You can afford one or two,” I whispered to myself, remembering the salary contract I had signed. There had even been an opportunity for a raise, plus bonuses. It was absurd, really.

I shimmied off my jeans and pulled off my tank top, and eagerly slid a navy dress off the hanger. Sliding it over my head and doing the zipper on the side, I studied myself in the mirror. It was an A-line cut with a high neckline. Honestly, it was kind of boring, but probably appropriate for an office job. I stepped out, not feeling too confident, and showed the dress off to Jessica and Brittany.

My sister held up her hand and tilted it side to side, unsure of it.

Brittany, a little more vocal, opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out.