Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I flex my hands. There’s a ring of coffee grounds under each nail. I think about the time my composition professor at Century told me I had “real narrative muscle.” That was before I bombed out of my last final, before I called the bursar’s office and begged for mercy. I have muscle, all right, but it’s the kind that aches after a nine-hour shift and smells like dish soap.
On the little end table is a stack of battered magazines, left behind by whichever barista was last demoted to closing shift. The Century College Quarterly, with its glossy blue cover, sits right on top, like it’s taunting me. What is it with this school? Why does it cost so much when it’s supposed to be “affordable”?
I flip it open, not even reading at first, just running my finger down the pages like maybe I can feel something of my old life through the paper. My favorite professor, Dr. Avery, has an essay about “narrative ethics in the digital age.” I dog-ear the page, because old habits die hard, and then move to the classifieds in the back. The ads are mostly for tutors, dog walkers, the occasional “dorm room modeling” gig, which I learned the hard way is code for something that will end with you in a starring role on someone’s OnlyFans channel.
A new ad, one I haven’t seen before, jumps out at me. It reads:
Personal Assistant For Successful, Published Author Wanted. $5,000/month. Women only please. Must be fit, curvy, under 25. Discretion required.
I blink. Five thousand a month? Is this for real, or is it a scam?
But the number is local. I do a quick mental calculation, the math instantly sobering. Five grand a month would get me back in school by September, easy. It would buy textbooks, rent, food, even those parking permits they sell at a 300% markup. Five grand a month means no more closing shifts, no more bus rides at midnight, no more messages from the bursar’s office that make my stomach drop.
I circle the ad in blue ink, my hand trembling just a little. Then I shove the magazine back under the pile. I close my eyes, count to ten, and try to imagine my life if my pockets were full. I could do so many things. Drawing. Art. Literature. I could maybe even quit the cafe, and focus on being a full-time student. What a dream.
My break’s over before I want it to be. Amber calls from the doorway, “Kat, can you refill the pastry case, please?”
I stand, stretching my aching legs, and surreptitiously slide the magazine into my purse. Then, it’s back to the grind, but the ad is all I can think about. The next move is obvious. I just have to wait for an opportunity to make the call.
When my shift ends, the sky is the color of cold oatmeal. I stand at the bus stop with the magazine in my tote and the classified ad burning a hole in my brain. My feet scream, my eyelids are heavy, but my mind won’t shut up, running the numbers over and over. If this gig is real, I could easily make some real money. The last time I saw any moolah at all, it was a negative balance on my student loan portal.
The bus is late, as always. I lean against the bench and pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the keypad. My nerves spark with every vibration from my notifications, mostly spam or Mom’s latest memes. I’m not brave enough to call the number in public, so I ride the bus in a fog, clutching the magazine like it’s a flotation device.
My apartment smells like stale air and microwaved chicken. I throw my bag on the bed and pace, dialing and hanging up twice before I get the courage to let it ring. It picks up on the second buzz.
“Sweet Lies. How may I help you?” The voice is female, smooth but clipped, the accent hard to place. She could be a news anchor or a bot.
Wait, what kind of name is Sweet Lies? Shouldn’t the agency be called something like The People Exchange, or Always On Hand? Something that clearly states what they do? But I move forward.
“Hi—uh, I saw your ad? In the Century College Quarterly?” My voice is a full octave higher than usual.
There’s a pause. “You’re interested in the Personal Assistant posting?”
“Yes,” I say. “I, um, have experience with scheduling, customer service, that kind of thing.”
“Name, please.”
“Katherine Vreeland. But everyone calls me Kat.”
More typing. “Education?”
“Two years at Century, creative writing major. On leave for financial reasons.”
“Height and weight?”
I freeze, my face heating. “Uh, five-seven, one sixty.” I fudge a little. “Curvy build.”
The woman does not react. “Age?”
“Twenty.” It comes out so small I barely hear myself say it.