LANA MASON
"I will kill you, Lana," Maya snaps with clenched teeth and a hoarse squeak of a voice. "I mean that so sincerely, I will kill you."
I cough out the laugh I was trying to hold in so as not to wake her or Jackie. "I told you that I had to be up at 8:00 for an interview. You're the one who showed up here at 2 a.m. with a half-eaten slice from Prince's and only one set of lashes still on."
"Stop arguing," Jackie whines and pulls her pillow down over her head. "I'm gonna vomit."
"Please don't do that," I twist my honey blonde hair to secure with a dark brown claw clip at the base of my neck. "What do you guys think? Presentable? Approachable?"
Neither of my best friends can be bothered to lift their heads from the air mattress to assure me I look okay, but I'm sure I wore an outfit similar to this one when I got my last job. When interviewing to be a caretaker for a child, I've learned that jeans are the most appropriate. Tank tops are generally a no, and low-cut tops of any kind are an absolute no. Modesty goes a long way with parents and I don't blame them. Mothers are typically just looking out for their children...and husbands.
"Okay, wish me luck!" I purposely call out as I pick up my keys from the hook by the door.
"Get out, whore!" Maya yells back, only making me laugh more as I let the door slam behind me so I can lock them in.
"Oh! Lana, thank goodness," my next-door neighbor shouts in my presence, speaking in the thickest Russian accent there ever was. "There is another mouse in the trap! I cannot bring myself to take it out...would you mind?"
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Petrov, I'm running late for a job interview," I tilt my head in sympathy as the poor woman holds my arm. "Just, um...sweep it under the radiator for now and I'll help you when I come home, alright?"
"Oh, alright," her aged face is full of sorrow as she releases me.
"I'll be back," I call out over my shoulder, jogging down the first round of stairs. We live on the fifth floor of a walk-up. "Promise!"
My focus is on my phone as I push open the heavy metal door to my building to step right out onto the cracked sidewalk. The address my potential new boss sent me is seventeen minutes via subway, which isn't bad at all. The Canal St station is only a four-minute walk from my place and it's not too crowded on a Sunday morning. In fact, it's mostly empty and I'm early enough for the train that I wish I would have stopped for coffee at the shop across the street from my building.
Mindful of my surroundings, I step past the yellow line to look down the subway tracks and see the headlights of the J arriving after waiting for six minutes. I still have fifteen minutes to spare before I need to be at the given address, so I'm feeling good as I board the train and secure my AirPods. Sam Cooke is the artist playing, which is almost always the case, but especially on Sunday mornings.
Bowery is the only stop between me and my destination, so I remain standing despite all the empty yellow and orange seats around me. I politely shake my head when a woman comes up to me, trying to sell candy bars from a cardboard box and glance down the train to see how many other people are on here before the doors slide closed.
I hold the silver pole on my left to brace myself as the train jolts forward and switch my phone off Do Not Disturb even though I've been up for almost three hours at this point. I see two texts from Mrs. Myers, my old boss. One is a photo of Sammy and Michael sitting in their airplane seats and the other reads: We miss you already! A smile naturally stretches across my lips as the train stops at the Bowery station, but I can't stare for too long without getting overly emotional.
