Snow Space

No Hoper

The waiting room was tidily kept, with small potted plants on grey cabinets and beige walls - Khamil sat on the metal chair, with four others quietly seated nearby. Most were reading the glossy, trivial magazines that were purposely sprawled across the coffee tables like a display, with bold words printed across them in shiny ink to catch your attention. It was quite a fancy room for a part-time sales representative job interview, though an apt reflection of the corporate world that Khamil and his friends so purposely derided. 

"Khamil Brooke?"

At his name, Khamil almost leapt out of his seat in response to the flutter in his heart, and his eyes met those of a well-suited man, though who's tie was a distinctively ugly orange. Restraining his nerves, probably visibly, Khamil stepped through the room of people, following the orange tie around the corner to a small room with a table and two chairs - an 80s computer sat on the desk, a metal scrapheap. The room bore a disconcerting resemblance to that of a police interrogation room; a sight he was all too familiar with. 

"Please, take a seat."

Khamil nodded, and took his place, his nerves significantly heightened since realising how underdressed he was compared to his interviewer. He couldn't have done much else though - perhaps worn his school shirt instead of a polo. Much to his dismay, a second interviewer had now arrived: a woman with sleek, brown hair and a little too much make-up on her eyes. 

"Mr Brooke, this is Camilla Pierson, and my name is Max Stone - we'll be interviewing you for the position of sales representative."

Khamil nodded, unsure of whether he was supposed to respond in some way. 

"Okay."

"Briefly, before we start, can I ask of your previous employment record?"

Khamil shifted uncomfortably, his elbows rested on the arms of the chair as he leant his lip on his thumb. 

"This would be my first, since I'm still in full time education," he said, swallowing as Camilla shifted some papers about; he couldn't help but try to steal a glance at them. "I figured since it's entry level it would be a good place to start."

Max nodded, his face unreadable as he scanned Khamil, and then briefly jotted down a bullet point on the lined paper in front of him. 

"In that case, could you provide us with your GCSE results please? Send us a photocopy after the interview as well so we can confirm them."

These questions had been unavoidable, though Khamil still felt his heart sink a little at having to recite the grades. Max was looking at him expectantly. 

"F in English and maths, C in woodwork, D in science, E in French and Geography, and a B in art."

Hopefully the last one would average out the F's and E's, though Max and Camilla's foreboding silence was not a promising sign, and Khamil could feel himself starting to sweat. They had a fan in this room, so why was it not on? He couldn't help but inwardly curse out the two snobbish, and frankly irritating people sat in front of him, who's only topic of conversation outside of work was likely the fact that they had a degree, and the weather. He knew his anxiety was fuelling this rant, though it was probably true. Any rational mind would see that orange tie in a shop and walk the opposite direction. 

"So," Max said, after he'd finished writing down the grades. "Perhaps you could give us a reason or two why you've applied to this job."

"Mainly just to help with income, y'know," Khamil replied, trying to vary his level of eye contact which was surprisingly difficult once you were conscious of it. "My mum doesn't work full-time."