God when he said it out loud, it sounded even more pathetic than it really was.

“Uh, yes. I worked at JAC’s for almost three years before I left to go to school.”

It had obviously been too long since his last offensive comment, because Mr. Lambert cut in. “Isn’t that Jeb’s place?” he asked, and I nodded. “Didn’t his wife leave him for that pizza guy? She was always a bit of a well…you know. She liked the men. Especially the underage ones.” His grin was lascivious and more than a little gross.

“Well, it also says here that you worked at the Baltimore College Bookstore while you were in school. So your work experience consists totally of retail. Is that correct?” Mr. Weaver asked and I was getting the feeling that he felt as though this entire interview was one giant waste of his time.

Between Mr. Lambert’s knowing smiles and Mr. Weaver’s disdainful looks, I knew, without a doubt, that they’d never hire me. That no matter how far I had come or how much I had tried to change, that I was still being defined by the person I used to be.

When would that person disappear? Would I ever be able to live outside of her shadow?

Not as long as I lived here, that’s for sure.

Not when I ran the risk of everyone remembering my mistakes and making sure I never forgot about them.

“Yes, I’ve worked in retail but I’m a hard worker and a quick learner, as my current boss will tell you.”

Mr. Lambert looked down at my resume again. “Oh, you’re working at JAC’s now,” he said, and I felt my teeth grind together again.

“Yes, I am,” I replied shortly.

“So tell me, Ellie, what are your biggest strengths?” Mr. Weaver asked, moving on to more traditional interview questions.

I relaxed marginally hoping the trip down Ellie’s memory lane was over.

“I think I’m honest and trustworthy. And I can work in a group or individually. I’m a fast learner and I work hard,” I answered.

“And resilient! Given everything you’ve been through!” Mr. Lambert piped up and I wanted to groan in exasperation. Apparently that trip wasn’t quite over yet.

“And resilient,” I repeated with an acidic smile.

Mr. Weaver went through a few more standard interview questions and I had to endure Mr. Lambert’s ridiculous observations and comments. I wasn’t sure I could stomach working for such jerk but my options were slim.

“Well, Ellie, thank you for coming in. Wilma will be calling to let you know soon,” Mr. Weaver said, reaching out to shake my hand again. Mr. Lambert opened the door to the conference room and led me back out to the reception area.

He patted me on the back like I was a dog and grinned down at me. “It was good to see you again, Ellie. I can’t tell you how nice it is to see someone with your background rise above it all.”

My background? Seriously?

I couldn’t thank him. I couldn’t say anything. I was about to lose what little cool I had left.

I gave him a curt nod and left as quickly as I could with what little pride I had left intact.

Shit. That had been bad.

Even though I thought I had answered the questions decently enough, it was overshadowed by the knowledge of my past.

It’s nice to see someone with your background…

I drove from the office building wishing I could run.

Far, far away.

**

As I sat behind the counter at JAC’s later that night, I tried not to fixate on the disastrous interview.

Maybe I’m imagining how bad it was. I answered the questions well. It couldn’t have been that horrible.

Even my inner voice didn’t sound too convinced.

I watched as two teenage girls hung around the refrigerated aisle, casting me nervous looks. One had long blonde hair, and sneaky eyes. The dark haired girl seemed a bit more brazen and openly popped the top off a can of whipped cream and held the nozzle to her mouth.

I rolled my eyes and walked towards them. I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the shelf opposite them. They didn’t notice me. They were too busy getting their cheap high.

“You know you’re going to have to pay for those,” I said and the blonde girl nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Oh, shit!” she whispered to her friend. The dark haired girl tucked a can under her coat like I couldn’t see her.

“Are you serious right now? Do you think I can’t see you?” I scoffed.

The girls faced me with hard, angry looks on their faces. Eyes narrowed and hateful. It was like looking into a mirror fifteen years ago.

“Fuck off!” The blonde girl’s voice wavered slightly and I knew she was trying really hard to be a badass when on the inside she was scared shitless.

“Wow, I’m shaking in my shoes. Now pay for your stuff and leave,” I said, affecting a bored tone.

The dark haired girl, clearly the ring leader in this ill advised whip-its operation, twisted her face into an ugly sneer and gave me her best mad dog stare.

“We’re not doing shit and you’re not going to make us. So back the fuck off.”

My anger spiked and I was two seconds away from letting these dumb little bitches know exactly who they were messing with.

But something in the blonde girl’s eyes gave me pause.

I looked at her, not her obnoxious friend. Her mouth was set into a firm line but her eyes—a deep, dark brown—held a sadness that hit me straight in the chest.

This was the type of girl who had seen too much and not enough. She was hooked up with a bad crowd because she had no one else.