"It's bad enough you deface property at school!"
"I'm sorry, but—"
"Sorry's not good enough this time. Sorry's not going to win me my game tomorrow. My racket is. I can't believe I let you take it out of here in the first place!"
"But, Dad, I'm sure you made mistakes when you were a hippie teenager!"
"And I paid for them! Like you're going to pay for my racket."
My bank account had about five dollars in it, the remains of my Sweet Sixteenth birthday money. And I still owed Premiere Video twenty-five dollars in late fees. I quickly did the math in my head. Dad was going to have to keep my allowance until I was thirty.
Then he said the three words that reverberated in my head and made me go dizzy with fury. As he said them I thought I was going to explode into a million unhappy pieces.
"Get a job!" he proclaimed. "It's about time, too. Maybe that'll teach you some responsibility!"
"Can't you just spank me? Or ground me? Or not speak to me for years like parents do on those talk shows? Please, Dad!"
"It's final! End of story! I'll help you find a job if you can't on your own. But you'll have to do the work yourself."
I ran to my room, wailing like baby Nerd Boy, screaming at the top of my lungs, "You people just don't understand the pressure of being a teenager in my generation!"
As I cried on my bed, I fantasized about sneaking into the Mansion like I did with Jack Patterson when I was twelve and retrieving the racket.
But I also knew I was a little bigger in the hips now and that the window we'd used had been replaced. I'm sure the new owners also had a security system and, in any case, where would I look for the racket with so many rooms and closets? And while I was searching frantically, I was sure to be caught by Creepy Man wielding a gun or some medieval torture device. A part-time job was a less menacing scenario, but not by much.
At this point I really wished I were a vampire—I'd never heard of Dracula's having a job.
Connections. They'd be wonderful if my dad knew Steven Spielberg or the Queen of England, but Janice Armstrong of Armstrong Travel just doesn't cut it for me.
Far worse than having to show up there after school three days a week, answering phones in a perky voice, photocopying tickets with that hideous blinding flash in my eyes, and talking to yuppies going to Europe for the fourth time was the totally conservative dress code.
"I'm sorry, but you won't be able to wear those…" Janice began, staring at my shoes. "What do you kids call them?"
"Combat boots."
"We aren't the army. And it's okay to wear lipstick, but it should be red."
"Red?"
"But you can pick any shade."
Very generous, Janice! "How about pink?"
"Pink would be great. And you'll need to wear skirts. But not too short."
"Red skirts?" I asked.
"No, they don't have to be red. They can be green or blue."
"I can pick any shade?" If she was going to make me feel like an idiot, I was going to act like one.
"Certainly. And hose—"
"Not black?"
"Not ripped."
"And the nail polish," she began, staring at my fingertips.
"Not black, but any shade of red. Or pink would be great," I recited.
"Very good," she said with a big smile. "You're fitting in already!"
"Thanks, I guess," I said as I got up to leave. I checked my watch. The interview had taken fifteen minutes, but it felt like an hour. This job was going to be complete torture.
"I'll see you tomorrow, at four o'clock then, Raven. Any questions?"
"Do I get paid for the interview?"
"You're father said you were bright, but he didn't mention your wonderful sense of humor. We'll get along great. Who knows, you may want to be a travel agent when you get older."
Mrs. Peevish, my infamous kindergarten teacher, would have been proud.
"I already know what I want to be," I replied. I wanted to say a vampire, just for old time's sake. But I knew she wouldn't get it.
"What do you want to be?"
"A professional tennis player. They get free rackets!"
My mother bought me some horrible brightly colored Corporate Cathy gear so I could fit neatly into the package of Dullsville's business world. I pulled them out of the shopping bags and freaked when I saw the price tags.
"Yikes! These outfits cost more than the tennis racket. Just keep them and we'll be even."
"That's not the point!"
"This doesn't make sense."
I reluctantly modeled a white blouse and blue knee-length skirt. My mother looked at me like I was the daughter she always wanted.
"Don't you remember wearing halter tops, braids, and bell-bottoms?" I asked. "What I wear isn't that much different for my generation."
"I'm not that little girl anymore, Raven. And besides, I never wore lipstick. I went au naturel."
"Ugh," I said, and rolled my eyes.
"Being a teenager is hard, I know. But you'll eventually find out who you really are."