When I went back upstairs, my dad asked me how the vacuum was working out.
“Fine,” I said.
“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t you have your job interview today?”
“Well,” I said. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“How did it go?”
“Fine.” I grinned.
“Alice Elisabeth.”
“Dad.”
“Lissy Kenway.”
“Yeah . . . I got the job,” I said.
He messed up my hair. “I told you you would,” he said.
“I know, I know,” I said, ducking away and smoothing my hair down.
“Hey, with any luck, you’ll be able to skip the whole starving-artist shtick,” he said. “You’re a sellout right out of the gate.”
“I’m not a sellout,” I said.
“I thought all artists had some sort of qualm about working for The Man.”
I pondered that. “I think David Charles is too eccentric to be The Man,” I said.
“He’s eccentric, huh?”
“Just what you could notice,” I said.
My dad laughed.
Labels: january brings few faces
