Charles Benoit - You

The last time you shoveled driveways you were in sixth grade. And it’s not your fault that Mr. Frances never told you about the flower garden. And that was five years ago. You want to tell her these things-and you want to tell her how you don’t want to work at Sears, that you don’t want to wear khaki pants and polo shirts, but the minivan is pulling up to the mall and it wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.

She rolls down the window as she pulls away, telling you to smile.

You can’t think of a single reason why.

You cut around the food court, past the lame mechanical Santa’s Workshop, past the Gap and the Aberzombie and the Spencer’s Gifts and the four or five stores in a row that only sell sneakers, then you slow up and look ahead through the crowd to the Piercing Point kiosk in the middle of the mall.

Déjà vu .

It’s Monday, but the mall’s still crowded, and they’re standing three deep at the Piercing Point. Ashley is helping a guy your father’s age buy a pair of earrings. When she looks down into the case in front of her, you notice that he’s trying to look down her top. Not that she has a lot to look at, but still. He’s probably got a daughter her age. He ends up buying a few pairs and while she rings him up, you stroll over and stand near the register.

“Oh my god, it’s sooo busy,” Ashley says after the man leaves. “I can’t talk now. You look nice. Call me, okay? Before eleven. Gotta go.” She does one of those air kisses, then turns to help some woman.

And now you are smiling.

“Kyle, I have to tell you, I’m impressed.”

You’re sitting in an office in the customer-service area at Sears, near the bathrooms and the photo studio and the counters where people are making credit-card payments, and the guy interviewing you is sitting behind a desk that can’t be his, not with the stuffed animals on top of the computer terminal and the collection of cat postcards tacked up on the bulletin board. All you did was ask for a job application but instead of just handing you the form and letting you walk away like you had planned, this guy appeared and said that he’d like to interview you now if it was convenient. You couldn’t think of a reason why it wasn’t-at least not fast enough-so here you are.

“Not many kids your age think to bring a résumé when they pick up an application,” he says, holding it up as if he were presenting it to the court. “You know what that tells me? It tells me that you think ahead, that you plan for the unexpected. And it tells me that you’re conscientious. You notice details. And , most important, it tells me you really want this job. Now tell me, am I right?”

He’s not, but he’s on a roll. You just smile and nod, and that makes him smile and nod.

“When I was your age-”

Here it comes.

Is it possible that it’s genetics? Something gets triggered when you hit a certain age, like a form of puberty, but for adults? At thirteen, it’s hairy under-arms and an obsession with sex. At forty, it’s hair in your ears and an uncontrollable urge to tell people how things were better when they were a kid. Only with puberty you pass through it in a couple of years. This adult thing, when it hits, lasts the rest of your life.

He covers the usual points: clothing, music, hair-styles, chores, jobs, school, church, Scouts, cars, and respect.

“So tell me, Kyle,” he asks, “how are you doing in school?”

So you tell him. Why not? He’d probably call anyway.

He stares at you. And keeps staring at you. You’re about to stand up and walk out when he says, “Good for you.” Not a condescending “good for you,” the kind your father says when you mention that you’ve jumped three levels on an online game. He really means it, and now you’re staring at him.

“See, Kyle, most kids your age would lie. Okay, maybe not lie. They’d stretch the truth a bit or maybe blame the teachers, all that crap. You? You told the truth. Kids with good grades we’ve got. Honest kids? That’s something else.”

Now comes the standard hard-work/rags-to-riches/lots-of-opportunities-for-those-who-try speech, and you zone out a bit until you can sense it’s wrapping up. You sit a little straighter, mostly because your back is starting to hurt.

“I like what I see here, Kyle,” he says, tapping your worthless résumé. “I’m sure we’ll have a few more applicants, but I’ll tell you right now, I doubt I’ll see anyone as good as you.”

You’re thinking, he has to be kidding, but apparently he’s not, and the next thing he’s walking you back to the service desk, telling you about the break room and how you’ll have an ID card.

“I can tell a lot by a handshake,” he says, working your arm like it’s a pump handle. “I can tell you’ll do fine here.”

Before he goes back to the office, he asks if you can stop back tomorrow, say around four. You say yes and the interview is over.

You said exactly twelve words.

You don’t want to walk past the Piercing Point again-well, you do, but you know you can’t-so you go the long way around the mall, past the Banana Republic and the pretzel place, and past what’s supposed to be Santa’s stable, complete with nine mechanical reindeer, one with a flashing red nose. Much more interesting, however, are the life-size photographs of sleepy-eyed models in red negligees in the store’s windows. So interesting in fact that you walk right into Nicole as she comes out of Victoria’s Secret.

It takes you both a second, but then you remember that night at Zack’s party. You remember her talking about Canada and growing up in Dawson Creek. She smiles at you, a beautiful smile, and then you can’t help but think about what Zack said about the webcam.

She holds up two armloads of bags. “Getting my Christmas shoplifting done early.”

You laugh, wondering if it’s true.

“I wish you were here ten minutes ago. I was trying on a bathing suit and could have used a second opinion.”

You make some lame comment about how you’re sure it looked great and then she says no and you say yeah and now you can’t stop thinking about the webcam.

“So,” she says, stretching the word out as she shifts her grip on the bags, “did he figure it out yet?”

You give her that blank look.

“Zack. Did he figure it out yet?”

“Figure what out?”

She sighs, but she’s still smiling. Obviously the boy is a bit slow. “Your weakness. How to get to you.”

You remember what that girl told you at school, the perfect senior who liked margaritas.

He finds your weak spot, then keeps pushing till you crack.

He pushed Brooke until she cried. And what he said to Nicole pushed her out of the house and into your fantasies.

But…

It’s different for guys.

Everybody knows that.

A guy pushes you, you punch back.

End of story.

“He gets to everybody. He’ll get to you. Trust me, he’ll figure you out.”

You shrug. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

“Funny.” Her smile shifts-not quite a smirk but not as warm as it had been. “That’s what I said too.”

You’re lying on your bed, lights off, hands behind your head, staring up at the ceiling. You’re still wearing the clothes you wore to the job interview-you were supposed to hang them up right away, but it’s not like you’re going on another one in the morning or something.

It’s early. Eight, maybe eight thirty. Too early to call Ashley. You could go downstairs and watch TV, but your father’s watching that shouting guy again. Now and then a “shut up” cuts through the mumbling white noise, either your father or the TV guy, you can’t tell. You could go watch the other TV, but there’s never anything good on, and walking that far doesn’t seem worth the effort.