A Window Opens: A Novel (8 page)

“Dad, have you seen something like this before?”

He came of age in an era of bomb drills, assassinations, riots, tear gas, the draft. Now he was mostly bald and he wasn’t strong enough yet to learn how to use the electrolarynx. But when he mouthed a single word—“Never”—I understood.

•  •  •

“We had a lockdown drill at school today,” Margot made this announcement offhandedly, as I spritzed No More Tangles into her hair.

“Really? Wow.” I shuddered at the thought of the principal’s voice blaring over the PA system:
Active shooter in the school. Active shooter. In. The. School.

On warm days, when the windows were open, I could hear the state-mandated announcement from our front porch.

“Where’s your, um, hiding place?”

“This year we’re in the coatroom. We have tape on the floor. If you step over it, the bad guys will be able to see you from the door.”

“Ah, I see.”

“After, we had popsicles for Mason’s birthday. The lime kind.”

“Yum.”

When Margot ran off to brush her teeth, I started to worry about commuting into the city five days a week. What if there was a real emergency and I needed to get home?

I didn’t even have the job yet and I was already agonizing about accepting it.

But there was also a little flame of excitement at the back of my mind. I could do this. I was ready to spread my wings. This was a chance to do something new, to get involved with a start-up ten years after my friends had taken the plunge at Kozmo.com, Pets.com, and Drugstore.com. In those days, I’d been too busy having babies and going to my dad’s doctor appointments to consider introducing any more uncertainty into my life, even if there were stock options attached.

•  •  •

Of course, I agonized about what to wear to the interviews. I plied Susanna with coffee and she stretched out on my bed, her back propped against my Ikea headboard, while I modeled various outfits: straight skirt with a blousy shirt (too Virginia Woolf); flowered dress with cable tights (too Louisa May Alcott); red dress with a cute peplum flounce (too Belle Watling).

I stood in front of my closet in a Blue Owl T-shirt and threw up my hands in dismay. “Seriously, Susanna? I’m at a loss. Don’t you have anything I can borrow?”

“Sure, if you want to wear overalls or hemp.” We both laughed; Susanna buys most of her clothes at Whole Foods. “Seriously, Al, you should just wear green. Send them subliminal reminders of cash—at the end of the day, that’s all Scroll cares about anyway.”

“Please? Can we not? These aren’t the shopping mall people, remember—these are the
book
people. They’re readers, not bean counters.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it. These Scrollers have another trick up their sleeves, I’m telling you.”

“Susanna! Enough. This might be my big chance. I need you in my court.”

We settled on black pants and a gray cashmere sweater with an industrial zipper up the back. Susanna recommended pairing this ensemble with black ballet flats, but I ruled them out—too Holly Golightly—and opted for mod boots instead. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Susanna was trying to sabotage my chances.

•  •  •

“We’re very nimble here at Scroll, so we’re going to throw a lot at you today and see how you do. I have no doubt that you’ll do just fine,” said Genevieve. She took a perfunctory glance at my resume and ran through my schedule for the day, which consisted of back-to-back, in-person meetings with two Content Managers, an Analytics Expert, and a Marketing Specialist, and phone interviews with a Quality Control Representative and a Warehouse Engineer in Cleveland.

“Oh, I’m nimble,” I assured Genevieve. I thought of my waitressing days, and the way I’d learned to carry six dinner plates at a time—three on each forearm. Of the picky diners who complained that there were too many peppers in the fajitas; and one grouchy guy who didn’t crack a smile when I accidentally served him a raw lobster, its claws bound in navy elastic bands.

“You’ll come straight back to my office after your meeting with Analytics, I’ll have you sign some papers, and then I’ll take you to a restricted area where you’ll take the phoners. Good?”

“Great.” But I worried about fine print on the papers. Ever since the great Columbia House Music Club debacle of 1988, I was leery of signing my name on a dotted line. (Surely I wasn’t the
only
fifteen-year-old who believed I’d get eleven cassette tapes for the low, low price of one penny.)

I was also concerned that I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to Genevieve’s office. The thirty-seventh floor of the mirrored midtown tower was a warren of white: carpets, chairs, walls, window coverings, white boards. By the elevator bank, the company logo was barely visible against the white wall behind it—a slim white scroll reminiscent of a college diploma, hovering over a white receptionist desk (empty) and a metal cup of pristine white pens. I kept checking my boots to make sure I wasn’t tracking in mud, or worse.

•  •  •

The in-person meetings were both dizzying and dazzling.

The Analytics Expert, Rashida, explained the Tenets of Winners, which functioned as both inspiration and rubric for all MainStreet employees. She told me that each of my interviewers had been assigned a different tenet in advance of our interview, ranging from Winners Get It Right (WGIR) to Always Take Action (ATA) to Surprise and Delight Your Customer (SADYC). Their questions were tailored to tease out my commitment to each tenet. At the end of this day of meetings, known as the Chain, the pack of interrogators would meet for a debrief, where they would compare notes and then vote me on or off the island. If one person objected, I would not be offered a spot on the team.

It was surreal to try to come up with business-appropriate examples of how I was a negotiator, a closer, a committer, and an experienced analyzer of data. My mind kept boomeranging to examples starring dog training (not many success stories there) and my kids. For instance, when Oliver was a ferocious toddler, Nicholas and I used to refer to him as the terrorist—as in, “We do not negotiate with terrorists.” And when I thought about data, it wasn’t in terms of Excel, which I’d never used, but in terms of weight and height charts from the pediatrician’s office, or the printout I examined with the orthodontist while he showed me, degree by degree, exactly how he would shift Margot’s teeth into submission.

“Our mission is to reinvent reading the way Starbucks reinvented coffee,” said the Marketing Specialist, whose name I missed. Caleb? Ethan? Anyway, he was a bearded guy in his twenties, the doppelganger of every other bearded guy I passed in the minimalist hallway. “We’ve targeted the experience our customers will most value, and we’ll deliver it along with steep discounts, membership opportunities, and the chance to spend peaceful, uninterrupted time at the intersection of the past and the future.”

I sighed reverently; the words
peaceful
and
uninterrupted
make me weak in the knees. Then I leaned forward in my seat—a white leather sling suspended from a chilly metal frame. “Can you talk a little bit more about that?
Membership opportunities and the part about the intersection . . . ?”

The Marketing Specialist nodded knowingly. “Of course—we just get so excited about this stuff, we forget our thought process isn’t really in the zeitgeist yet. Note, I said
yet
. Okay, so firstly, we’re crafting a membership model for frequent fliers. A flat monthly fee will net you four titles of your choice, one title we select for you via our ScrollOriginals series, and unlimited access to the SSR area.”

“Sorry, SSR—?” Oh, how I wished I’d caught this guy’s name.

“Alice, I just love your inquisitiveness.” The Marketing Specialist unbuttoned the cuffs of his denim cowboy shirt and rolled them up, one fold at a time, with the precision of a doctor scrubbing in for surgery. His forearms were slim and elegant like hairless cats. “SSR stands for
sustained silent reading
. These areas consist of leather armchairs reserved for our most serious readers. We’re talking waitress service, foot massages, complimentary biscotti, cup holders with mini hot plates to keep your coffee warm . . . oh, and unlimited gummy bears. Market research shows that Haribo gummies are the leading candy consumed by voracious readers.”

I nodded vigorously, dumbfounded.

“I’m sure you’ve logged time in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse when you travel?”

“Of course.” I hadn’t, actually; I’m steerage, born and bred.

“Then you’re familiar with our model for SSR. We want to deliver that first-class experience to our literary lounges.”

“Wow. That sounds amazing.” It really did. Like Barnes & Noble superstores in their heyday but better. The gummy bears alone were reason enough to covet the job. “How much will the monthly membership cost?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “We aren’t able to talk about pricing at this time.”

“Oh, that’s fine, I was just curious. And wait, can we rewind for a minute?”

He nodded his head warmly. (Was it Seth? Keith? I knew it was
something gentle, the name of a kid my brother would have beaten up in grade school, when he was still known as Billy.) “Absolutely. How can I illuminate you?”

“Can you explain the part about the intersection of the past and the—”

“Future? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. As a lifelong booklover, I’m
so
stoked about this. Now, our primary focus is on the future of reading: e-books. Forward progress, et cetera. But here at Scroll, we feel it’s important to provide a familiar touchstone from the great literary traditions. As a result, our lounges will also offer— drumroll, please—a line of carbon-based books in first editions.
The Grapes of Wrath
,
Catcher in the Rye
, what have you. These books will be available for purchase.”

The Marketing Specialist rubbed his thumb against his pointer and middle fingers, mouthing the words “
Money money money.
” I banished Susanna’s smug smile from my mind.

Then, out loud, he continued. “You may be interested to know, new hires are entitled to one first edition title of their own selection. When you accept your offer, you name your dream title and it will be waiting on your desk on your first day of onboarding.”

“Wow,” I said. Suddenly my signed copy of
Angela’s Ashes
didn’t seem so exciting. “What did you pick?”

“Sorry?”

“What was your dream title?”

“Ah. Mine was
A Fan’s Notes
. By Frederick Exley? Do you know it?”

“Oh, of course. I’ve never read it, but my husband—”

“Yeah, it’s some deep shit. And in the spirit of transparency, I’d like to give you a shout-out for raising the bar right there.”

“Raising the bar?”

“That’s our name for when a prospective employee takes it to the next level. I liked how you admitted you’ve never read Exley. Lots of people in your shoes would bullshit their way through the conversation. Well done.”

•  •  •

Genevieve slid a single sheet of paper across her desk. “Before we move on to the confidential portion of the day, I just need your John Hancock. What you’re about to see is totally classified—not to be shared with any of your contacts, including family.”

The little hairs on the back of my neck went up; this felt like an episode of
Law and Order
where I was about to see a taped-off murder scene. Still, I scribbled my signature at the bottom of the nondisclosure agreement without reading a word of it. “Of course. My lips are sealed.” I gestured as if I was closing a Ziploc bag, knowing perfectly well that I’d call Nicholas or Will to spill all classified information on my way home.

“But first, I thought you might appreciate what I have in here . . .”

When I looked up, Genevieve was unlocking a cabinet over her desk. Then she snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started pulling books off a shelf. “Let’s see, where to start . . . Faulkner’s
As I Lay Dying,
Cather’s
My Ántonia
. Didn’t you mention that you’re a Harper Lee fan? Take a gander at this.” In fact, I had mentioned no such thing, but of course Scout Finch and I went way back; she’d held a prime spot in my suitcase just before I abandoned the Book Lady for horseback riding. And now, suddenly,
To Kill a Mockingbird
was in my hands: brown dust jacket, “Harper Lee” stamped on the spine in mint green letters. It was wrapped in plastic, so I assumed it was a first edition.

“That’s
my
dream title,” said Genevieve, watching me with the pleasure of a kid sharing a beloved toy with a new friend.

“This is
so
cool. What was it like to read?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, I’ve only had the pleasure of
To Kill a Mockingbird
in paperback. Was it amazing to reread it the same way Harper Lee probably did when it first landed on her doorstep?”

Genevieve furrowed her brow, charmingly quizzical. “Can you believe, I haven’t
actually
taken off the plastic? Guess I need to put that on my action item list.” She
gently lifted the book from my hands, put it back in the cabinet, and locked it up with a tiny silver key.

We sat there for a minute in silence. Genevieve’s office was peaceful, spare—and, of course, white. There were no stacks of paper, tangled electrical cords, or pump-dispensers of hand cream. It was so different from the bustling hive of
You,
where my reading was constantly interrupted by beauty editors looking for mascara testers or Reggie, the mail guy, placing yet another crate of books on the floor of my cube. I thought, I could get used to this. Like working at a spa!

Genevieve and I smiled at each other. The meeting had the feeling of a successful first date. I liked her confidence and economy with words. I liked that she appeared to like me. I felt a surge of ambitious energy. I want this, I thought. I wanted my own neat white office and efficient haircut. The chance to bring books into the twenty-first century—that was just the icing on a very enticing cake.