The Interview (Fiction)

“Describe yourself in one word.”

“Condescending.”

She is leaning over the scattered papers and cosmetics on her desk into her mirror, where she appears to be examining a nervous scar she plausibly gave herself. While she articulates the word, obviously concerned her sarcasm wasn’t evident, she looks into the reflection lightheartedly.

Olivia, unamused, meets her eye in the mirror, seated on the small couch across the dimly lit room. She knows Harlow is attempting to be witty, but she can’t help thinking of their conversation walking from class earlier that afternoon. She also knows she should tell her to stop picking at her face, but she almost wants to see the scars pasted over with cover-up tomorrow. It always makes Harlow seem pathetic.  

“You know I’m only trying to help.” Olivia retorts. She transfers her weight to her other side, carefully readjusting her sock-covered feet underneath her, and in the process, disrupts the loose papers currently scattered about the couch and coffee table.

Harlow glances up once again, most likely this time to see if any of her papers have been damaged. Finally distracted from her own reflection, she pauses, then traverses the small dorm room and settles down on the old couch next to Olivia. She pushes her hair from her face and tucks it behind her heavily pierced ears, as was habit, and looks at Olivia with convincing eyes.

These are the same dogmatic grey eyes that Olivia has pledged herself to, with all of their fixed and steady determination. For two years this has always kept them in countless situations like this one today—pinned up in Harlow’s dorm room, admiring her effervescent mess of paintings and papers and clothing that seem to be perched on a new piece of furniture almost every day—helping her find the right shoe, send the best email, decide on dinner, or today, prepare for the interview. With Harlow settled on the couch, Olivia sets down the piece of paper in her hand, and is reaching for a replacement, when Harlow points to a list scribbled on a sheet of graph paper behind her.

“Wait, let’s do those.”

Olivia picks up the set of questions, labeled “good background-info questions”, carelessly written in Harlow’s scrawling handwriting, in an uncharacteristic green ink. Olivia can imagine where that pen (and paper) came from; Harlow, descending into the library like a perfect disaster, presumably to start some homework, must first lean over a nearby table asking for a writing utensil—oh and a piece of paper—with the flash of an enamoring smile. On this sheet is a list of about 10 questions, but Olivia gathers that probably, disseminated around the room, are upwards of 130 practice interview questions, not to mention the several other pages that Harlow keeps in her brown moleskin one would often catch her sketching in. Judging by the amount of makeup under her eyes and on her scars, combined with her unkempt hair pushed into a knot at the top of her head, Olivia wonders if she had slept since she walked her home and put her to bed on Saturday night. Even now with the stress diffusing from her pores, Olivia still is envious of her faultlessness.

Shifting her eyes to the paper, Olivia attempts to select a harmless question from the list. She clears her throat. Modestly, she reads “Describe a risk you took. Did it impact your life? If so, what did you learn?”

Pleased, Harlow looks up to the left to recall the memory. It is clear she has practiced these questions in some duration before. Or they had been the questions from one of the other interviews that Harlow says she doesn’t care about, but just wants to do for practice. Olivia always wonders why she takes provision to waste so many people’s time. But she won’t dare suggest something of the sort, because—what does she know?—She’s just going to grad school and can’t understand the stress Harlow is under; attempting to land her goal career right after graduation.

Harlow clasps her hands over her gaunt knees and begins recounting yet another of her beguiling stories. The way that her eyes enliven, her emotions flaunting across her face, she can effortlessly captivate a sizeable audience. This always intimidates Olivia; she wonders how many times Harlow has used this capacity to mislead to her. But Olivia blindly follows, enthralled in the idea that the person before her may actually exist.

Fragment; very long piece. Contact me for the full draft.