This Is My Brain on Interviews

JOCELYN

Exactly forty-eight hours after I submit my application, I have a heart attack.

I log in to my e-mail at lunchtime to see if our contact at MVCC has come through with our query about providing food for the student activities fair, and I actually feel chest pain when an e-mail from UUJBP@uticauniversity.edu pops up. The subject line is: “Request for Interview.”

I look so stricken that Will is immediately concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Mute, I flip my laptop around to show him the e-mail. It only takes a few seconds for him to break out into one of those smiles of his that I love so much, the kind that are so radiant, so focused on me that I have to look away.

“I knew the admissions committee would love your essay!”

I bite my lip, and it stings a little, so I know I’m not dreaming. Okay, so I’ve jumped through the first hoop. I’m still a long way from a scholarship. “It’s only an interview,” I remind Will, and myself. “They didn’t say how many they offered. They could be bringing in everyone.”

“But it shows that they’re interested at least. You’re not even a little proud?”

It’s a tougher question than it should be. It’s a relief to not be rejected, but I’m already stressing out about what I’m going to wear and imagining how badly I’ll flub their questions. It’s hard for me to envision any scenario other than one where they realize the minute I open my mouth that I’m not B-school material.

I haven’t said a word, but all of a sudden Will nods, as if he understands. “Did I ever tell you how I felt when I got your e-mail to come in for a job interview?”

“No.”

“Kind of elated. And kind of like I wanted to vomit.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” I say.

“You know who’s sickeningly good at these kinds of things? My sister. Can I ask her if she wants to help you prep?”

Aaaand now my anxiety is replaced by a different kind of panic. Will has met every single one of my immediate family members and my best friend. But I’ve yet to meet anyone in his life. On the one hand, it’s thrilling to know that he wants me to meet his sister. On the other hand, it’s basically another interview, except this time it’s not some college administrator who I’ll never see again if they reject me; it’s the person who has known Will as long as he’s been alive, who he’s probably closer to than anyone else.

I am so screwed.

“It’s about time you and Grace met. You kind of remind me of her, you know. Both of you have that older-sister-who’s-always-cleaning-up-after-their-screwup-younger-brother vibe.”

I scoff. “You? A screwup? Please.”

“Everyone’s a little screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it. Grace, for example. She’s always given me good tips, even if I can’t always implement them.”

It’s a measure of my terror that I’ll crash and burn in my interview without some serious coaching that I finally say yes.

The day I first talk with Grace, I wear the outfit I threw together for Will’s interview. It was her idea to have our meet-up be a run-through of the real deal.

Since I’ve already been to the Domenici house I don’t feel the same level of intimidation that I did before, but it’s still a nerve-racking decade before Grace opens the door.

“Hello, Jocelyn. I’m Grace. Nice to meet you.” She reaches out her hand and I do my best to avoid the “limp noodle” grip described by Forbes.com as implying a “weak inner-being.” When I was reading up on good first impressions for interviews, they talked about the perfect handshake, and they could’ve been describing Grace. Within two seconds (confident posture, direct eye contact, smile, firm-but-not-too-firm pressure) she gives off the impression of being competent, trustworthy, and likable.

It’s kind of annoying.

Grace is a little taller than me, though not as tall as Will of course, and slimmer. She’s wearing a blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves that shows off bangled wrists. Her skin tone is a shade lighter than Will’s, and she’s rocking a gorgeous Afro.

I think about my own lank hair and wish that I had at least thought to blow-dry it this morning. Grace ushers me to an office in the back of their ground floor, overlooking their pool. It’s got chestnut-stained built-in bookshelves filled with legal textbooks—basically it looks like a stock photo office or an old-timey home “library” like the one that Don Corleone presided from in The Godfather.

Grace takes a seat behind the massive glass-covered oak desk. I have to hand it to her—this definitely feels like an interview. Or an interrogation.

“So, Jocelyn, Will says that you’re applying to some sort of scholarship program and are trying to get ready for the interview?”

“Yeah, it’s the University of Utica Junior Business Program.” When she smiles and raises her eyebrows for me to elaborate, I struggle to come up with a good description. “It’s, like, you can take some courses at the college. And you come up with a project. They have mentors and stuff.”

“I think I’ve heard of that,” Grace says. “One of my friends did it last year—it develops future business leaders and encourages creative entrepreneurship.”

It’s like she memorized their website, and it’s hella intimidating. “That’s the one,” I say weakly.

“So, tell me about your proposal. Will says that you’ve been doing some amazing things and really turning your family business around. A-Plus, right? Your dumplings are to die for.” When she smiles she reminds me so much of Will that I instinctively relax.

“Yup. My grandmother’s pot stickers are our claim to fame.” That’s as good a segue as anything. “I’m looking to expand the business, using the pot stickers as the kind of concession-friendly food that will allow us to do more catering and events. I think what we need to do is eventually buy a mobile unit, a food truck really, so we can participate in things like farmers markets and big sports events. We have a decently loyal customer base, but not much foot traffic. And you know how it is. Rent goes up every year.

“My real dream, though?” I pause. I’ve never said this out loud to anyone, have barely allowed myself to think it. “My real dream is for us to move beyond the daily grind of food service. There’s a huge market out there for affordable, ready-to-eat meals and frozen dinners, particularly with the growing Asian population in the area. That would give everyone in my family a break from having to run a storefront twelve hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days out of the year just to scrape by.”

I’m thinking of my amah and the way the skin on her fingers cracks every winter from the constant hand washing and forced-air heat. My mom has started to fill old pillowcases with rice to make hot packs that she slings over her shoulders every morning after she wakes up and every evening before she goes to bed. My dad has always complained about everything from his worsening nearsightedness to indigestion to his “whole body ache” without ever bothering to see any sort of medical professional, but even he broke down recently and visited a primary care doctor, who prescribed him some blood pressure medications that he reluctantly takes every night.

Grace looks at me thoughtfully for a while after I finish. “Well, you’ve convinced me that you want it,” she says at last. “You’ve got a great story, clear motivation. What you and I have to do today is figure out how to maximize their confidence that you’ll follow through with your ambition. Here’s what you’ve got to do. First of all, you should make sure to review the program so you can make clear to them how they’re going to help you.”

She explains what she means: I need to know specifically what courses I want to take, and why. I need to have a mentor picked out already and be able to show them that I’ve done the research to find the faculty member who’s the best fit. I need to be able to parrot back the program’s mission statement, making sure that I know exactly which points of my story align with their “core values.”

Then she takes me downstairs to a closet off the basement where she sorts through a pile of shoes that she’s grown out of, and she finds me a pair of Mary Janes that are the right size if I wear thick socks. Afterward, we go upstairs to her room and she comes up with a camisole and a black blazer that matches my pants almost perfectly.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I say when it’s time for me to leave. I’m clutching my bag of spoils like it’s a lifeline. “I don’t even know what to say to tell you how amazing you are.”

Grace smiles, looking even more like her brother than she did earlier. “You can thank me by kicking their asses and showing them that women of color are the hardest-working Bs in B-school.” Then she shakes her head. “But I should be thanking you. Will hasn’t been this good for years. All the luck, okay?”

“I kind of feel like someone just gave me a massive cheat code,” I confess to Priya that night. “Also, like I’m some kid playing dress up.”

“That is literally what we do when we go to college, J,” Priya says. “We try to figure out how to adult. Why are you feeling bad about it?”

“Because I put on that outfit that Grace gave me, and at first I think I look really good, and five seconds later I feel like a giant fraud. I mean, I look in the mirror and I don’t even recognize myself. It’s just not me.”

“Not yet,” she says. “But it could be. Isn’t that what you want?”

“What, the JBP?” I snort. “It’s what my dad wants.”

“But what about you?”

The thing is, I have no idea. Priya and I have always had that dream of moving to LA, but I’ve also recognized that as the tropiest small-town desire ever, and if I’m being honest, it’s one that Priya is more likely to realize than I am.

The things I want more than anything are simple. I want to get out of this town, and I don’t want to be tied to the restaurant forever. Anything else is just gravy. Considering that, JBP isn’t the worst idea ever.

“I don’t not want it. I mean, it’s part of that damn contract,” I say after a moment. I think of the rush I got when we sold out at the Boilermaker and the humming satisfaction in my chest when I saw those spreadsheet numbers spike. “I guess I could live with it.”

Priya’s quiet for a minute then gives a huff of breath. “I guess we could all do worse than having lives that we can live with.”