This was my American Idol. My MasterChef. If I didn’t do well here, then I didn’t know what I would do, or what I would become. There was no other option—I couldn’t fail.
I sat on a padded bench alongside the wooden corridor inside of The Harold, Stauffer, and Main Law Firm, acid filling the pit of my stomach. For longer than I could remember, there had always been a shadow of a queen looming over my shoulders, pushing me in the direction of greatness. As I sat with my back rigidly against the wall, my chin to my chest, and my breath as unsteady as a flimsy boat over choppy waters—all that I could hope for was that this ghostly imagery wouldn’t fail me now.
My mom laid her warm hand over mine, causing my head to twitch. Her square chin was lifted and her brown eyes, per her usual, were astute. Naomi Wood was a headstrong woman who woke every morning with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a People magazine littered with meeting notes sticking out of it in the other; and though I had to forgive her terrible habit of trying to bake at least once a year—causing the house to smell of burnt mud cakes—she was the woman I strove to be someday.
“Don’t be nervous, Makayla,” she purred, her voice like melted caramel.
I inhaled a hasty breath and nodded quickly while my nose lifted too high into the air. She reached up and lowered my chin with a single finger.
“You’ve got this, baby.”
I tried to pull from some of her easy energy, but her confidence wasn’t proving to overshadow the fact that my respiratory system had pretty much ceased to work.
“I should’ve brought the Forbes magazine,” I chattered, my words struggling to get through my crowded airways.
“I’m sure she’s seen it, Lala.”
“Mom!” I exclaimed in a hushed voice. “Do not call me that here—that is so not professional.”
She rolled her eyes.
I should’ve brought the magazine. I just hadn't wanted to appear as though I was bragging. Seriously though, how many other seventeen-year-olds had been on the cover of Forbes because of their company?
In attempt to keep my heart from beating out of my chest, I exhaled a long, hot breath, tugging on my blouse as I did so. I blinked with purpose before allowing my gaze to float up to the name in gold letters on the white plaque next to the door. Lucy Armstrong. The name itself rendered excellence. I believed a name said a lot about a person. Makayla Wood, now that was a name you’d hear in court.
“Ms. Wood, would you kindly stand and plead your client’s case . . .” I mean, it just worked.
Not often, but sometimes I allowed myself to drift away, to ponder over what my birth parents’ names were, or are. Like Samantha for my mom. Maybe she has sparkly red hair like me, straight and thick. And my dad, perhaps he is named Trevor. But then again, I don’t let my thoughts deviate in that direction too often. Those people aren’t my present, and as someone who’s aspired to become a graduate of Harvard Law, daydreams have never been a luxury I have been able to afford.
The door of the office nearest me opened, cutting me off from my wandering thoughts—causing me to feel wound tight like a piece of licorice. Observing my reaction, my mom squeezed my hand reassuringly, but I quickly pulled it away, not wanting to appear dependent.
A second later, a tall thin woman, with blonde hair twisted into a low bun, appeared from the door of Lucy Armstrong’s office. She curled herself around the door frame as she smiled down at me.
“Makayla Wood?”
I gulped, but the back of my throat was as dry as sand, so I swallowed an excess of air—an action that would later result in a very inappropriately timed belch.
“Yes,” I said, uncrossing my ankles and rolling back my shoulders before coming to standing. My chest constricted, but I pushed through it.
“Great. So nice to meet you. I’m Lucy.”
I looked down at her hand. This was it, the handshake I’d been waiting for since I was six-years-old. My first chance at a good impression for my Harvard interview. I wanted to throw up.
My mom kicked the back of my leg, and I quickly shot her a look.
“Breathe baby,” she mouthed.
I nodded before returning my gaze to my interviewer.
“Of course,” I exhaled, sliding my hand confidently into Lucy’s. As soon as our skin touched, a flutter of pure ecstasy came over me like an enchanted mist. I couldn’t believe it; this was really happening. “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Armstrong.”
“Lucy, please,” she corrected, her hand moving with mine. “Come on in. I have really been looking forward to meeting you.”
I blinked a few times too many before letting my hand drop away from hers. My heart beat as quickly as a pair of hummingbird wings, and as I stepped into her office, I didn’t even hear the door close behind me.
“Have a seat, Makayla,” Lucy said, walking around her large mahogany desk. I tried not to appear too excited as I peered past her, out of her windows that looked out towards the nation’s capital. This was where I wanted to be, right here, in this office. A Washington D.C. lawyer, just like my dad.
“Thank you, Ms. Armstrong,” I said, flinching as I said her last name. “I mean Lucy.”
She smiled and folded her hands over one another on top of her desk. “Don’t be nervous, Makayla. We have all sat where you are sitting right now. And my goodness, a girl such as yourself has no reason to have any worries. You’ve already achieved so much in so little time.” Her pink lips widened as she handed me the compliment.
I laughed anxiously and roped my hands together over my lap.
“So, tell me, what was it like starting a company at just twelve-years-old?”
My mind cleared itself. Shit, I knew this would happen. I had spent hours preparing for this, researching every possible question she could ask. Test scores, what kind of person I was, did I like to party—the answer was no. I’d never even had friends my own age, nor experienced any sort of romantic relationship. How else does a girl run a company and finish college before she can even legally make her own bad decisions? Another sharp pain in my chest.
I sifted through the silent echoes in my mind and remembered my rehearsed lines. “It was exhilarating. I was very fortunate to have parents who encouraged me to start achieving my life-long goals at such an early age—and not just that, but for my mom to get so actively involved. She took my baby, Sewn Back Together, and brought it full circle. Currently we have over ten thousand women under our employment, women who would never have been given the opportunity to work; and our handbags are made from one hundred percent recycled materials . . .”
Somehow, I did it. I freaking did it. I sat there in that chair and carried out an hour-long conversation with Lucy Armstrong. I don’t even remember her asking the questions, I just know that I answered them; and as I did, it got easier and easier.
Before I knew it, the hour was up and she was escorting me back to where my mom was waiting for me, one hand on my lower back and the other reaching for the door.
I turned into her with a wide smile on my face just before I walked away, and this time I beat her to it. I held out my hand and raised my chest. “Thank you for your time, Lucy.”
She had a mystified look on her face as she hesitantly slipped her hand into mine. Who could blame her? She was probably dumbfounded by all my accomplishments.
“Well, Miss Wood. I—uh—you will be hearing from Harvard within a couple of weeks.”
“Thank you,” I said affirmatively. One last squeeze and then I let go of her hand, turning away from the Harvard rep and returning to my mother.
“How did it go?” she asked, once we’d started for the elevators.
“Really good,” I said. I’d never taken a single drug in my entire life, but I imagined this was what it was like to feel high. “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I am pretty sure I’m in.”
My mom grabbed my hand and gave it another squeeze. “Good for you, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”
Neither one of us looked back before turning the corner that led us away from Lucy Armstrong’s office. We smiled diligently as we walked on, nodding our heads at passersby. We didn’t have a clue Lucy hadn’t moved an inch from where she was standing just beside the door to her office, the odd expression on her face transforming into one of complete and utter bewilderment.