I’ve never had a real job—I never had time when I was in high school. Oh, we practiced interviews in Cravenville and Olene did a mock interview with me last night. But I’m still sick with worry. I’m not sure why the owner of the bookstore would want to hire a convict, but she’s giving me a chance. Olene told me that there are some pretty good tax incentives for businesses who hire people like me. “Does she know what I went to prison for?” I ask Olene before I leave. Bookends is only a few blocks from Gertrude House and if I get the job I’ll be able to easily walk back and forth to work. “She knows the basics,” Olene explains, “but she wants to help, plus it helps that the government is footing the bill for your paycheck.” “How do I look,” I ask, holding out my arms and spinning around. I dressed up, borrowing an outfit from Bea. The skirt is a bit too short, the sleeves stop just above my wrists and the shoes pinch my feet, but I look somewhat professional and I hope to make a good impression.
