Into Your Shoes

I hate everybody.

"Yes, even you, Mr. Cadwallader." I mumble at my golden retriever as he snuggles deeper into my lap.

"The fact that you can sleep while I'm distraught with worry amazes me, Mr. Cadwallader." He looks up at me with his head cocked to one side and his ears flat against his head. He gives me an assuring whimper. I melt.

"I was correct in the decision of bringing you home, Mr. Cadwallader, even though I had to go against my Mother." I shudder as my mother's disapproving face fills my head.

Mr. Cadwallader gives me a huge grin, as if he were brimming with happiness. I didn't feel quite so optimistic.

"What am I going to do?" I question myself and God as Mr. Cadwallader's head droops and he goes back to sleep.

Great company.

It's been three days since the letter arrived, and a month since I gave that horrendous interview.

I still remember making an appearance at the Achorn House, clad in just my white cotton shirt and plain blue jeans, my hair falling straight and lifeless past my shoulders, and deep, dark circles under my pale blue eyes. A hung-over, hippie of a woman.

I didn't mean to party the previous night of my interview, I swear on the River Styx. It just happens so that my best friend, Cecelia Blythe, could be very persuasive if she needed something. And this time, it was Lionel Francis, the new model she'd managed to snare for her rising career in model photography. I don't know what that means, but that's what she told me.

After an hour of champagne and watching Cecelia straddle some other poor guy when she realized that Francis already had a boyfriend, I finally managed to make it home and sleep, already dreading the horrible day that I was sure was about to come.

And boy did I dread that day.