“It seems like such a long time to me. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even going to be worth it. Who will respect me for having a degree from a small local college? Working as a receptionist when other people are out interning with banks or learning about real estate or management psychology.”

“What, you’re not learning about management here? You practically run this place.”

“Yeah. I don’t know. I think, as a woman, I have to anticipate the one thousand ways people will find to dismiss me and how I can make up for it, or prove them wrong, before I can let myself think about what kind of credit they’ll give me for anything I’ve done. As I get older, I keep waiting to step into a world that’s different, where I don’t have to think like that, and you know what? I’m still fucking waiting.”

I wanted to say something reassuring, but what Emily had said was true. I thought of the way men like Matthew went striding through the world, assured that they deserved pleasure, success, money, and happiness, and that they would get it. Even the most talented, intelligent women I knew—Emily included—didn’t think that way. We tiptoed, fingers crossed, making Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, always anticipating the way the world would push us aside.

Emily sighed, nodded at the display. “Does that look even to you?” She held out the instructions that had been sent by our corporate merchandising director. They were overfull of exclamation points and capitals. “PYRAMID SHAPES ARE EASY TO SHOP!!! AND REMEMBER, EVERY SALE IS A CHANCE TO UPSELL!!! AN ATTRACTIVE RETAIL SPACE EQUALS ATTRACTIVE PROFITS!!!”

I studied the display, the backdrop of which was a picture of a woman who was clearly white but wearing a lot of bronzer, dressed in a fringed suede halter top and skirt, sitting on a hillside, surrounded by flowers. “Looks even to me. Fucked up in other ways. But yes. Even.”

“Okay, then. I’m going on my break. Don’t forget …”

“Every sale is a chance to upsell?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Clara must have been watching us through the glass, lurking just outside the door, until Emily retreated to the break room. As soon as Emily was gone, she shuffled in. I was struck by how terrible she looked: pale, dark circles under her eyes, lanky hair.

“Clara, what are you doing here? This wasn’t our plan. I’m not off till seven, remember?”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But this is important.”

“Are you okay? What happened there?” She had Band-Aids over each of her middle fingers.

She glanced at her hands and shook her head. “I think it’s bad, Lily. I’ve been thinking, and it seems like they must be … they’re hurt … or … or even …”