Tori seems nothing like the sweet, college girl I interviewed multiple times over the course of the last month, the one who was a “hard worker” and “needed the job to pay off college loans.”

“But it’s fine now?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says.

I am already tired and overwhelmed; Tori is making my blood boil. She has yet to apologize or ask what she needs to do.

Calm down, I tell myself. You need her today. Think like a millennial.

“I’m excited for you to start and be part of my team,” I say. “As you know, this is the big test run.”

Silence.

“So,” I continue, “like I showed you in training, I want you to start cleaning the rooms. Strip the beds, remake them, clean the rooms and bathrooms, do the towels and sheets, make sure bath products are restocked. We’ll need to set up the turret for happy hour at five. I’ll be making some light appetizers, and I’ll have chocolate-chip cookies ready at three. Just check the tiered cookie stands in the dining room and refill them when they get low. You should have the checklist on your phone. If you have any questions, just come see me. I’ll be leading yoga for guests at 11:00 a.m.”

Tori nods as she pulls gloss from her purse and applies it to her lips. She then musses her hair—her look is intentional, I suddenly realize—and retrieves her phone.

She’s double-checking the list I’ve sent her, I realize, relieved. Finally.

But when she doesn’t respond, and I watch her type a quick message on her cell, I see red.

Think like a millennial, I tell myself again.

I grab my phone, pull up Facebook and type in Tori’s name. A flurry of photos greets me, most of which show Tori doing shots last night, dancing at a club in Grand Rapids and “hooking up” with a guy named Gabe.

Part of me knows I’ve been in her shoes, and part of me still understands the emotions and thrills of being young. But I’ve also held jobs since high school, and I have never missed a day of work much less treated an employer with disrespect.

Think like an entrepreneur, I hear my brain whispering.

“You’re fired, Tori,” I say. She stops texting long enough to finally look up. Her face doesn’t register much of anything. “Go sleep it off.”

Trish appears in the hallway and watches my first fired employee shuffle away, still texting.

“You have a gift for picking employees,” Trish says. “Need some help until you can find another winner?”

I bust out in laughter. “I’m laughing only because it will keep me from crying right now,” I say.

Trish holds up a pillowcase that is covered in makeup. “Did she sleep here last night?” Trish asks.

I switch the washer cycle to hot.