I’m wearing simple black heels that I spent two hours practicing walking in yesterday. The waist is starting to dig into my stomach, and I pray that the button in the back won’t pop. My stint at that size lasted about as long as my time on the team. I got it in the ninth grade when I’d joined the debate team and needed to look professional. I’m still shocked I got myself into the thing. I run one hand across my thighs in an attempt to brush away any pieces of fuzz on the too-tight gray skirt I have on. She didn’t give me a snide look like the women downstairs had done. She’s classy and elegant and was surprisingly sweet to me when I checked in. Her outfit is stylish in a way I could never put together, even if I had the money to do so. Everything about her is professional and says she belongs here. Her silky gray hair is cut short to just below her ears and she’s wearing thick-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. I’m on the fiftieth floor of the Foster Building, trying to control my stomach as the lady ignores me and continues to work. A woman in her late fifties sits typing away at a large desk, the clicks of her fingers hitting the keys the only sound in the big, empty lobby. Glancing around the giant room, I feel completely out of place. I take a deep breath, trying to get my nerves under control. The single thought runs through my head, over and over.
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