Page 3 of The End of Summer

“What about tutoring?”

I shake my head. “Not in the summer. There’s no market for it here.”

She nods. “I can see that. Well, at least you know you’ll get a job once you finish your Master’s degree.”

“I hope. I’ve only got one class left, assuming I can pay for it.”

“Listen, Gretchen. You seem like a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll find something. You sure you don’t want me to add summer camps into your search criteria?”

“I’m sure. The pay is so bad, I could make more babysitting,” I say.If I had any clients who didn’t have full-time nannies booked for the season.

“Okay, suit yourself.” She types a bit more, and looks up at me, satisfied, once she’s done. “Chin up. It’ll all work out. I have a good feeling.”

I try not to consider how many poor souls she’s said those exact words to.

“Can I ask you one more thing?” Brenda says, smirking now.

“Sure.”

“What did he do?”

“Huh?”

“David Krumholtz? When you clammed him?”

I shake my head. “Yelled out some expletives. Jumped up and shook off his pants.”

“Did he ask if you were okay?”

“Uh huh. He was as nice as someone could be in that kind of circumstance. I’m sure it hurt. The dish was hot.”

Brenda swoons. “I’m not surprised. Class act, that guy.”

“I guess,” I shrug, pulling my hair back and twisting it into a messy bun with a claw clip. “We didn’t really interact once he took his pants off.”

Her eyes threaten to launch out of her skull. “He didwhat?”

“It was private dining. There were only a few of us in the room.”

“Well played, Gretchen. I’ve got to say, if you have to lose a job, that’s the way to do it. Was he…” She points to her crotch, which I’m guessing means she’s asking me about the size of his candy cane and jingle bells, but I’ve about had it. Thoughts of the bank foreclosing on my condo swirl around in my overcrowded brain. I pause to consider life as a full-time resident of my 15-year-old Ford Fiesta.

It is not a pleasant thought.

“Thanks for your help, Brenda,” I say, turning toward the exit.

“Keep in touch. New stuff pops up every day,” she calls after me.

I reach my hand up to offer a limp wave goodbye. As I push my way out into the warm, midday air, my phone buzzes. I check; it’s an e-mail from UMass reminding meabout my past-due student loan payment. Armed with the knowledge that I have $443 in my checking account and a credit card bill of well over $2,000, along with exactly zero receivables pending, I ignore the hunger pangs in my belly and head back home where a box of store-brand Toasty O’s and almond milk await me.

Once in my car, the phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a text from Jenna.

How goes the job search?

Spectacular,I reply.I just got a bottle service gig at the Chatham Bars Inn.

Is that even a thing?she asks.

My thumbs fly across the screen.Probably not. Nothing new here. Why, you got any leads?

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