A Girl Like You vinnie Kinsella (best motivational books to read .txt) 📖

an orange sneaker. There was the foil shamrock that had earned Ian first prize in art class, the bookmark made from a clothespin with a pom-pom face, the bunny with droopy ears made from a faded pink washcloth, the contorted witch face from a dried-out apple.

Adam had needed nothing in the camper. He said he didn’t have room for any of the Father’s Day cards strewn with glue, the macaroni necklaces Ian had made in kindergarten and surprised us with by giving them to his dad. He didn’t want my favorite online purchases: the Calphalon pots and frying pans, the Keurig, the toaster oven, the waffle maker. As for the queen-sized comforter, plum with gold thread, that we’d bought two winters before, he left that with me also. He took a dish drainer and a few towels and some silverware, but not much more.

The divorce agreement included a small stipend for Ian, since Maddy was living on her own. I could easily have taken Adam to court to force him to pay more child support, but I didn’t even know if he would have any money, and taking him to court would cost more legal fees and bring more stress to both of us. It was over, he was gone, there was nothing more to say.

There was a community bulletin board downtown in the town that I passed when I walked Penny, with municipal job openings—all of them terribly dull—but all with good benefits like health insurance, retirement accounts, and vacation days. After a few weeks, I saw a notice for an assistant clerk’s job in the Meredia Town Hall, a brick building downtown on the same block as the post office and library.

“Don’t you think you can do better, Mombo?” Mad asked, as I tried on a black pencil skirt and jacket for the interview, both of which were significantly tighter than they had been the last time I wore them.

“My clothes?”

“The job.”

“It’s a two-minute commute,” I told her, wrestling with a red blouse that refused to drape across the waist of my skirt to hide my tummy pooch. “You guys are on dad’s health insurance, but I’m up a creek. One good twisted ankle and I’ll be in debt for years.”

“You’ll still do the freelance, right?” Maddy got up off the bed to help me with the blouse.

“Absolutely. Can you French braid my hair? I don’t want to fuss with it.”

With my hair in place, I was ready.

There were two people at the interview, bouncing questions back and forth so frequently that I wasn’t sure who I should look at when I answered. The clerk I would be assisting was a man named Joe, who had been in the job eleven years and clearly made himself at home. He wore polyester tan pants and a dress shirt with the first three buttons undone. His forehead had a constant sheen of sweat that he mopped with a yellowed handkerchief he kept tucked in his shirt pocket. There were donuts on the conference table that I didn’t touch; he ate four of the jelly-filled during the forty-minute interview.

I liked the town official, Linda. She was a small, birdlike woman who rolled her eyes at me while Joe crammed donuts into his mouth.

Job duties included answering phones and greeting people when they came in with questions or to pay bills. There was some filing, processing of vouchers and payments, and maintaining a database of water and sewer customers. I focused on what I imagined would be the positive parts of the job: being the face of the town, meeting new people, helping residents with questions and problems about their homes and property.

“What would you say are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?” Linda asked brightly.

Hmm. Good parenting skills? I make a killer guacamole? Amateur dog trainer?

“Um, I think I’m a good communicator; I can deal with people even when I’m under stress.” I shifted in my seat.

“Oh, this isn’t a high-stress job,” Linda said, waving her hand as if brushing away a spiderweb. “And weaknesses?”

“Well, truth be told, math isn’t a strong point,” I said, kicking myself for choosing to share that particular tidbit.

“You won’t be doing any trig here,” she laughed. “That’s why we have computers to do the work for us.”

“Great,” I said, enormously relieved.

“How long you lived here?” Joe broke in, a dribble of strawberry jelly stuck to his chin.

“Just over three years. But my friend has lived here for ten years.”

“Newcomers, both of ya,” Joe grunted. “I been here all my life. Parents used to own Benson’s corner store. Remember that?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Closed twenty-three years ago.”

No shit, I thought. No wonder it wasn’t familiar to me.

I had been worried there would be a typing test, but my skills were pretty good from freelance writing under deadlines. Ditto for my spelling and punctuation. It was even a personal pet peeve of mine when people were sloppy with English, as in “I ain’t got none,” or “do to the fact.”

“Well I hope you don’t mind tight quarters, because the assistant clerk’s desk is right over there.” Linda pointed to a low counter with two desks behind it, side by side, maybe four feet apart.

“Yeah, and you don’t gotta go far for the john,” Joe said. “It’s the door right there.” He gestured to a partly opened door just beyond the desks.

“Ladies or men’s?”

Joe snorted. “Unisex, as they say.”

I shuddered inwardly, trying to remind myself about the good parts of the job: an OK salary, great benefits, a commute that would allow me to get into work on time even after hitting the snooze button. The hours, 8:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., were also fine by me, as a non-morning person.

“Don’t be expecting donuts every day,” Joe said. “Unless you bring ’em!” He laughed at his own joke. “But there’s a coffee pot in the back. Pitch in $5 a week and you can be part of the club.”

I was glad I wouldn’t be facing donuts every morning, because my