“Okay,” I said slowly.
“He’s been watching a few different employees,” Georgia said. “Seeing who might be ready. But you’re the one he’s most interested in.”
The parking lot was emptying out around us. Limousines were pulling away. Somebody honked. A group of girls ran past barefoot, carrying their high heels.
I managed to squeak out, “Me?”
“Yes.”
“But I’m practically new!”
“You’ve been there more than a year.”
“I still call my mom when I don’t know how long to cook chicken!”
“That doesn’t mean you’re bad at your job,” she said.
“Why didn’t he just tell me?” I said. “Why didn’t he just call me into his office and say, ‘Hey, Brent, want to apply for this job?’”
“Because he’s convinced you’re too young to recognize your own potential,” she said. “He thought if he asked you straight out, you’d say no. You’d say you weren’t ready. You’d say somebody else deserved it more. Kyle, or somebody older.”
