Work Experience

The top button of my mother’s work pants, a size too small for me, digs into my tummy. My shoulders feel like they are splitting the seams of my freshly-ironed burgundy shirt. They say puberty is a blossoming into womanhood, but my body must have taken a wrong turn. At fifteen, I am gangling limbs and pimpled brow and round gold glasses. They stopped calling me pretty when I was eleven.

I sit in a small office on the first day of work experience. Across the desk from me is a middle-aged man. He’s white. He carries a bit of extra weight around his middle. His green tie clashes with his shirt, which is the colour of old bread.

He talks about the company. He is an unfamiliar entity to me, and so I don’t say much. The office is ringed with open shelves, stacked with folders, bristling with papers. His coffee mug leaves a moist ring on the laminate surface of his desk. The room smells like dust and stale biscuits.

“Well!” he says, standing up. “I bombarded you with a lot of information. Hope you can remember everything!”

I stand up too, smile, and say thank you.

“Ah, you’ll be right. You young Chinese girls, I know you. You’re all extremely smart. Especially at maths!”

He grins expectantly at me. I think he thinks he’s paid me a compliment.

I smile and nod and say thank you again.