THE DAYS ROLLED TO the weekends like boulders on a steep hill. One moment just bled into the other and now it's Saturday.

Saturday. Wow. It's exactly one week since Irvin and I made a scene at the mall. And we're still not talking.

Strange, though. It doesn't bother me that much, probably because I've been served with bigger things to worry about. Well, God knows I tried to fix it.

Sighing deeply, I stretch on the sofa, causing a loud creak of protest from the rusty springs. Since Mom constantly has back aches, I let her sleep on the bed while I crash here. It's not so bad once you get used to it, but sometimes the desire for a real bed gets to you and you just stare at the ceiling until morning comes.

Anyway. There's no point yearning for a fluffy mattress when I have an interview today.

A job interview.

Just the thought of it gives me a warm glow all over. I'm convinced that today is the start of something good. If I don't mess this up, I'm actually going to pitch in and help Mom save enough money for a lawyer. And that good, expensive lawyer is going to prove that Dad is innocent. Oh, and Dad's going to be free and back with a vengeance. He'll be compensated well for his damaged reputation and we're going to get our house back and I will have a soft bed and Linden and Associates will go down in flames—

Okay. I'm getting a bit carried away there, but hell. I can just feel it. That promise.

For the past week I scoured the nearest (and not so nearest) establishments for job vacancies. It turned out that finding a job wasn't as easy as I imagined. I didn't know companies are so damn picky. Some of the qualifications I read seemed so impossible to meet that I have to stop for a moment to reflect on society.

Most of the available jobs are either for full-time workers or for higher positions, but I found this restaurant called Mirage in West Hollywood, far from Empire Academy. According to their website, their theme is mostly classics, so they appeal to the older population. The grandmas and grandpas with deep pockets. In other words, none of the students from school probably go there. It will be the perfect place for me to work as a part-time waitress.

I emailed my resume three days ago, and they almost immediately invited me for an interview. Honestly I didn't expect them to respond that quickly, especially since I don't have anything close to a work experience, but I guess they badly need help.

Sure, I have no job-worthy skill, but that doesn't mean I can't learn. I mean, how hard could waiting tables be?

I jump from the sofa, my bare feet hitting the rough carpet. I look around the sad, sad unit, and instead of dissolving into screaming fits of misery like I usually do, I hold my head high.

Bring it on, bitch. I'm ready.

Taking a deep, determined breath, I head to kitchen and wolf down the rest of my McDonald's burger from last night. Mom and I don't cook, and even if we do, we don't have the tools nor the ingredients. Nor the patience. We just settle for McDonald's or Taco Bell takeouts. Sometimes we just eat cheap supermarket bread and hope for the best. Anything, really, as long as a transaction gives us two meals, we're fine.

I take a quick, cold shower and dress up as immaculately as possible. Mom is at the diner now, so I hum happily to myself as I go down the lobby where Mr. O'Connor belts out a few lines of jazz before wishing me luck.

Since today is pretty special, I decide to give myself a treat and get an Uber this time.

Mirage is pretty far and it's nearly noon, so I get my usual blast of the LA traffic on my way. Still, though, I get there earlier than expected.

The restaurant is a two-storey building with floor to ceiling windows and a stucco exterior. Around the grand structure is a posh landscape complete with a gazebo and a fountain, as well as a garden filled with all kinds of flowers from bougainvilleas to jasmine. Even the parking space is glammed up with thin flowery vines hanging from wooden shades. Something about the tiled roof and the intricate swirly accents on the doors and windows remind me of Spanish houses. The whole architecture looks like it came straight out of a history book.

The inside of the restaurant is an entirely different era, though. It's like the dining hall of the rich snobs in Titanic. The customers are all lounging on deeply cushioned high-backed chairs of a bloodred color, and the silky tablecloths are embroidered with golden threads. There's a majestic crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, which is decorated with swirly carvings similar to those out front. Over by the corner, next to the display of expensive liquor that almost took up half the wall, is a wide platform for a woman playing the piano.

I've never dined here. I've heard of it before my job hunt, but I've always thought of it as an overhyped place for old snobs and hags. Now that I'm here seeing all of this, it makes me feel bad that I've never went here once. Dad would've loved it.

"Good morning, madam," a host greets behind a small podium by the door.

I stop akwardly, tearing my eyes off the golden flowers at the center of each table. "Good morning. Er, I'm Savannah Fox. I'm scheduled for an interview."

"Ah, yes." The man smiles. "Wait for a moment, madam."

He steps off the podium and walks away. After a few moments he comes back with a Hispanic woman who's dressed differently from all the staff I've seen. Instead of the common crimson and cream uniform, she has hues of gold added to her dress. Maybe she's in her late forties, but it's quite hard to tell since her hair is lush and black and her skin is perfectly tanned. Her name tag reads: Sara Castillo, manager.

"Hi!" I say brightly, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I hold out a hand to her. "I'm Savannah Fox."

"Sara Castillo." She smiles warmly and shakes my hand with both of hers, as if we were good friends. "Come with me, Savannah."

I smile and take a step forward, getting a lungful of delicious smells—freshly baked bread, fragrant herbs, and something rich, maybe chocolate. My stomach growls, but I decide to ignore it.

Sara leads me further into the restaurant. It's packed, and I can see that the crowd is comprised mostly of wealthy-looking business people. They seem to be enjoying a lot, and I can't blame them. The food on their plates look excellent and the woman singing by the piano has an amazing voice.

We swerve into a surprisingly wide hallway through an entrance beside the liquor bar. A whole other wave of the most enticing smells meets me. I see the kitchen a few feet away, and I catch a few streams of instructions being barked inside. Other than that, just like the dining area, it's pretty fancy as well. Busy and loud, but still posh.

As we walk, Sara suddenly asks, "You're a senior, I'm guessing?"

"Yes." I smile. "In Empire Academy."

She smiles back. "So you're getting a job for your college tuition?"

I don't want to open up and tell her all about my sob story, but I find myself saying, "Actually. . . no. You see, my dad got into a bit of trouble. We're hoping to save up and get a better lawyer."

"That's really good of you, dear." She clasps my hand. "You'll get the job. I'll guarantee. Our boss is a kind-hearted young man."

We get closer to the kitchen, and I feel my stomach lurch a little. God, I'm hungry. And nervoud. Just as I begin that the torturous journey will never end, Sara takes a sharp left turn into a smaller corridor with a tall wooden door at the end.

The door isn't labeled, but I'm guessing that it's their boss's lair. She opens the door without knocking, which is kinda rude, but maybe their boss doesn't mind.

She holds up a hand to me and whispers, "Wait a moment."

Sara goes right in, leaving me in front of the closed door. I can hear the low murmur of conversation, including some of Sara's words, like "first applicant," and "great need for a job."

Honestly, I would have preferred her to shut up, but that story might just help. So it's an advantage, I guess.

After a couple of minutes, she comes out of the office looking pleased. Giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze, she beckons me in. "Good luck, dear. He can't wait to see you."

"Great," I mutter. Oh, God, it's the real deal. I'm actually going to be interviewed right now.

I smoothen my blouse and flatten my hair as I hover by the door, wanting to look as presentable as possible. "Good afternoon."

A black-haired guy in a gray button down is sitting behind the mahogany desk in the middle of the brightly lit office. He's busy tapping away on a laptop, but he stops and smiles as soon as he sees me.

"Good afternoon," he says, and my heart flutters inside my chest. He sounds familiar. Damn, even his face looks eerily familiar. I could swear I've seen him before, but I can't place—

"Do you have an interview?" someone whispers somewhere inside the office, but I can't see who. The way the guy behind the desk strikes my memories is making me hesitate and linger by the door. I'm unable to take another step. "Can I stay and see how you do it? I promise I'll be a fly on the wall."

"Come in," the guy tells me kindly before addressing the other person in the room. "Yeah. You can be a spectator if you want to." He turns back to me. "Is that okay with you?"

I nod out of instinct. He gestures me to move forward, and I obey, smiling like a pageant queen. But I quickly regret it when the other person in the room comes into view. He's wheeling himself around in a swivel chair, wearing a pair of baggy pants very reminiscent of the Backsteet Boys, as well as an equally baggy shirt and a black beanie. I can't see his face because he's playing some kind of game in his phone, but once again, I'm struck by how familiar he is. There's something about the angle of his nose and his clothes. And the beanie. . . .

Wait. Oh, my God. There can only be one person who would wear a beanie in this heat.

Shit. It's Joseph.