The Vow

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Mo tosses a stick of gum into my lap.

“No, thanks.”

“You need it,” he says.

I put it in my mouth. It tastes like dust and mint and aspartame. “You don’t think chewing gum is unprofessional?”

“You’re interviewing at Mr. Twister. Unprofessional would be refusing to flirt with the customers.”

“Right.” I crumple the foil wrapper and throw it at his face.

He ignores me. He’s too busy squinting out the windshield at the towering Mr. Twister sign. It’s a ten-foot grinning tornado-in-a-cone. With a mustache. “Unprofessional would be telling them your GPA is over 2.0.”

“It might not be.”

That’s the depressing truth. Less than an hour ago I was sweating under a strip of fluorescent lights, scratching nonsense formulas and equations onto a test thicker than my arm. By halfway through, my eraser had crumbled into little rubbery bits. Not that it mattered. I can guess wrong on the first try just as well as the second or third.

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