Chapter Text
The midday heat is oppressive as you step from your car, work boots crunching on the gravel underfoot. Your back is soaked with sweat from the vinyl seats despite the permanently stuck driver’s window; and the door squeals loudly in protest as you go to close it.
It refuses to catch for the first few slams and you swear under your breath before leaning in to put your considerable strength behind your next attempt. You give it a final, vindictive slam with your hip to help it along and shove your arm through the jammed window to press the lock down.
It’s a half-hearted attempt at deterring any would-be thief; but you’re spiteful enough in your current mood to imagine it’ll be at least a minor annoyance for them to have to make the short journey around to the driver’s side to unlock the car before being able to nick it.
A frustrated breath forces its way through your nose as the locking mechanism shunts back up with a dull ‘thunk’. So much for small mercies. Another try, and this time it refuses to even depress.
The car really is a piece of shit. It’s barely held together with rust and duct tape, but despite the odds it’s gotten you across most of the southern half of this damn country. At this point it’s wormed its way into your good graces based solely on its inability to die.
You yank on the front of your tank top, trying to flush the stagnant air across your sweaty skin in a desperate attempt to cool yourself. A bird wings its way from tree-to-tree overhead chirping prettily. It shits on the bonnet of your car as it passes. A metaphor for your fucking life.
“Howdy, there!” A loud voice jolts you out of your self-pitying thoughts and you look up to see a blonde woman waving at you enthusiastically from across the carpark. She’s wearing knee-length khakis and a glaring red polo shirt, and looking far too put together to be considered fair in the current humidity. Her smile is picture perfect and there’s not a single coiffed hair out of place. As you squint through distorting effects of the heatwaves rising off the ground, you’re not entirely convinced she’s not a mirage.
“Well, come on!” She hollers again, “Can’t get a look at you all the way over there, can I?” She’s still waving at you from her spot in the shade, and as you approach you realise she must've emerged from the entrance of the dirt track that's tucked away beside her in the trees.
She offers her hand in greeting and you reach out to clasp it. “Afternoon. I assume you’re the woman I need to talk to about the job offerin’?” The smile she flashes you is disconcertingly bright. “That’d be me! Pleasure’s all mine, hun.” A dimple peeks out faintly on one side and you’re suddenly acutely aware of how many days it’s been since your last change of clothes.
You just hope she won’t notice the sweat stains under your pits.
-
You knew there was something unnerving about the woman in front of you.
Her flawless blonde hair falls in tight curls around her ears and the bright red oversized polo shirt she wears proudly proclaims ‘Crystal Lake Camp’ across the left side of her bosom in white lettering. Her khakis are disconcertingly well pressed for the level of humidity in the air and its bloody unfair when your jeans are sticking to you like a second skin.
Yet despite her old-fashioned dress sense and initially warm smile, she’s as ruthless as any corporate desk jockey you’ve encountered, and it’s putting you to shame.
“—And you’ve never worked at a Summer camp before?” Her tone is on the polite side of patronising, and it’s another question in a long line designed to rock you back on your arse.
“Well, no. They’re not particularly common outside the US;” You try to subtly itch at a mosquito bite through the leg of your pants. Any hope you’d clung to early on about trying to salvage the complete shitshow this interview has become is quickly fading. “But I’ve got experience working in plenty of different environments, and I’m used to the responsibilities that come with caring for vulnerable charges.”
A single brow raises and her patronising tone doubles down. “Are we considering farm animals ‘vulnerable charges’ now?” She’s clearly not a woman to be taken for a ride.
You shrug, trying to play off the embarrassment of being called out, and supress the urge to wrinkle your nose. Despite the slowly rotating fan in the corner, you can smell the sour scent of your own drying sweat. “Orphaned animals don’t count?”
Her sharp gaze is unimpressed, and she licks a finger pointedly to turn to the next page of your resume. The slow ticking of a lone clock makes the room’s atmosphere all the more crushing.
Your stomach churns in agitation. Or perhaps it’s the fact you haven’t eaten in two days. You’ve gotta turn this around. “I, uh—worked for few months with a company that partnered with a disability program which brought at-risk kids to the farm to work with horses? And I had my Working with Children’s check renewed just before I left home. It’s Australia-wide.” You sound desperate even to your own ears.
“Well; were they at-risk, or disabled?”
Fuck. “Both?” You hedge. “I, uh worked more the animal side of things if I’m honest.”
Her silence is punishing.
“Please, I really need this job.”
“I’m going to be frank with you, hun.” She readjusts herself in the squeaky seat. “I don’t know you from squat, and your resume is completely foreign-based. I take my responsibility for these kids very seriously, and I can’t have just anyone walkin’ around camp.”
You suck on your teeth in contemplation.
Time to take a risk.
“So, why’re you hiring so close to your opening date?”
The woman across from you narrows her eyes, lifting her chin defensively. “Excuse me?”
“No offense, but you’re clearly a bit desperate if you’re entertaining an interview with me. I know I’m nowhere near the field of qualified for this job, so why am I here?”
She licks her lips once, her keen eyes assessing you. She seems to take a moment to weigh something before relaxing into her seat once more. “Truthfully? We are desperate. Tanaya, our second most senior counsellor fractured her pelvis in three places ridin’ her girlfriend’s motorcycle a couple’a weeks ago. Bless her heart she’s got a long road to recovery and I wish her the best; but we open in less than a month.” She narrows her gaze and points a finger rather accusingly at you. “But! That don’t mean I’m lookin’ to lower my standards. I’m very picky about who allow on my team, and if I have to I’m willin’ to start the season one counsellor short.”
Sweat starts to slide down your hairline, again, and this time it’s got nothing to do with the temperature in the room. It’s obvious this interview’s crashing and burning, and you can feel the last hope of a roof over your head slipping through your fingers.
“So.” Her fingers thrum rhythmically on a stack of forms to her right. “Tell me, why I should hire you when I’ve got a pile of a dozen applicants sittin’ on my desk?” You glance out through the dusty venetian blinds to your left, catching sight of three young kids fucking about on the adjacent cabin’s veranda. They’re not even out of high school yet.
One of them’s been chain smoking for the past half an hour.
You blink hard. Once. Trying to dispel the fuzzy way your brain is ticking over.
A resigned sigh escapes you as you turn back to your ex-would-be-employer. “You want bullshit, or the truth?” The woman across from you quirks her lips and leans back in the creaky mid-century swivel chair, gesturing for you to continue.
“I flew to America to help a friend who was in a bad way. Things didn’t work out and now I’m stuck here until I can scrape together enough money to haul-arse back home. I’m well into a third week of sleeping in my car, which cost me $399 American dollars and smells like it was used as a hearse for a good portion of its life, and this is my thirteenth interview this fortnight.” The plastic cup in your grip crinkles as you squeeze it lightly. “So, it’s this, or I take up residence as a window cleaner on the side of the road.”
Her unimpressed expression doesn’t shift, but you solider on. “I’m a bloody hard worker and I’m easy-going with everyone I meet.” You jerk a thumb pointedly at the teenagers as one of them pushes their mate down the short stairs from the veranda with a shriek. “And if I’m not at least twice as competent as that lot I’ll resign outta shame.”
The woman has leant forward to watch the antics of the kids out the window as well. “I’m not too concerned about them,” She admits. “We’ve got’a couple of experienced counsellors who’ll whip them into shape.” She leans back again, playing with a pen absentmindedly. “A different lot of kids comes up each year to try their hand at their first job.”
Privately, you can’t help but think that all of these teens must come from very well-off families if they’re only just starting to look for work at 17.
“They won’t be holdin’ much responsibility apart from bulking out our ranks as it were. The position you’ve applied for however, well let’s just say you’ve got big shoes to fill.” You nod with a wry twist of your lips; her tone isn’t instilling any hope that you’re likely to get the position at this point.
But you’re desperate, and down to your last thirty bucks; so you throw all self-respect out the window and grovel. “Look, I know I’m not the perfect candidate, but I’m here right now. I can start straight away,” You gesture between the two you, hoping to make a connection. “—and worse comes to worse you’ll at least have someone to help you set up camp for a few weeks while you shortlist the other applicants. You said yourself you’re short on labour.”
The blonde shuffles through your few pages of a resume once more, releasing a contemplative sigh through her nose. The lukewarm sip of water you take settles sourly in your empty stomach.
A quick glance out the window again shows an older man in a red polo shirt has joined the teens and is in the middle of reprimanding them. He snatches the chain smoker’s ciggie and starts waving it in each of the group’s very contrite-looking faces.
The clock continues to tick loudly in the quiet of the room.
“Says here you’re fluent in signing?” Your attention is drawn back to the desk in front of you. “Yeah.” You clear the lump of frustration in your throat, “Yes. Auslan though, I’m barely passable in ASL, I’ve only been practicing for four months.” Nevertheless, your interviewer seems mildly impressed. “Well it’s a good skill to have,” She admits. “especially since you’d be responsible for the Sunflower class.” You only have a mild idea of what that’s going to entail. But you’re not game to question her; better not to push your luck.
She raises her hands and fluidly signs something, catching you off guard. She’s so quick you only manage to catch a couple of words. Much more slowly, you sign back the first go-to phrase you’d ever learned, “Sorry, please slow down. I’m learning.” The shapes feel foreign and you have to work your brain hard to remember the correct patterns, your mind keeps slipping back into the familiar shapes of Auslan and your hands made a few aborted moves and pauses as you correct them.
She watches you keenly, repeating her original words; gesturing more broadly and slowing down her transitions so you can watch more closely. “Do you understand me?” You flush in irritation as you realise she’s testing you. “Yes. I understand. Many lie about signing?” She leans back again, chuckling. “You’d be surprised how sneaky some people think they are.” With your basic understanding you miss most of the words, but manage to grasp the context of the sentence well enough.
“Before I started testing applicants on their signing it was usually the kids who caught the fakers out. Which was hilarious; but it meant we used to get two weeks in only to find we were down a counsellor.” You snort a laugh, “I bet the kids were ruthless once they realised they could say shit behind an adult’s back without them knowing.”
Despite the straight face she tries to keep, there’s a spark of hilarity in the woman’s eyes. “You should’ve seen the names those kids thought they could get away with. ‘Squiggle fingers’, for one idiot who thought he could make random shapes and pass it off as ASL. ‘The Hag’ for another,” She chuckles “One year we had a kid from a Costa Rican family who taught all the other kids to sign ‘Cabeza de caca’ whenever the counsellor was around. Needless to say, families weren’t too happy about the fact their children had learned to cuss in a foreign language.”
You don’t speak Spanish, but you’ve got a good idea of what ‘Caca’ means. And the idea of a bunch of kids essentially calling their guardian a ‘shithead’ to their face without their knowledge was undeniably hilarious.
She leans forward, clasping her hands in front of herself whilst unintentionally looking like a bad ad from marketing. But her interest seems to have been re-sparked; either due to your clear desperation, or your self-serving attempt to appeal to her pragmatism.
“So, what actually made you want to work with ‘vulnerable charges’?” Her choice of words is pointed, but you can’t deny you deserve it after all the bluster and bullshit you put into your resume. The obvious humour behind her eyes makes it a bit easier to swallow as well.
You screw up your nose. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to be living that down anytime soon?” The woman shrugs indifferently. “I suppose it depends on if you get the job or not, doesn’t it?” She’s not giving a centimetre, and you sigh in resignation. “Australia’s a farming country, and I grew up in the bush—sorry, in the country. I was always on the land, so it just made sense for me to go down that path.”
“That the only reason?” She sniffs, taking a sip from her coffee. To her credit she seems genuinely interested, or maybe it’s the twang of her accent that gives her that tone.
“It’s the only work available where I come from; my town’s an agricultural one. It was either farming or going West to the mines. Between the two I prefer farming, it’s less—” You trail off, trying to find the words. “–destructive?”
She raises her eyebrows in question and you shrug noncommittally. “Can’t see much sense in hollowing out a mountain for short-term gains, I’d much rather be trying to regrow what’s being taken. And I’ve always been drawn to animals. At least they’re honest about what they need.” God you sound like a hippie.
“I might not’ve worked with kids, but I reckon they’re pretty similar. You listen to what they’re telling you and it’s fairly easy to go from there. People get too caught up in their own head sometimes.”
A slow, genuine grin splits her face, brown eyes sparkling at you from under blonde brows. “Good. I’m giving you the job.” She signs, purposefully choosing simple words. It’s unexpected enough to make your jaw go slack.
“Truth?” You ask. “Thank you! Thank you for your trust!” Your signing is rudimentary at best, so you switch back to spoken English as the relief swells within you. She points a finger in warning, “It’s a probationary position, I want to see how you fit in with the team before I commit to hiring you for a season. But if you get along well enough I’m happy to offer you to part.”
You nod in understanding. It’s not as concrete as you’d’ve liked but it’s certainly more secure than what you had this morning.
A thought occurs. “Uh, not to seem ungrateful, but this job comes with accommodation, right?” She flashes you another of her perfect, dimpled smiles. “Of course!” You stand as she does, reaching over to clasp her hand firmly with a nod and a grin. "Then I’m all in, Mrs. Voorhees.”