At First Glance

“Tilt your chin down a bit, then to the left,” the photographer instructs. I’m perched on the world’s most uncomfortable wooden stool, feeling like I’m setting myself up for a chiropractic adjustment rather than a headshot for my new job. I angle my head, half expecting to hear a pop, and try not to blink as a blinding flash fills the room. The sound of a woman’s overexaggerated sigh floats towards me from behind the table where the photographer’s monitor is set up “That’ll have to do, I suppose,” says Regina Symms, my new boss. She stands, buttons her blazer, and starts clacking towards the door in her stiletto heels. I’m still poised on the stool when Regina turns to look behind her. Her eyes narrow when she sees that I’m still seated. “Come along, Amethyst, we don’t have all day. I scurry across the room and follow Regina as she strides back down the hallway towards her office. She settles gracefully into an enormous desk chair, elbows resting on the table, fingertips steepled as she studies me. I’m tempted to sit down but don’t want to test fate. Regina doesn’t invite me to sit before she speaks again. “All your new hire paperwork is complete?” “Yes, ma’am,” I say. I wonder why she’s asking when she has the folder containing all the paperwork I’d completed sitting on the desk in front of her. “Including the NDA?” Regina’s eyes narrow. “Yes, ma’am,” I repeat. The nondisclosure agreement I’d signed was the one piece of paperwork I’d completed that set this job apart from any of the others I’d had in the past. Symms Gyms was a chain of acrobatics. gymnastics and tumbling gyms in the midwest, made famous by the Symms family. When real estate tycoon George Symms heard his five-year-old son’s gymnastics studio was on the brink of bankruptcy, he bought the building and employed the staff, lest the path to glory be disrupted. Eighteen years, four franchises, and 2 Olympic medals later, George Symms’ wallet was fatter than ever. This gym, the fifth location, was opening up in Chicago with the added bonus of being home to the Olympian himself, Cameron Symms. “Good,” Regina says, opening a sleek MacBook Pro that was sitting next to my personnel file on her desk. “The girl that we had on before you violated her NDA and was immediately terminated. The same will go for you, should you do the same.” “Yes, ma’am,” I say for the third time. I wait for a few more moments, unsure what exactly I’m supposed to do. Regina settles a pair of oversized reading glasses with dark plastic frames on her nose, glances up, and waves me away with a flick of her manicured hand. I leave her office, closing the door softly behind me, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I leave the back office area, pass a storage room, and make my way to the front of the building. The reception area is brightly lit, with a sleek front desk emblazoned with the neon green Symms Gyms logo. Settling myself in front of the dual monitors, I pick up my nametag. It spells out AMETHYST C. in chunky block letters to the left of the gym’s logo. I hate it. The only time my full name has been used was by my mother, or in court after she passed away and I was moving to a new foster home. Every time I changed schools or moved to a new foster home, which was frequently, I asked the adults in my life to call me Amy. Amy was simple. Amy was quiet. Amy was, like me, forgettable. I was finishing up my lunch break when an orange Corvette Stingray convertible came squealing through the parking lot and drifted, tires screeching, into the parking spot I knew was reserved for Cameron Symms. Despite being familiar with the fact that most male gymnasts are, by virtue of their trade, on the shorter side, I couldn’t help feeling surprised when the guy who got out of the driver’s seat could probably only hit 5’6” on a good day. He was dressed in running shoes, baggy sweatpants, and a Symms Gyms t-shirt. If it hadn’t been for the fact that everything he wore was branded (Nike, Lululemon, and Under Armour), I would’ve pegged him as any other typical gym-bro heading off for a workout. I watched as he pulled a small duffel bag out of the car and swung it up over his shoulder in a way that made it clear the motion had been repeated countless times. He strode briskly in through the front door, stopping when he saw me. “Who’re you?” he asks, his voice barely more than a grunt. “I’m Amy. I’m new here,” I reply, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. Cameron looks me over, or at least the portion that’s visible above the desk. I don’t meet his eye, instead looking at a point just over his right ear. It was a trick one of my elementary school counselors had taught me when I’d been taken out of class to work on some social skills that apparently were lacking. If looking someone in the eye felt too intimidating, looking just above one of their ears was an easy way to fake it. “Cameron!” Regina screeches, coming down the hallway. “You’re late for training. Again.” Her eyes narrow in anger at her son, who rolls his eyes. She turns to me and I have to keep from wincing under her glare. “Amethyst, Cameron’s schedule is linked into the computer system here. If he’s late, I expect a text message or call from you.” “Y-yes, ma’am,” I stutter. Regina nods then jabs a finger at her son and then at the doors to the main gym area. She turns on her pointy high heels and walks back to her office. “Nice to meet you, Amethyst,” Isaiah winks at me and then shuffles his way through the doors. I hear several people shout greetings to him before the door clicks shut behind him. I turn back to my computer and focus on getting familiar with my new job.