The Salty Croissant slept between an old-fashioned candy store called Stolen Kisses and a bank located on the main strip, about a half mile around the rotary leading to Crescent Circle. Blink and you missed it, but the bright yellow awnings stood out. I'd sped past it several times jogging along the boardwalk, and it was just a mile away from Bodhi's Cove, Samoset's main public beach. So not only was I very well aware that the bakery had a line of customers nearly out the door as early as 6:00 in the morning, but due to a poorly scripted Help Wanted sign hanging under awnings-they were also hiring.

The first thing that struck me when I stepped inside was the smell: Airstreams of vanilla and gusts of cinnamon twined together with the rich fragrance of my favorite thing in the entire world: Coffee. I understood why there was a long line unfolding before me: I wanted to bottle up the smell in a mason jar to light as a candle. That seemed cheaper than having to promise your firstborn to Yankee Candle to be able to afford one of their taller candles, anyways.

The second thing that struck me was crippling self-doubt. Now confidence has never been something that's come naturally to me. Hell, half the reason I studied so hard at THS was because it was the only quantifiable task I could do to assure me that what I was saying wasn't 100% ridiculous. And even then, I still had my doubts. But now, I couldn't help but think that the one thing Dad insisted on-and something I never fought him against-was that I didn't need to get a part time job while juggling school and extracurriculars.

As the line ahead of me dwindled, I tried to channel some distant mental courage. It's not like I haven't had my share of interviews: My high school experience lent plenty of opportunity for that. But this would be the first paying position I'd ever be applying for. Scarcely any information was offered about what kind of hours were needed or much of a job description, but at this point, I was fraught for just about anything.

With just a paired couple left in line to order in front of me, I finally got a view of the girl working the counter. At an average height myself, it's never really the first thing I process in terms of first impressions. That being said, the loud voice was not something I'd ever connect to the very short girl manning the line. If I hadn't seen her mouth moving in connection with her voice, I never would've believed it. Wondering briefly if there was a scholastic link between booming voices, short height, and Napoleon's Complex, I wasn't completely prepared for the annoyance already screened in her almond shaped eyes.

Maybe this wasn't the best idea.

"What can I get you today?" She asked me almost resentfully as I took my place next in line. A bubble of hope fizzed like a shaken can of soda inside me: Maybe a knack for good customer service wasn't a skilled set absolutely necessary at The Salty Croissant? And let's face it: With no so-called job history to speak of, my "skilled sets" were already fairly limited. She snatched a white paper bag printed with a single yellow rose and a pair of tongs behind a pastry case. Zeroing in on me with that inflexible stare again, I spoke before I could start second guessing myself.

"Actually, I was wondering if you're still hiring?"

For a moment, her eyes just narrowed as she gave me a skeptical once over. But then, it was like my query about the job was met with recognition, and the change in her expression was as different as the strength of a ray of sunlight between high-noon and twilight.

Walking around the counter space that was separating us, she outstretched her arms wide open, as if she was going to go in for a bear hug. Then she did just that: wrapping me in one of the warmest embraces I've ever received from a stranger. I had no option other than to pat her-rather uncomfortably-on the back in return. "I'm so happy I could kiss you. Don't worry," she added quickly, causing me to worry whether my fear of her doing so was conveyed obviously on my face. "I won't. Just your ass because if you can't already tell, we're overwhelmingly underemployed. "

I noted she was the only staff member sporting the white v-neck with a yellow rose I could see.

"Sit," she commanded me like a dog, gesticulating towards an empty table tucked in a back corner overlooking the boardwalk. And maybe it made me the equivalent of a Golden Retriever, but I listened obediently. "I'll be back in two secs. If I look up and see that you're gone, don't think I won't follow you out the door and chase your ass down the street."

Her short ponytail of raven hair nearly whipped me in the face as she changed course and disappeared once again behind the counters, hastily searching for something in a manner that was anything but graceful. Or calm. Or organized.

But she and I already had one critical thing in common that mattered: Desperation. I was banking on that alone in helping secure the position. Moments later, she came back with a soggy job application and a poorly sharpened pencil.

Nodding towards the line that was reforming steadily, she said, "We're understaffed as fuck and that's putting it nicely. Just fill out this app to your best ability, and I'll come back and pretend to look at it after I help them."

She pressed paused on our convo, letting an elderly couple with the laidback dispositions of regulars that the almond croissants had a few more minutes before they'd be out of the ovens.

Tossing her concentration back at me like a tennis ball for me to fetch, "But it's just a formality. We-I-really need the help, and unless there's a warrant out for your arrest of something-I'll still consider you. There are some important questions I have to ask you first, so just fill that out and I'll be right back."

Once she vanished, I glanced over all of the blank lines that were supposed to indicate past job history, and the weight of my lack of experience knocked me out of the Confident Zone. Who was I kidding? The Confident Zone wasn't even a place I visited on vacation. The girl behind the counter had made it clear that The Salty Croissant was frantic for help, but would that remain true after she found out I'd never so much as lifted a finger in the workforce?

After I finished filling out what I could -hoping that my long list of extracurriculars would reconcile for any lack of actual experience-I took a second to observe the café. It didn't look like your conventional bakery/café. Well, in some ways I guess it did: The circular tables were adorned with floral print table-cloths, and there was a mahogany cart stationed with sugar, milk, cream, coffee stirrers, and To-Go cup tops near the entrance. There was no AC (fun!), so the door leading inside was propped wide open, an osculating fan spinning around a mechanical breeze.

And then there were the pastry cases: A manifold of glass made a U shape around a single cash register, and just from a passing glance, I could see that The Salty Croissant offered an extensive array of treats. There were croissants of every variety, danishes with fruit fillings, donuts powdered thickly with sugar and coconut. In the case furthest from the register, individual slices of tartes were lined up temptingly-Strawberry Rhubarb, Chocolate, Apple Rose to name a few. Below them were a medley of other assortments, all presented as charmingly as they appeared indulgent.

But over to the left side of the café is where The Salty Croissant changed it up a bit. There were two velvet couches next to a brick wall covered in artwork that made it kind of feel like a cross between Urban Outfitters and one of those touristy shops downtown that all looked the same.

Even with running, I felt like I had just gained five pounds from simply sitting in here-and I was only putting a few of my senses to use. Mental note: If I get a job her, bring gum. Lots of minty gum. I'd have too easy of a time justifying any of the enticements on show in the pastry displays. I've eaten more than half of them already in my head.

"I'm sorry. Summers are so busy here, and the last two quit without giving me any kind of notice."

The poor girl was flustered. I really couldn't blame her. Same.

She pulled out a chair with a hydrangea painted on the seat, joining me once she quelled the line again. "I guess that's the downside of hiring sophomores whose parents force them to get their first jobs: They don't have to support themselves, so they don't give a shit."

I could feel the pinkness from my blush sear my complexion when she mentioned first jobs. I felt humiliated by all of the empty lines on my application. For some reason, I really wanted this job to work out. I needed it to-though I was having a grueling time assembling the right words to convince her enough to hire me. Should I just be honest? Say I really needed the money? Or if we were going for bakery humor here, that I really kneaded the dough? Not wanting to risk pissing her off with an unoriginal joke I uncomfortably overhead my Dad tell once, I kept it to myself as she snatched the application from my loose grip and read over all of the empty lines summarizing my uselessness.

There was too long of a pause before she spoke again. "I see you haven't had much experience in customer service?"

I was forming the white lie in my head-that I'd gotten sidetracked and hadn't had time to fill out that portion yet-when she cut me off regardless.

"OK. Look, we don't have a lot of time here," she said, nodding to the door. "Let me skip to the logistics before I start Spanish Inquistioning you, because I don't want us to waste each other's time. I need a part-time employee in the mornings, five to six hours a day. Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Pay's under the table for now-the owners are in France-plus whatever tips you make. Is it something you're still interested in?"

"Yes." I said immediately, a spark of expectation blossoming somewhere inside me.

She nodded. Now that we were arm's lengths apart, I noticiced her slanted eyes, high cheekbones, and exotic angles-it was clear that she was part Asian, but her features were also more ample. Softer--suggesting a mix of something else. She was beautiful in that intimidating kind of way, her face set in a permanent scowl with obvious contempt that only facilitated my jumpiness.

"I'm going to fire off a series of questions. Say the first thing that pops into your head. Some of these may seem a little offbeat or unconventional, but I can assure you The Addie Cho Scientific System of Interrogatory Investigation will weed out any unsavory characters."

Was this normal? Not wanting her to think I was hesitating, I nodded my head eagerly. Probably a little too eagerly.

"I need to be able to hire someone I can trust," she continued.

I bowed it with a little less enthusiasm this time. There was such a thing as overkill.

"Cool,"she said. "There are no wrong answers. Just go with your gut instinct."

My gut's instinct was yelling at me for not eating the breakfast burrito I'd been fantasizing about all morning instead of my nutrient-free breakfast of black coffee--we were officially out of cream. Now my stomach was performing shaky somersaults like some kind of over-caffeinated acrobat. I tried my best to zero in on the moment and be present.

"Would you consider yourself a people person?" Her eyes tapered as she awaited my answer, causing me to squirm in my seat.

I swear she glared a bit when asking that question, but knowing I was interviewing for a customer service position where it's safe to assume being a people person was desirable, I found her look kind of odd. Was I people person? Good question. I've always kind of striven to be, but people usually fuck it up too royally for me to ship it as personal charachter trait. I'm really into people who are walking their dogs, so long as it involves more of me petting a pooch and less of me interacting with the humans wielding the leashes.

I gave her the answer any prospective employer would want to hear.

"Of course," I piped too enthusiastically. It was more of a squeak revealing I had zero chill. I gave her a smile brighter than my future, and braced myself for the next question.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"June 2025."

A small smirk delineated her frown. "What's your dream job?"

Figuring that an Unlikely Animal Friends Photographer could be construed as a joke-and I wanted her to know I was serious about this-I wanted this-I went with the candid route. "I haven't figured as much out yet."

"Who has? Would you work holiday mornings? Those are the craziest. If you think these lines are long, you're in for something else. July 3rd is the busiest, but Labor Day weekend also has its lack of supply and demands."

"Absolutely." Who knew there were actual perks to having no life?

I knew that the fourth of July was just around the corner, but as soon as she mentioned Labor Day, I was forced to picture my life outside the social construct of summer. I told Mom I'd be joining her during the next couple of months, but what would happen once September showed it's tan lines? I just stored the thought away safely into my crawlspace, closing and boarding up the trapdoor. Be present, Thea.

"How'd you hear about the position?"

"The Help Wanted sign under the awnings."

"You could read my handwriting?!" Her expression orbited somewhere in between general dumbfoundess and legitimate shock.

I tackled a grin. It definitely took some squinting and deductive reasoning given the legible consonants and vowels I had to work with.

"I'm here!" I squeaked. That wasn't cool. I'd be having a conversation with myself about that later on.

She didn't skip a beat: "Coffee or decaffeinated coffee?"

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic?"

She looked at me quizzically, so I clarified immediately. "Coffee with all of the caffeination. Sorry for the confusion, but I thought that was the only option." Brown eyes met mine, and there was a fume of warmth there that wasn't there before.

"Glass half full or half empty?"

"No preference. Just don't risk talking to me if it's not fully empty, because that means I haven't finished my coffee yet."

It's funny how something so simple, a smile-just pulling up the two tiny corners of your mouth-can completely change a person. After she laughed, the first sincere smile stretched across her face, overlapping the stormy clouds in an explosion of light. It transformed her from someone daunting, to someone you wished you knew. Gone was the girl with the steely eyes and unyielding frown, and in her place was somebody I could potentially see myself working alongside with.

A family of five strolled in. "OK. Look, we're out of time and I'm not going to be able to finish these questions. I see that you have no experience in customer service, but I'll gladly overlook that if you're serious about actually showing up."

Proverbial confetti fell all around us. I was sure of it.

"And it's not going to be a walk in the park: You'll be up at the crack of dawn, some of the clientele literally haven't had their coffee yet and it often reflects in their mood," she continued. "Not to mention, the rich Summer People? You'll know it's them because they'll march in here pronouncing "croissant" like an asshole and expecting the daily specials to be written out in Iambic Pentameter-well they can be rude. But they are always right. The customer is always right. That's one key thing to remember."

I almost told her I'd personally write out the daily specials in sonnets myself I was so grateful for this opportunity, but she was already half-way across the room, waving my application in her hand.

"Pay's minimum wage, plus whatever tips we split," she basically shouted, startling a few members of the family. "Still down?"

I didn't even have to think: "I'd really like this job."

Crumpling my application into a paper ball, she tossed it to a nearby trash barrel, missed, then swiftly picked it up and aimed once more before she missed the shot again. After hand-delivering it into the reciprocal, she turned back to me. "Like I said, that was just a formality. The baker might have you fill out some tax forms at some point, but that's all on him. Can you start Friday?

"Sure."

"Great, be here at five AM, no later. Coffee's on the house as long as you keep showing up on perfect beach days."

The trash barrel sat directly next to the entrance, so I shook her hand somewhat formally-much to her poorly-disguised amusement-and turned a heel out the door. The bells under the awnings chimed.

"Hey!" I heard her bark behind me. I halted and spun around in a crescent circle.

"I didn't even get your name," she winced. "As you can see, I'm really specialized in the hiring process."

"It's Thea," I replied with a laugh.

"Thea,' she echoed, saying it to herself out loud. "I like it."

That was a first. "And yours?" I mean, I presumed it was most likely Addie Cho, but you can never be too sure.

"Addie. Sometimes if the baker's around, you'll hear him call me by my full name Adelaide." The contempt for her full name cast a shadow over the bright brown in her eyes, like the impossibly dark silhouette of the moon in a total solar eclipse. "But if I ever hear that come out of your mouth," she continued, a light-hearted grin bringing the eclipse to totality, the shadows there seconds before brightening dramatically, "I'll just have to shoot you."

I remember being at the zoo with my parents once when I was much younger. I'd opened my hand to wave over my Dad, releasing the string of the balloon I'd been given upon arrival, and it just drifted off into the sunless sky, a flamboyant red speck against a backdrop of slate. And I just watched it as it disappeared, the sky swallowing it whole. But maybe that speaks to life itself: Maybe all of the balloons we lost to the sky as children were just preparing us for this: How life's fleeting and passing and so casually fucking perishable.

As a child, balloons used to represent all things hopeful wrapped up and tethered to a string. Now if one were to pop unpredictably around me, I'd be plunging to the floor into fetal position in seconds, hands and arms covering my face.

A week before the mandatory meeting between Mrs. Owens and my father last December, it was the sound of a car a backfiring in the parking lot during third period that did it. One minute I was snubbing the smart-board and staring out the window, trying to care about how I'd calculate the population variance in my Stats class, and the next I was crouched under my desk, my jeans staled by an estuary of my own pee.

Champagne bottles being opened. Bubblegum. Fireworks. All of those fucking PSAs on local cable channels that always entail some kind of beeping. Construction Noises. Startling roars of traffic. Fire alarms. Pow. Pow. Pow. Boom. Any kind of stabbing explosions-all of the loud noises-mostly the unexpected ones: They all still strike me to the core.