Rejected

• Atricia Bodhiwan, Grade 9, Heathdale Christian College
• Short Story
• 2021

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Note 2021' competition

I hate rejection.
I don’t even know what went wrong.
All he did was lean back in his chair and smile, arms folded on top of each other as he said, “Thank you for applying for this position. We’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
His eyes told me everything; his annoying blue eyes gazing off into the distance every now and then, clearly washed out from watching too much TV yesterday night. And his chair. His annoying, stupid little wheelie chair. It was obvious from the moment I sat down that he seemed more interested in the chair than me. Never in my life had I been rejected before. I was always a perfect match, from the job at the bubble tea place to my first job in the office, nobody had ever wanted another person to do the job.
“Why did you seek work at our company?” He asked after taking a sip out of his mug.
“I’ve worked as an office manager at my previous job. After enjoying the experience working there, I decided to seek for the same position at a more respectable company.”
His fingers kept on drumming the table, rhythmically – like the hands of a ticking clock. Click. Click. It was all I could think about.
“And why did you leave your previous job?” He asked.
“Oh, I got fired.” I said, without thinking.
Ok, so maybe I wasn’t always the best person at work.
Click. Click. Cli- He stopped clicking.
“If I may ask, why did you get fired?”
His fingers resumed clicking, louder now. Click. Click. Looking up behind him, I saw the horrid pink clock reminding me of how long I had left in the room. Eighteen minutes, a dreaded eighteen minutes. The clock itself didn’t even match the grey walls of the room, nor the constant clicking of his fingers. Cli- Tick! Click. Tick! Cli- Tick! This was driving me insane.
“Funny story actually,” I said, hesitantly, “I accidently knocked out the power for the whole building.”
He raised his eyebrows. He also stopped clicking now, instead he began poking at a wobbly-headed toy figurine at his desk. Rhythmically, again.
“I should explain – I um, was grabbing a coffee. And then I tripped over and spilled it all over this lady next to me. And then she like – like fell over on top of the table and crashed into the wall. I don’t know why but it was next to the power station, thing, whatever you call that. And she broke it, so…”
Maybe I’m not the best with words.
But he was the one who did all the distracting. The clicking. Asking me questions designed to expose my true faults. His face still lurks in my mind, that same fake smile hijacking my train of thought. That all-too-familiar Click ringing through my ears.
“Wait, so who was this lady?” He said, grabbing out a notebook and a pen.
I hate rejection.