Chapter One
The call I’d been eagerly waiting for came at the worst time.
Sitting on the reclined, wax-papered examination chair while waiting for my wellness checkup was not the ideal setting for a life-changing phone discussion with an executive headhunter. The nurse had already taken all of my vitals, but my doctor hadn’t made her appearance yet. It was only a matter of time.
I swiped to accept the call and whispered, “Um . . . hello?”
“Good morning, Lily. It’s Patricia. Did I catch you at a good time?”
I glanced down at my breasts and belly peeking through the opening of the cotton cloth gown. “Yes.” After double-checking the screen to make sure it was an audio-only call and not a video one, I added, “It’s a great time. I’m out and about. Running errands. Keeping busy. Do you have any updates for me? Did I officially get the job?”
When I had left the final interview with the founder of Swain & Wallace, he asked me when I could start, and soon after that, the company’s social media accounts followed me on every platform. In this digital age, that was pretty much the same thing as an offer letter.
I’d left my corporate job a few years back to forge my own professional path—consulting for start-ups and writing a series of career empowerment books—to earn more money so I could save for a down payment on a home. The salary for this executive role at Swain & Wallace was more than double what I was making now. And as a bonus, they had just built a brand-new, in-house gym. Not that I would use it, but it did have a cucumber ice water station near the locker area that I planned to visit every day.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I have good and bad news. Everyone at Swain and Wallace loved you. The hiring manager and his entire team thought you were a slam-dunk hire. The CEO even commented to the HR lead that he could see you in a C-level leadership role there someday. And technically, this morning, you were offered the position.”
Dream company. Dream job. Dream team. And an offer of employment. All of this was too good to be true. My body tensed when I noticed she didn’t end that positive feedback with a heartfelt “congratulations,” and that she had said the last part with a downward inflection. Headhunters like her worked off job-placement commission, so why wasn’t she offering to pop champagne bottles with me?
The waxy paper underneath me crinkled loudly as I sat upright. “Is there a problem?”
The sound of air expelling from her nose could mean only one thing. The bad news.
“Swain and Wallace’s HR team performed an extensive background check, as is their standard procedure. This step of the hiring process used to take a few days, but with the latest advancements, we’ve seen these screenings turned around a lot faster. I’m not sure the best way to say this . . . I’m calling to inform you that you didn’t pass.”
Didn’t pass? “Wait, I failed the background check?”
How was that possible? I wasn’t a criminal. There had to be a mistake. Unless . . . the unpaid parking tickets from Martha’s Vineyard from my early twenties had finally caught up with me? I accidentally ran a stop sign at 3 A.M. a few weeks ago in a borrowed car when I thought no one (especially no police cars) had been lurking around . . . but how could that be traced back to me? I’d also discovered I’d been driving with an expired license, but the renewal was paid, processed, and the new card was en route to my Brooklyn apartment. Then there was that angry neighbor incident, someone (not me) had poured birdseed all over his Hummer—a birdwatcher’s paradise. Oh! And there was the office package stealer who threatened to press charges when I rigged a glitterbomb explosion a few years ago—
Patricia elaborated, “I hoped it was some kind of mistake, that maybe something
was wrong with the vendor’s software. We separately ran our own background check and it yielded the same results. I hate to ask this, but did you tell the truth about attending Carlthorpe College?”
That was the red flag on my record? “What? Of course I did! I’m not a liar.” The gray-haired nurse popped her head in the room, her eyes widened, and she stepped right back out, closing the door with a thump. Had she come back in because of the ten-pound discrepancy between my stated weight on the medical forms and my actual weigh-in? Because she could single-handedly prove without a doubt that I was, in fact, a liar. But honestly, who didn’t lie about those things?
Patricia let out a breath. “That’s good news. Maybe it’s just a glitch in Carlthorpe’s system then.”
“I recently paid off my student loans for college, so if I made up that part of my life, I want my money back!” I’d want all of it, plus interest.
Patricia chuckled. “Well, okay, I believe you.”
I added, “I have graduation photos to prove it.”
“Actually, if you have something more official, like a diploma or a college transcript, I think we can submit that to the HR group, argue that their system had a glitch, and this will all go away. I’m afraid photos of you in a cap and gown aren’t going to cut it though.”
My heartbeat thumped hard in my chest. Ten years since graduation and nothing like this had ever come up before. Then again, I’d worked in only one company and its subsidiaries since college and rose in the ranks there.
Did I have a diploma? Maybe? Actually . . . maybe not. After graduating, I had temporary housing before finding a more permanent living arrangement. Some of my stuff made the move, some didn’t. I didn’t have a job right away and was couch surfing for a while. It wasn’t the best time in my life, and I certainly didn’t have my mind laser focused on my diploma’s whereabouts. I never thought to get one reissued because I never had any wall space to display it. And who hung up their college diplomas these days anyway?
I took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “I’ll call the school and get a transcript overnighted to you.” If this was all that was standing in between having no job offer and having a dream job offer, I needed to act fast.
“Great! We have a plan then. I’ll let you go on with your day. Have a great rest of the afternoon.”
I hung up and fell back into the crinkly seat just as the nurse reentered the room. “I’m so sorry the doctor’s still running behind schedule. Unfortunately, your health profile didn’t update when I took your vitals, so I need to get your oxygen levels and BP again.”
She put a clip on my finger and wrapped the blood pressure cuff on my upper left biceps. “Try to relax your arm if you can. I’ll make sure it uploads to your records this time.” The armband puffed and deflated automatically while she took my O2 reading. “Your ox
ygen levels are excellent, ninety-nine percent. Your blood pressure is . . . whoa, a little high. A lot higher than before, actually. That’s strange.”
She took my wrist and checked my pulse. “Hmmm. Did anything happen that might spike your blood pressure and heart rate?” Clicking around in my health records, she looked at me and said, “Do we need to change your medications?”
“No,” I answered definitively as she removed the Velcro cuff from my arm. “No need. It’s nothing to worry about. Only a one-time, minor inconvenience that will get straightened out soon.”
She offered me a reassuring smile. “Okay then. The doctor will be here shortly.”
* * *
I MADE SEVERAL calls to the registrar’s office that afternoon, and no one picked up the phone. The on-hold message encouraged me to chat with “Carly” on the college website, Carlthorpe’s online virtual assistant beta, but the she-bot couldn’t help me because my transcripts were ten years old, past the earliest year in the drop-down menu. Apparently I’d reached the cutoff mark when alumni were “archived.” My transcript request would require manual assistance.
Carlthorpe was a leisurely four-and-a-half-hour drive from New York City, or just over three hours if you were driving like a bat out of hell, so relatively close. The train was about the same, but it also required travel to and from the train station. After my fourth attempt to call and speak with a live person, I made a decision to go to campus the next day before the morning rush hour to ask for my paperwork in person. If everything went smoothly, I could be home by dinnertime.
The 7:15 A.M. departure from Grand Central went without a hitch and the train ride was great for my work productivity. I’d managed to organize my notes and had even written a few pages of an outline by the time the train rolled into the station. I checked my watch: 10:45 A.M. Plenty of time to spare.
When my Uber pulled up to the front gates of the campus, an email notification buzzed my phone just as I exited the car. It was a note from Katherine Goodwin, the patient editor of my long-overdue book.
Good afternoon, Lily,
I was thinking more about titles this week, and maybe this new book should have a simple title, like your last one. I loved HOW TO BE A WORK SUPERNOVA, so what do you think about HOW TO LAND YOUR DREAM JOB—it’s easy to remember and straightforward, right?
How’s the research going? Last we spoke you’d been interviewing at some really hot companies and had great insight into researching dream employers. Let me know if you need to run anything by me in the meantime—always open to read any chapters you’ve written
director. I’ve cc’d Amanda Phillips, our newest team member, who will be working with me as an editorial assistant on your next book. She came over from the contracts department and is a whiz with edits and meticulous with sales and forecast numbers. We’re both excited to see what you have for us next!
All best,
K
I let out a long sigh. I’ll get back to you soon, Katherine, once I officially have my job offer in hand.
Immediately, my notifications buzzed.
Nice to meet you, Lily!
As Katherine mentioned, I’ll be working with you on your next project. Excited to get started! I took a look at your contract, and it looks like your manuscript is due. Let me know if I can be of any assistance. In the meantime, I’m updating all our authors’ bio pages on our website and retail sites. Could you please take a look at your “About the Author” page and let me know if there are any updates to your bio? Also, I see you attended Carlthorpe too! Nice to meet a fellow Carlthorpian!
All best,
Amanda
I clicked the link and it redirected to my author page on my publisher’s website that hadn’t been updated in years. Beneath my headshot was a list of my professional and academic credentials. I replied to Amanda’s email, mirroring her enthusiasm, giving her the green light to keep my author blurb the same, adding that I had an exciting new career development and would need another update sometime soon. After clearing up this clerical error with my alma mater, I could include my next position with Swain & Wallace in the marketing materials for my new book. For the author website though, it would have to wait a little bit longer.
I closed the car door and quickly checked my top-half reflection in the passenger-side window before the car pulled away. No flyaway hairs flapping in the wind. A barely wrinkled ivory silk blouse. Smudge-resistant eyeliner still resisting. A presentable, respectable alumna. Lily Lee, business consultant and author of How to Be a Work Supernova and the forthcoming second book in the series How to Land Your Dream Job, was coming back to where it all started. Carlthorpe College.
In peep-toe heels, I strode along the cobblestone walkway and through the ivy-covered, wrought iron gates of the main campus entrance, where the stationed security guard smiled and nodded at me. The registrar was the first building on the right, which I’d remembered
after all these years but was validated by the campus map I’d saved on my phone. I hoped that late morning would be a good time: it was right before the lunch rush and left plenty of time for an administrator to assist me in finding my student file. This didn’t leave room for a fun, leisurely day in this quaint college town though. There would be no nostalgic strolls through the courtyard. No casual dining at the cute cafés on Main Street or partaking of the all-afternoon happy hour at the Carlthorpe Tavern. Sadly, not even a visit to the campus bookstore. My plan was to get the transcript and head right back home before the business day ended. I had more résumés to send out, interviews to prepare for, and a book that wasn’t going to write itself. My walk down memory lane would have to be another day, under happier, more forgiving circumstances.
The timeworn wooden door leading to the registrar’s office gave little resistance to my light push, and I was delighted to see I was the only person in line. It made sense: there wasn’t a ton of academic activity during the summer, and fall registration hadn’t started yet. Evidence of a birthday celebration lay behind the Plexiglas divider: large catered aluminum trays once filled with fruit salad, home fries, and pasta were now mostly empty. A small wedge of confetti cake sat in a large pink pastry box. Seeing all this food laid out triggered my mouth to water, an involuntary reminder that I needed to eat lunch. Maybe a quick meal at a dining spot on campus would be a nice treat before taking the train back to the city.
The woman at the window pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose with her index finger. “Student ID number please.” Her fingers were perched above her keyboard, ready to descend and peck.
“I—I’m not a student. I’m an alum.” I had to admit, it was somewhat flattering that she thought I could be enrolled here.
“Do you remember your student ID?”
I laughed. Was she serious? I couldn’t even remember my own age sometimes. “I graduated ten years ago, I don’t recall what it was, I’m sorry.” I pasted on a smile. “I’m Lily Lee. College of Arts and Sciences. All I’m looking for is my transcript. I can give you my permanent address, graduation year, pretty much everything else.” And I did, I offered her all of this personal information, as well as my social security number and academic advisor’s name.
Tap tap tap.
Tap tap tap.
“Hmmmm. Strange.” She tilted her head and squinted at the screen. With a loud, slow exhale, she muttered, “Is Lee your maiden name? Are you married?”
Okay, I didn’t expect a “marital status” type of question from her. From my older sister, yes. My mom, yes. But the registrar? No. “Lee was the name I used in college. It’s still Lee. Middle name is Ji-Yeon.”
“Can you confirm this is your student photo?” She swiveled the screen so I could get a better look at my round, youthful, pimply face and all-gums toothy grin. And by toothy, I mean I actually had fanglike cuspids that were shaved down my first year of college.
Sophomore and junior year was when things got better for me. My less canine-like smile. My classes were more interesting. I even dated a charming boy and we were together for over a year, one of the longest relationships I’ve ever had. Jake Cho. The one who shattered my heart into a million pieces. It never quite fit back together again.
I verified, “Yes, that’s me, Lily Ji-Yeon Lee. I wish they had face filters back then.”
“Let me share with you what I have here, so we’re seeing eye to eye.” While the printer hummed and pushed out pages, she typed and tapped some more. She grabbed the stack of paper and slid it toward me. The pile was pleasantly warm to the touch.
“Here’s all the academic information we have on file. And your partial transcript.”
“Partial?” My stomach lurched as I flipped to the last page. All of my classes were listed from my first semester to my last. Pretty standard stuff until I noticed one thing: in my last semester, two of my classes, Economic Principles and Survey Analysis, were listed as pass/fail. The matriculation date was listed at the top of the transcript, but my graduation date was not. It was blank.
I swallowed hard. Never before had nervousness, nostalgia, and amnesia hit me at the same time.
The registrar cleared her throat. “Ms. Lee, it appears that you didn’t obtain enough credits to officially graduate. You’re five credits shy, according to your records. Some of those pass/fail credits your last semester don’t count toward graduation.”
“There must be some mistake. I attended commencement. I walked across the stage.” I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I reopened them, this would all be just a dream. But when I fluttered my lashes and peeked, everything was still the same.
“Sometimes academic advisors get the graduation requirements credit tally wrong, but it’s rare. In some cases, professors turn in grades the day before graduation and we still let students walk because most of the time the kids pass, even if they get D minuses. It’s showing in our system that you switched two classes to pass/fail, which is highly unusual because typically a student is allowed only one per year. It was a special exemption, but only one of the two classes was approved to apply credits toward your major and degree. Do you remember that?”
Vaguely? My last semester was a miserable blur, and my academic advisor had never explained the full risk of switching my classes to pass/fail. Only that I could, and it was too late to drop the classes and the poor grades would drag my GPA way down. The system would generate an academic probation letter sent to my permanent address, even if it was my last semester. It would go to my parents’ home. That was my top concern at the time.
“So . . . I didn’t . . . graduate? There’s no way to work around this somehow?
Like a traffic violation where I watch a whole day of online videos and take a multiple-choice quiz to clear my record?”
She adjusted her glasses again. “I’m afraid not. The good news is, you don’t have to reapply for admission. If you want to complete your credit requirements, they’re opening up fall registration next week. I don’t have much sway, but what I can do is ensure you have second semester senior status because of your credit standing. You should need only one, maybe two, courses to reach the graduation requirement, but you’d have to confirm this with your academic advisor.”
I grabbed the counter to steady myself. My head whooshed and knees buckled from this avalanche of bad news. The lack of lunch wasn’t helping with the light-headedness.
“You’d also need to confirm with your academic advisor if there are any additional requirements needed for your degree given that ten years have passed.” A fall course catalog and a heavily frosted piece of cake passed through the opening in the Plexiglas window. “It’s my last slice, but I think you could use it more than me. It’s from Sassy Girl’s. Please, I insist.”
Sassy Girl’s was a local bakery that made the best buttercream cakes in the Northeast. For the first time in my entire life, I had no desire to eat cake. But because the birthday girl was staring at me with her kind eyes through her oversize tortoiseshell glasses, I had no rational reason to protest. With the accompanying plastic fork, I tore off a sizable chunk of the tender, fluffy white cake and took a bite. A culinary masterpiece. Under different circumstances it would have brought me comfort and happiness. It was then I discovered something new about myself: that it was possible to chew, fake a smile while saying “thank you,” and cry at the same time. A latent ability I never wanted to experience again.
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