"You want to be what?" Mr. Edwards said, his voice thick with disbelief. Laila and her family had gathered in the kitchen, the tap dripping and the plates in the sink covered in leftover food. Her father was dressed in blue coveralls, though his top was tied and his white vest accented his broad shoulders. He mother wore a pink slip under a white robe, her pink silk bonnet cap still barely holding her hair together.
Mr. Edwards was shaking his hand and muttering, "Lord, I can't believe this...."
"Can we not do this here?" Laila asked, her tone expressing how tired she felt. "You may be a grown woman but you don't dictate us, you understand little girl?" Mr. Edwards snapped, his frustration evident.
Laila sighed and lowered her hands stiffly to her side. "We aren't going to let you destroy your life," Mrs. Edwards said sternly. "How is being a boxer destroying my life? I'd be famous—"
"You'll end up just like your Grandad," she interrupted her daughter, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Do anything else with you life but not that. I won't let you end up like him!"
Laila curled her hand into a fist. "Don't you dare..." she warned.
"Why can't be a doctor, like what your mother always wanted? Or...or a mechanic like I was training you to be?" He suggested as she paced up and down.
"I don't wanna be a boring mechanic for the rest of life!" She argued. "I feel it in my bones. I want to be something great, do something great."
Mrs. Edwards scoffed as her father stepped forward. "If you go down this path...you will no longer be a part of this family," he threatened.
Laila nodded her head, her mouth a thin line.
"Then I'm gone," she said bitterly, her chest aching to say it. She walks forward, pushing past her father and mother.
Mr. and Mrs. Edwards watch her head for the door. "Laila. Get yo ass back here!" Her mother demanded.
Her demand fell on her deaf ears as Laila reached for the door—
She sat up with a start, clutching her chest. Her breath slow and shallow. Another dream. Another memory.
Rubbing her face, she tried to shake it off. She'd thought she was done with her past. Clearly the past wasn't done with her.
Her phone began to ring and she reached over for it on the nightstand. She saw the reminder, "Meet under oak tree."
She remembered when she got home last week, she had called the number on the card. She had to scratch it out since it was invisible. Dialing it, a robotic voice answered and said:
"Welcome Hippolyta."
She had blinked in confusion.
"Huh? My name is Laila," she had corrected.
"Have you called for the initiative?" The voice asked, ignoring correction.
Laila groaned and rubbed her face. "Yes....Yes I have."
"Good. Meet under the oak at the park tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. Good luck," she replied.
The line had gone dead.
Laila sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the clock. 7:48 a.m.
"Guess it's time to see if this guy's for real."
Laila paced under the oak tree, her head swiveling as she looked about. She wore black leggings, a black sports bra and her black hair was slicked into a long ponytail.
Then she spotted approaching—a young woman with shoulder length brown hair and brown spectacles worn on her nose. A short black skirt hugged her hips and a blue dress shirt gave her a formal dress. She struggled walking due to her black heels getting stuck in the dirt.
She glanced up and her eyes met hers.
"The hell are you?" Laila asked, pointing at her.
The young woman's face twisted into a disgusted frown. "That's my question. Who are you?"
Laila scoffed. "You're probably lost. This is my tree," she added, arms folded. "Go find your own."
The woman crossed her arms right back. "Funny, because this is where the voice on the phone told me to come."
"Hi!" Another voice chimed in. She had long flowing brunette hair and wore an oversized hoodie with black jeans and white sneakers.
Laila stared at her, mouth agape while the young woman blinked in confusion.
"Now who the hell are you?" Laila snapped, her patience wearing thin.
"Jada. Who are you guys? Don't tell me..." she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.
"We got the same jobs? I'm so happy for us!" Jada clapped excitedly.
"Never mind that," Ciema said, adjusting her spectacles and turning to Laila. "This is a job interview—whoever you are—"
"It's Laila, you dumb broad—"
"Whatever," She interrupted the other woman, dismissively waving her hand. "And you decide to come out in a sports bra and leggings?"
She scoffed. "You're not serious. That is impractical."
"Oh no," Laila stepped forward, an amused smile on her face.
"Don't you dare talk about impractical. I saw you stumbling about like Bambi in them heels. You ain't serious either, boo."
She tilted her head mockingly. "You've must have been under the impression that we were meeting in an office building or something, because...uh...what's your name?"
"Ciema," she replied through gritted teeth.
"Well Ciema—that ain't it," she chuckled.
Jada tugged out the hem of her hoodie, sheepish. "I just grabbed whatever. I didn't know whether to wear my old uniform or not. Is this fine?" She asked genuinely.
Ciema didn't even hesitate. She shook her head, "No."
"You sure you're a grown woman? You're giving teenager," Laila said bluntly. "Only a teenager would wear something like she's going to a club and blend in."
Jada nodded. "Good enough for me," she grinned.
"Are...are you a southerner? I can feel the accent," Laila asked, squinting.
Jada nodded again. "Right you are, darlin'."
"Well, both of you should go home," Ciema said, smugly, turning gaze on Laila. I'm more qualified then you two."
"Oh really?" Laila chuckled. "Oh really?"
"Oh really?" Ciema echoed with a smug smile. "I have a degree in Biochemistry and a PhD in science."
Laila nodded her head, an amused smile on her face. "Like anyone here cares. I'm a....boxer," she added, glancing off to the side.
Ciema let out a strangled laugh. "A boxer. That's cute. Like we need more muscle heads," she sneered, her smile slipping into a frown.
"Hey!" Laila stepped forward, her face inches from hers. "This muscle head can sent yo ass to the floor in three seconds," she hissed.
"Uh..." Jada's voice makes the two women turn to her. "For what's it worth? I can speak other languages. I'm a black belt in taekwondo...um...."
Laila's eyes widened. Ciema blinked.
"Wait—Run that back?" Laila asked.
"I can...speak other languages?" Jada said, confused.
"No. The belt...thing," Ciema said.
"Oh! I'm a black belt in taekwondo," Jada grinned.
Laila and Ciema turned to each other.
Looks like we're the ones underqualified," Ciema adjusted her glasses.
"Okay....so why are y'all here?" Laila asks, stepping back.
"Well....I got fired," Ciema answered frankly.
"Can't imagine why," Laila muttered.
"What about you?" Ciema shot back.
"I....I just need this," Laila replied, eyes dropping to her fist.
Ciema blew a breath. "Wow. That explained a lot.
"I quit my job," Jada chimed in. "I worked as a cashier at a store called Big E's. I don't have any backup, so I'm putting in all my bets."
"What?" Laila said, staring at her she'd grown a second head.
"Then you're better get the job," Ciema commented with a dry laugh.
"Right you are, Ms. Fredrick," A older male British voice answered. The three women turned around to see a man wearing a black fedora, trench coat and trousers. His brown shoes brought the entire look together.
He removed his fedora, revealing grey hair.
"It's you!" Laila gasped, glancing at the others briefly.
"Yes, indeed, my dear. My name is Allen Mace," he bowed. He straightened. "Come follow me to the limo. It's time to meet Mr. Maximoff."
He turned and headed off. The three women looked at each other and followed him. "Holy sh—" Jada gasped as they emerged from the tree to see a sleek black, limousine. "Woah. This guy is...."
"Rich. Yes, he is. From what I could find on him, Jaiden's a billionaire," Ciema said as they moved forward. "Of course, you did research," Laila shook her head.
The three entered the vehicle, scooting over to make space for each other. The moment the door shut, the vehicle roared to life and pulled away smoothly
Jada noticed how the blinds were already drawn. "I suppose we're aren't gonna to see where we're going, right sugar?" She said, tapping the window covering
"Right, you are. Drink?" Mr. Mace offered, pulling out a wine bottle and a crystal glass.
"I'm not a fan of alcohol," Ciema declined the offer.
"Shouldn't we be sober for the interview?" Laila asked, eyebrow raised.
Mr. Mace chuckled softly as he poured. "You think this is a job?"
"I'd like one," Jada chimed in. Mr. Mace passes her the glass, which she accepted gracefully. She took a long sip, savoring the fizz tickling her tongue.
"Tell us more about this Jaiden Maximoff," Ciema asks, leaning forward slightly.
"Ah, of course," Mr. Mace sighed, setting down the bottle. He crosses his legs and leans back, composed and relaxed. "Mr. Maximoff is a quiet and reserved man. Under no circumstances are you to share or record your work. Understand?"
His kind eyes glanced from each woman. "No electronics will be allowed except the ones given to you."
"Don't ask him too many questions, and follow orders always. And of course, you will receive certain....privileges," Mr. Mace adds.
"Are we getting paid?" Jada asked quickly.
"No," Mr. Mace said without missing a beat.
"What—What do you mean you're not getting paid?" Ciema blurted, voice rising. "If I don't get paid, how am I going to tend to myself?"
"You won't be living at your old place," he said simply. "You'll be staying with Mr. Maximoff."
"I'm gonna be living with a grown man?" Laila asked, her face scrunched in disgust.
"No, Ms. Edwards," He corrected politely. "You'll be living with these lovely ladies in his house."
The car suddenly slowed to a stop.
"We've arrived," he smiled.
Ciema started to press down on her shirt, anxiously. Laila folded her arms, already regretting her causal outfit. Jada, on the other hand, eagerly slapped her knees, practically bouncing
The chauffeur opened the door, helping themout. Led up the walk, the entered the tall modern mansion, the windows were black, allowing on-one to peer.
The door was opened and the girls were greeted by a barking and snarling Pomchi, charging right at them. Ciema ran behind Laila, Laila put her hands up.
Jada, unfazed, ran towards the tiny dog.
With a cheerful, "Well, hello there little fella!" She began hopping and teasing, lowering her finger to its nose before pulling away. The Pomchi jumped, snapping playfully at the air, completely distracted by her antics
Meanwhile, Mr. Mace calmly removed his trench coat. He fixed his white short's cuffs and smoothed out his black waistcoat. He pulled out his pocket a watch which he glanced at for the time.
The dog, now calm, wagged its tail, and chased after Jada as she giggled and skipped across the entryway. Ciema peeked from behind Laila, staring at the brunette in disbelief.
"Is there nothing you can't do?" Laila groaned.
Jada knelt and petted the brown's dog head, her fingers slipped through its fluffy fur as it licked her hand.
Mr. Mace entered the kitchen, opening the fridge and removed a plate. On it was a delicate cut of cooked salmon, seasoned in basil and parsley and covered in a glossy, sweet sauce.
"Apologizes," he said as returning with the plate. He set it down and the Pomchi dashed over, tail wagging furiously, and immediately began to devour its meal.
"I forgot to feed Chi-Chi before I left to pick you up," he added with a slight smile, watching the dog fondly. "Mr. Maximoff will be deducting my pay."
"So...where is he?" Laila asked him. " And where are the other servants?"
"I and the chauffeur are the staff. Not to mention, T.I.F.F.A.N.Y...." He blew out a breath.
Ciema cautiously stepped past Chi-Chi, who merely scooted, bringing her plate with her.
"I'm not surprised he's a dog person," she muttered grimly.
"Chi-Chi's a good girl—just spoiled," Mr. Mace said fondly Luckily, Bartholomew and Rufus are in their kennels."
Jada's eyes lit up. "Oh, let's see 'em. I bet they're as precious as Chi-Chi here!" She clapped excitedly.
"Yes well....the Cane Corsos are darlings," Mr. Mace said with a small smile, "but not to strangers."
Ciema let out a chocked breath and Laila suddenly looked a little less confident.
"Cane....Corso?" Ciema echoed, wide eyed.
"I'd though he'd have...you know...an English Bulldog but yeah, okay. That's fine," she squeaked, clearly not fine.
Mr. Mace beckoned them to follow him which they promptly do. Jada waves goodbye to the Pomchi, before hurrying after the others.
He leads them into a room with a glass table and four chair: three on the left side and one on the right. In front of the three chairs were three black file covers, each with a neatly placed grey pen.
The girls promptly sit down and slide their hands over the slick, black file folders. Mr. Mace sat from across them, folding his hands. "These are questionnaires. Please answer the questions to the best of your ability," he said.
The girls opened them and bend over the parchment, scanning the contents
"Are you willing sacrifice yourself—what?" Laila blurted out, jerking back into her seat.
"Are you allergic to nuts?" Ciema rubbed her temples and checked, 'No'. Then frowned. "Are you allergic to roasted nuts—it's the same question!"
"Name an animal that isn't aquatic," Jada read, tapping her pen against her chin. "I had a boa constrictor as a pet once so...," she scribbled her answer down with a grin.
"I...I—no," Laila finally answered one of her questions, the read the follow-up. "Why not? Because I want to live!"
"Is Pomegranate a berry—No!" Ciema snapped, exasperated.
"Is a snail a slug or is a slug a snail?" Jada mused aloud. She leaned back and squinted at the ceiling. "Tough question."
Ciema groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. Laila banged her fist on the table.
"An orange's called an orange because of it's color," Jada pondered, thinking aloud. "A lime's called a lime because of our sour it is and not because it's green and lemon's are called lemon's because they are...sweet," she grinned, writing down the answer.
Thirteen minutes passed before all three reached the last question.
"Did I enjoy this? No, no," Ciema muttered as she scribbled down her answer
"This was terrible," Laila echoed under her breath
"Ten outta ten, would do it again. Yee haw!" She hollered, slapping her pen down.
They slid their folders over to Mr. Mace. He stood up and bowed slightly. "I'll be back shortly," he said then exited the room, leaving the girls to stew in the weirdness.
Mr. Mace shortly returned and took a seat.
"Congratulations, you've failed," he smiled.
"What?" Ciema blurted out as Laila looked around, confused.
"Except Jada. You get an A for creativity," Mr. Mace smiled at her.
Jada scooted back in her chair, cheering. "Yee haw!"
"But...why?" Ciema asked, bewildered. "You were too analytically my dear and Laila..."
The black woman turned to him, arms crossed.
"You didn't even try."
Laila huffed. "I had to choose between a child, a woman or the president," she explained. "So I choose the dog."
"That's the problem," he said. "There was no dog."
Laila lowered her hands slowly into her lap, failing to hide her grin.
"With these traits, you will fail," he warned, rising from his chair with along exhale. The three women stood as well, shoulders slightly tense.
"Are we fired?" Ciema asked, voice small.
"No," Mr. Mace chuckled. "Come with me. It's time to go to your rooms."
The three exchange looks—and then smiles spreading across their faces.
Finally...some good news.