Working It: The Girls of Bloomington North Book One

By Denise Gwen

Fans of Girl, Interrupted, Thirteen Reasons Why, and All the Bright Places will love this New York Times bestseller. Dad. Made. Me. Get. A. Job. Ack. Her junior year at Bloomington High School North was tough, what with the PSATs and studying for finals in all her AP classes, and Jordan Meadows is looking forward to a summer of fun and relaxation—driving around town with her friends in her brand new tornado-red Volkswagen Bug, hanging out at the IU Pool, checking out the cute lifeguards, working on the perfect tan—all while maintaining her de rigueur grooming at the Tranquility Spa, which she visits for all her grooming needs, including manicures, pedicures, eyebrow waxes, leg waxes, and anything else-she-can-think-of-waxes. That is, until Dad lowers the boom. No more Daddy-the-ATM, no more National Bank of Daddykins, no more running his Mastercard up to the credit limit, no sirree, young lady, those days are over. He orders her to get a summer job. Jordan is beyond annoyed. Really, Dad? Really? A job, really? Yes, really. Resigned to her cruel fate, Jordan attempts to find something she can do that won’t interfere with her grooming schedule. But then she sees a notice in The Herald Times, announcing that a film crew is coming to Bloomington that summer to film House of Wax IX: Revenge of the Revengenator, and that people wanting to work as extras can apply at an open casting call. How cool is that? She’ll work as an extra! In a bizarre twist of irony—her dad is a master at noticing ironic twists—Jordan parlays her knowledge of all things wax into a job on the makeup crew, dribbling wax on the extras . . . talk about playing to her strengths! And then she meets a cute red-haired boy who enjoys having hot wax dribbled all over his body and then he asks if Jordan will dribble wax . . . anywhere else? Author’s Note: Working It is the first book in a three-book series about the girls of Bloomington North High School. The next two books in the series are Crushing It and Loving It. Working It can be read as a standalone. This first book is sweet, and the following two books in the series are more hard-core.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781370434916

Denise Gwen

Denise Gwen writes!!!

Book preview

One

Jordan Meadows perched on a chair at the kitchen table, the Help Wanted section of the paper spread out before her, a red pen poised between her fingers, a frown creasing her brow. Her mission in life—or for at least the next three months—to find a summer job that wouldn’t bore her to tears. The boring to tears part was a requirement she’d added. Quite frankly, Dad didn’t care if she was bored or not. She just had to get a job.

It all started after a leisurely Sunday brunch, when Dad sat down to review his credit card statement. His features turned red, then blotchy, then apoplectic, until he exploded. Jordan Meadows.

Yes, Daddy? Jordan admired her matching manicure and pedicure, a gift to herself for surviving her junior year at Bloomington North. She’d gone with her good friends, Morgan Spears, Caitlin Rutherford, and Bethany Rogers to the Tranquility Spa for a blow-out morning of utter bliss.

What the heck is this?

Jordan gazed at her dad, who clutched the credit card statement between his thumb and forefinger as if he feared it might burst into flames.

Um, your MasterCard statement?

He shook the paper under her nose. "What’s this charge for three hundred dollars?"

She plucked the statement out of his outstretched fingers and scanned the items. Oh, yeah, last month I went to Tranquility Spa for highlights, a haircut, an eyebrow wax, and a leg wax. She handed the statement back.

Dad glowered. "And that cost three hundred dollars?"

Yeah, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, but don’t worry. I covered the tip myself. Oh, by the way, I checked my bank account this morning, and I need an advance on my allowance.

That, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say.

For the next fifteen minutes, Hank Meadows subjected Jordan to his school of tough-love and hard knocks as he laid down the bad news. The National Bank of Daddykins was closed until further notice. She had to earn her own pocket money. And the rules were clear. Cruel, but clear. She had to find a job that provided, at minimum, twenty hours of work a week.

She gasped. Twenty hours. Dad, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Dad crossed his arms in an I-mean-business way. I kid you not. I’ve paid for your last pedicure. Kiss those leg waxes goodbye. For all I care, you can get as hairy as King Kong.

She scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Dad, that is so gross."

I’m not about to let you lie around the house all summer long, yapping on your cell phone and hijacking my credit card at the mall. You, young lady, are getting a job.

"Dad, you are so not funny."

"I am so freaking serious."

"I know, but twenty hours? Twenty hours of my life?"

You could work two ten-hour shifts at whatever job you get, work all weekend long, and then you’d be free to spend the rest of the week partying and lounging by the pool.

Jordan reared back in horror. "The weekend? You expect me to work over the weekend? Don’t you know that’s prime time for partying?"

Do I look as if I care?

But I want to have fun this summer.

You can have fun and work. It won’t kill you.

"Oh, like you know."

Dad managed a tiny grin. A week is seven days long, darlin’, and you can easily squeeze in twenty hours and still have fun.

Jordan gazed at him aghast. You’re serious.

Young lady, you’re seventeen years old, you’ve got a driver’s license and a brand spanking new tornado-red Volkswagen Bug sitting in the driveway.

She clutched her head. Oh, no. Here comes another lecture.

Dad bristled. You’re durn straight another lecture. Your mother and I have coddled you way too much. I didn’t get my first new car until I was thirty-two years old.

Oh, Dad, I’ve heard this story so many times.

Listen to me, young lady. I was twenty-five before I got my first car—a battered, beat-up Toyota that I bought third-hand from my cousin Frank—

Jordan had heard this speech so many times, she could repeat it verbatim. Dad loved to remind her of how poor he was growing up, how his mother struggled to raise four boys in a fatherless household, eking out an existence on food stamps and clothes bought at Goodwill—never mind that Goodwill was now de rigueur for those teens searching for those kids searching for those fabulous-and-easily-shredded Gap jeans and tee shirts—and how he’d vowed he’d never let his own kids live that kind of life. Which then led to reminders of how great she had it. Okay, so she was a little bit spoiled. Okay, so maybe she was a lot spoiled. So what? Didn’t her parents want her to enjoy all the advantages that had been denied to them?

And I didn’t get any breaks just handed to me, young lady—

And he hadn’t even seen the bill for her treatment yesterday. Hoo-boy, he’d totally lose it when he saw that. After all, she’d freaked out a little herself when she signed the receipt, and she wasn’t even the one paying for it—four hundred dollars for a European facial, eyebrow wax, leg wax, bikini wax (it was summer, after all), pedicure, and manicure.

It’s high-time you learned some responsibility. One of these days, young lady, you’re going to need to grow up and become an adult. And adults have to do responsible things like hold down jobs and support their families. His eyebrows bristled. They even have to work when they don’t feel like working.

Boring.

She examined her French manicure. She normally went in for acrylics, but this time, her nail tech encouraged her to try it, and she simply loved it. Her hands looked so elegant and sophisticated—

Jordan, Dad said in a strangled voice, Jordan? Are you listening to me?

Jordan snapped to attention. Yes, Dad. All right, then. Let’s see, who’s looking for help?

He handed her the Sunday paper, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Just think of all the money you’ll make.

Okay, Dad. Jordan sighed and accepted the paper. She might as well get it over with. And if that meant breaking down and getting a real job, then so be it. A real job, one of those boring, horrible jobs, with a boss, a time clock, and everything.

Ack!

Dad didn’t have the first clue. How was she supposed to keep up with her social life if she spent her days toiling over a hot grill?

All the same, a sly part of her brain brimmed over with ideas. She could get a job at a fast-food place, ask to be assigned to the grill, then pretend to get burned or something—it didn’t have to be anything serious—just something bad enough that Mom would cry and make Dad feel bad and then Dad would say okay, Jordan, you can quit your job. And then she could go back to the spa. She admired her pedicured toes one last time, then idly scanned the Help Wanted section. Thank God, she’d gotten the full grooming package yesterday. If Dad really intended to cut off her allowance, she’d be forced to pay for her own spa treatments. Did he have the slightest idea what he was asking of her? Did he have the first clue how often a girl has to get her bikini line waxed? She’d die of shame if she showed the world a nasty, fur-trimmed bikini line.

Okay, she muttered. "Hank’s Hamburger Hut is hiring—no, skanky uniforms. Dolly’s Seafood Deli is hiring—no, well, okay. Their uniforms aren’t too hideous. At least I won’t die of embarrassment if someone from school sees me."

Then her gaze alighted on something interesting.

---

Attention aspiring actors and crew members!

Dreamwell Productions is coming to Bloomington this summer to film the motion-picture feature, HOUSE OF WAX IX—REVENGE OF THE REVENGENATOR.

Actors needed to fill nonspeaking roles and crewmembers to work behind the scenes.

If interested, please appear at the IMU Frangipani Room on Monday, June 5 at 8:00 a.m. for sign-up and auditions.

---

Jordan sat back with a satisfied sigh. Now, that was more like it, a movie set. She’d work on a movie this summer. How cool was that?

Two

Bright and early on Monday morning, at precisely eight o’clock, Jordan arrived at the front doors of the Indiana Memorial Union. But that’s as far as she got. Her heart sank when she saw the long line of students standing outside the revolving doors to the Union Building, a line starting somewhere deep inside.

What the heck?

Hey, Jordan called out. What are you people doing?

A Goth girl turned and sneered at her. What does it look like we’re doing? We’re in line for movie auditions. She turned to a goateed man and a Shaggy wannabe, standing beside her and shook her head. Why else would we be here?

Jordan shrugged. Oh, I dunno. Maybe you enjoy looking like a bunch of morons?

Goth Girl flashed her an ugly look, then turned back to her companions. But anyway, it’s my personal opinion that the Alexander Technique is better, far better, than Stanislavsky.

The goateed man stroked his beard and nodded. Oh, I agree completely, Natalie.

Shaggy cut in. But Professor Ringland says that—

Oh, who cares what he thinks? Goth Girl laughed, looking around nervously.

Oh, I get it. These are IU theater students. I should have known from their pretentious drivel.

Um, excuse me, Jordan said to a nerdy-looking boy standing ahead of the theater students. She recognized him from school—it’d be hard to miss him with that flaming red hair of his—but she couldn’t quite place his name. Not that it mattered. "Is this the line for the House of Wax auditions?"

Nerd Boy glanced up with surprise, ducked his head, then looked back at Jordan with a flush of embarrassment. Uh, you talking to me?

Um, yeah. Jordan eased into line beside him.

Hey, Natalie protested. No cutting.

Jordan glanced up at Nerd Boy, who flashed Natalie an apologetic smile. She was here earlier. I was just holding her place for her.

Natalie didn’t like this, but what could she say?

Jordan grinned. I can’t believe this is the line for the auditions.

Natalie snorted with derision. Get used to it. If you expect to make it in this business—

What business is that? Jordan asked, taking the measure of Goth Girl’s outfit and many piercings.

Show business, darlin’, Goateed man drawled.

But I don’t want to have a part, Jordan said. I just want to have fun.

Natalie rolled her eyes. Then what are you doing here?

I want to be a gopher. I want to work behind the scenes.

Oh, that is just too boring for words, Natalie said. If I don’t get at least a speaking role, it won’t be worth my time. She ran her fingers through her raven-black hair, piled it up loosely on top of her head as if to pin it, then dropped her hands and shook her hair back out. I expect I’ll be cast in one of the speaking roles.

Goateed man nodded. Definitely.

Natalie beamed in the glow of her own personal fan.

Jordan snickered. Oh, wait. Don’t tell me—you’re going to be head ghoul.

Natalie curled her lip. Unlike the rest of you, I have a personal recommendation from Professor Ringland, and he knows the people who are making this film—

No speaking parts available, Nerd Boy cut in. Only walk-ons and extras.

There, you see? Jordan jutted out her chin to Natalie. You’re wasting your time.

It’s part of the process, Natalie said. I plan to have a personal interview with the director.

Jordan smirked. You can’t be all that special if you’re standing in line with the rest of us.

Natalie glared at her, then turned her back.

Goateed man smiled at Jordan. Plan on being here all day. The line reaches up the stairs and circles around the lobby a couple of times before you catch sight of the Frangipani Room.

Natalie pulled her hair into a ponytail, then released it and shook out her hair so it hung straight down her back. It’ll look good on my résumé when I get to L.A. that I got a walk-on part in a film. I know someone on the production crew, so I can get a private audition for a speaking role.

How’d you finagle that? Goateed man asked, torn between admiration and envy.

Natalie smiled like a cream-fed cat.

But I just wanna be a tech person, Jordan said. "Don’t tell me I have to stand in line for that?"

Nerd Boy nodded. ’Fraid so. His red hair shone in the sun. We have to stand in line for everything. Ghouls, cadavers, wax museum creatures, technical crew, lighting, makeup. You name it, you gotta stand in line. They’re not running this operation very smoothly, I can tell you that.

But I just wanna hand out doughnuts to the crew. Jordan play-acted herself handing out imaginary doughnuts to crewmembers.

Hey. Goateed man chuckled and stroked his chin. See how well she mimes that.

Yeah, Natalie said with sarcasm. "I can taste the glazed doughnut, it’s so real."

Jordan stared aghast at the line of people hurrying into place behind her. She’d arrived at the stroke of eight, congratulating herself on being so prompt, only to realize that the people ahead of her must’ve gotten here hours ago. As she stood in line outside the revolving glass doors, more and more people hurried to join the line. Now it snaked down the sidewalk to the parking lot. Holy cow, Jordan muttered under her breath. What am I gonna do?

Yeah, Natalie said. This is the worst.

Shaggy turned to Natalie. Who got cast at Brown County Playhouse this summer?

Natalie tossed her mane of raven-black hair over her shoulder. Well, me, for starters.

This hair-tossing habit was a little tic in Natalie’s limited arsenal of acting tricks, Jordan noticed, and it was getting mighty tiresome. What was it about the IU theater students? Were they all affected twits?

"Who got cast in Under the Gaslight?" Goateed man asked.

I’m playing Laura—unless, of course, I have to quit for this, Natalie said, to which both Shaggy and Goateed man nodded as if that were perfectly understandable. And Rachel Burns got cast as Mrs. Van Dam. I can’t remember the others.

Rachel’s such a witch, Goateed man noted.

Natalie nodded.

The line crept forward another infinitesimal fraction of an inch. Jordan was not about to stand in line all day long. She had much better things to do with her time. And besides, she was getting tired of listening to the theater students talk shop.

She snuggled up close to Nerd Boy, smiling coquettishly. Look, she said under her breath. This stinks, you know?

He nodded. I know, but what can you do?

She fetched a heavy sigh. For reasons I won’t burden you with—reasons that are entirely my dad’s fault, by the way—I can’t come home today until I land a job.

Okay.

She looked Nerd Boy over with an approving smile. Hey, you’re kinda cute.

Hey, he said sarcastically, thanks for noticing. But he puffed his chest out, all the same.

I’ve got an idea, she said, running her fingers lightly down the length of his arm. A cascade of freckles dotted his skin. It looked kind of cute, actually—in a geeky kind of way, of course. And it’d be natural for a red-haired boy to have freckles all over his skin, after all. Really, he was kind of cute. Why hadn’t she noticed him before? Will you take me out for a soda when we’re through here, today?

Nerd Boy gazed down at her and his eyes brimmed with a sudden light. Sure. But I’d much rather go to Starbucks.

Oh, okay. He must have more money on him than I thought.

She focused her gaze on Nerd Boy with renewed interest. A boy who could afford to take her to Starbucks—with its six-dollar lattés and expensive Frappuccinos—well, that was a boy worth knowing. Truth be told, she wouldn’t ordinarily have given someone like him a second glance at school, but as Charles Dickens liked to say, desperate times called for desperate measures. The geeks were better catches than she realized—all that time spent in electronics and technology and all that money to spend on the right girl.

Oh, sure. She shrugged. Starbucks works for me, too. She glanced around with a stealthy air, then focused her attention back on Nerd Boy. Keep my place in line for me, okay? I’ve gotta run some important errands, but I’ll be back real soon.

He smiled down at her. Okay.

Catch you later, she whispered, and off she trotted.

Three

She noticed a Help Wanted sign in the window of the Primo Café on the square, pulled up the app, filled out the job application form, pushed Send, then lingered outside the restaurant for a few minutes until a text arrived, asking her to come in for an interview.

Easy.

She sauntered in, found the manager, sat down at a table with him as he pulled up her application on his iPad. He spent a ridiculous amount of time reviewing her skimpy résumé, then set the iPad to one side. Okay, miss. Can you start tomorrow?

Yep, no problemo.

I’d like you here at eight for orientation and training. The lunch crowd starts showing up around eleven.

She nodded.

The manager’s eyes moistened, and Jordan had the sudden and horrible impression that this lumpy, middle-aged man was taking in the measure of her, as in, he was undressing her in his sick, pedophilic mind and seeing her completely naked, which was disgusting and perverted and just plain gross.

She curled her lip at him.

He didn’t appear to notice.

Um, no doubt, you’ve eaten here before with your folks, so I’m sure you know the dress code, but I still hafta tell you. You have to wear all black. Head-to-toe black. That’s the uniform. You can wear whatever you want, as long as it’s black.

No problemo. I’ve been meaning to visit to the mall anyway. She grinned to herself. So there. No way Dad could give her a hard time about shopping. She had to get her uniform. She’d need a couple of pairs of low-slung pants, some stretch tee-shirts, and a few microfiber skirts, all in black. That ought to get her through the summer nicely.

Oh, and maybe a black cotton dress for those really hot days at work. Fabulous. She hummed to herself as she sauntered out of the Primo Café on the square, heading back toward the Union Building to catch her place in line.

This holding down a job business was a snap. What in the world was Dad talking about, it being hard?

Four

But to her surprise, when Jordan returned to the Indiana Memorial Union, everyone was gone. This made her uneasy. Did she make a fatal mistake?

She scampered up the marble steps to the Frangipani Room and peeked inside. Whatever had been going on in the room had ended, and people were packing up their things. Tables were being folded back up. Crewmembers were putting their equipment away. Jordan approached a man wearing a tight white tee shirt.

He looked wearily up at her. Whaddaya want?

Is it—is it too late for me to sign up—for anything? Jordan asked with a faltering smile.

You had to be here at eight this morning, the man said curtly. We’re all finished. You’re too late, kid.

Oh, well, that’s too bad.

Yeah, it is.

Jordan turned on her heel and headed toward the exit.

Hey, kid.

She whirled around. The man affixed a piece of paper to a clipboard. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but here’s an application. Fill it out and then put it in that box over there. He pointed to a row of cardboard boxes filled to overflowing with application forms and glossy 8 x 10 photographs.

Thank you.

Don’t mention it.

Jordan found an unoccupied corner, leaned her back against the wall, and filled out the application. Some of the questions were odd. More than odd, downright strange.

---

If chosen for an acting role, and if you are over the age of eighteen years, will you agree to do nudity?

Yes/No

---

Please state if you are allergic to any of the following substances:

Fake blood (catsup, red food coloring) Paraffin wax

---

She marked yes to the nudity question—she was seventeen-going-on-eighteen (just don’t tell Dad)—and marked no to allergies to fake blood and paraffin wax. As she worked her way down the form, she overheard snatches of conversations—again, terribly interesting, terribly strange conversations. I heard they asked Paris Hilton to make a cameo appearance, but she turned them down.

She wanted more money than we’ve got for our entire budget.

Wasn’t she in the first remake?

Yeah, but her character got impaled on a spear in the gas station.

Too bad she didn’t stay impaled.

Oh, she’s not so bad.

She’s not that good, either.

Did you place the order for the paraffin wax?

Oh, crap. No, I didn’t.

Well, get on it, bro. We gotta have it for the first scene. We start filming tomorrow.

Oh, for Pete’s sake. What are we gonna do?

Jordan stuck her pen behind her ear. How much wax do you need?

The two men turned around and stared at her. One of them was the man who’d taken pity on her and given her an application. You know where to find some wax?

She grinned. "Oh yes. I know where I can get my hands on a lot of wax."

She called the Tranquility Spa, got the name of their supplier in Indianapolis and ordered a two-hundred-and-fifty pound shipment of paraffin wax to be delivered to the Frangipani Room the following day.

Best of all?

She had a job.

Five

She arrived on-set the following morning, pushing the shipment of wax in front of her on a dolly. The place was abuzz with worker bees like herself, buzzing around and getting the set ready; official-looking men stalked past her, jabbering into headsets, technical crew members set up lights; extras dressed in white sheets stood in line for the makeup people to paint their faces and hands a ghastly shade of white.

Jordan approached the head makeup woman and gestured to the box on the dolly. "Hi, where do you want