You put on the itchy shirt. The one with buttons all the way up, the kind we hated because you can't run in it. You keep touching the collar like it might come loose and let you breathe.
You keep saying you are "a hard worker" and "a team player" to a stranger behind a desk. You practiced it in the mirror this morning. Twelve times. I counted. Your voice went up at the end like a question even when it wasn't one.
Remember when someone asked what you wanted to be, you said astronaut, or the person who names the dinosaurs, or maybe both on the same day, and it didn't feel like a lie? Now they ask where you see yourself in five years and you make your face very smooth and say something safe.
You are so scared they will say no. But here is the thing I can see and you can't: you are good at this. You already learned to look someone in the eye. You learned to shake a hand and not laugh. You learned all the boring hard grown-up things I never wanted to learn.
They asked what your weakness is and you said "I work too much." That's not true. Your real weakness is you forget to eat lunch when you're nervous. I still know that one.
When it's over you sit in the car and let out a big breath and check your phone.
Will you get ice cream after, even if you don't get the job? You used to always get the ice cream.
That part was the whole point.