WunderGirl -2- (Patreon)

 ~ Day 1 ~

* * * * *

Sam

* * * * *

I groan as Mom wakes me up at six to get ready for work—at the stupid lumberyard. She's going to drive me and drop me off on her way to work. I turn over in bed and pull the covers over my head. She just pulls them all off the bed, leaving me completely coverless.

She's all bright and cheery as she exclaims, "OK, Sam—enough procrastinating! Up and at 'em! You can shower after your day at the lumberyard since there's no doubt that you will just get dirty there anyway. So, for now, you just need to wash your face and moisturize with the day cream—oh, and don't forget the eyedrops! I'll supervise—now, get to it!"

I hate this! It's summer—I shouldn't have to get up at the crack of dawn! OK, so dawn was a while back, but still!

I shouldn't have to go to work at some crappy job that I'm not in any way, shape, or form cut out for! What happened to being a kid and enjoying summer? Aren't there child labor laws?

Then it sinks in what she said… Right… There's the trial on top of the lumberyard. That thing that I did agree to. Without all the labor—or having to get up at the crack of dawn!

Well, I mean, I sort of agreed to it—just not the way it wound up turning out after Mom got involved.

She made me watch all of the YouTube videos with her last night, and then she quizzed me on everything—three times! What have I gotten myself into?

Mom on my case about doing this trial stuff—and Dad on my case about the lumberyard.

Chad thinks it's all hilarious. Of course, he's still royally pissed that he's grounded—and he totally blames me for it. I don't feel one bit sorry for him, though. Not really. He's the one that left me alone! I mean, sure—it worked out for me with getting in on the trial. Well, like I said—sort of until Mom got involved. I'm still not sure what I've been signed up for now.

Anyway, it's not my fault that I was willing to think outside the box!

When Gemma found out what happened, she was both excited and mad that I got into the trial. She mostly seems to just be jealous—she keeps trying to steal the experimental products. Mom had to get on to her twice last night when she tried to sneak off with the night cream.

At any rate, according to Ginny's instructions, I was not supposed to start yesterday, which she called 'day zero,' because she wants me to only do full-day 'treatments'—so today is officially 'day one' of my trial.

I shake my head to wake up before I start running the water to get it warm. I had no idea that using body care products was so complicated! I thought I was just going to use some body wash and shampoo. Those videos made a huge deal of applying things correctly—with dire warnings about making sure I use things only on the proper body parts and in the correct order.

It sounded like there would be catastrophic consequences if I don't follow the instructions. I have no idea what those might be, but Mom made sure that I fully understand the process with all of her quizzing.

I let the running water get slightly lukewarm like the video said, although I guess I could also just use it cold—which is how Mom said she does it herself. I have no idea what difference it makes.

Mom scrutinizes my technique as I wash my face in the prescribed circular motions, following that with splashes of water to rinse it clean. It does tingle and feels kind of funny. I gently pat my face dry with a towel and notice that my skin now feels really tight.

I move the muscles around in my face to try and stretch the skin, but it doesn't help. Then Mom watches me apply the day cream. I once again follow the instructions on the video—I take out a small amount with a finger, spread and warm it in my palms, and carefully apply it to my face by pressing my palms into it and kind of stretching my skin with the pressure. It tingles stronger and feels some sort of funny—but nice.

The moisture from the cream seems to help with the tightness in my skin, which is a relief! The tightness was disconcerting.

After finishing with the washing and moisturizing, I get the eyedrops and hand them to Mom with a shrug. Eventually, I will get to where I can put them in on my own, but for now, she helps me put them in.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it was certainly not what I got! I loudly gasp when the first one goes in.

It stings like crap! I mean, I'm seriously worried about going blind!!!

Before I can complain, she has already put the drop into my other eye, and I squeeze both eyes tightly shut in utter agony as torrents of tears stream down my face. It continues to sting, and I jump up and down and bite my tongue to keep from cussing—Mom hates it when I do that! Finally, I gripe, "Mom! That really stings!"

She takes a deep breath and asks, "Well, on a scale of one to ten—how bad?"

I try and give her a look, but my eyes are still watering, and a flood of tears is streaming from them. Really? Can't she see my reaction? I retort, "Well, if 'one' equals a 'tickle my eye with a feather' and 'ten' equals a 'burn my eye out with molten lava'—probably, at least a five or six."

She giggles and says, "Sorry, that was a funny analogy, but quite descriptive! I'll ask Ginny about it when I get to work. As long as it's not molten lava!" She giggles again.

I sigh, "She said something weird about 'getting the red out'—this feels like it's putting the red in! As in red-hot fire!" More giggling from her and another attempt at a disdainful look—still without any luck.

After a few minutes, the stinging finally stops, and I scrutinize my eyes in the mirror. I pull my eyelids apart and fully expect to see molten eyeball! Everything looks fine—not a bit of red in sight. They're bright white! Like porcelain.

I shrug in resigned relief—I don't get the need!

I take one last look and am happy to confirm that my vision seems fine, so I finish getting dressed. As I do, I notice that the tingling in my face is slowly subsiding. I sigh as I try to ignore all of the weird feelings and go down to get breakfast.

Now, if only the dread of going to the lumberyard would go away like the tingling—I just can't ignore that!

* * * * *

Julia

* * * * *

I get ready after supervising Sam wash and moisturize his face. I'm a little worried about the eyedrops stinging like he says they do. I couldn't help but giggle at his 'lava' scale, but he seemed to be OK. I just make a note to check with Ginny and see if we need to adjust anything.

I look over at Gary—he's still asleep. He's working the closing shift at the car dealership today. Chad goes in later to the lumberyard, as well—also working the store there to closing. So, I'm going to go into work a little early and drop Sam off at the lumberyard. That will give me a chance to stop by R&D and talk to Ginny.

She said she starts early, so I will have time to run things by her.

After we eat, I usher Sam to the car and drop him off ten minutes before he's scheduled to start. I know he's not excited about this—and I can't blame him. He gets out of the car like I'm sending him to his own funeral. He's just not cut out for hard labor like they will expect from him at a sawmill—at least not until puberty finally finds him.

I watch him slowly walk into the building, then drive on into work, wondering what my day will bring! This is my first day in the new job, and I'm going to be a busy girl learning the new ropes. Marketing is so much different than sales. I didn't become one of the top employees in sales by not doing what it takes, though. Sometimes, I think that's why they've resisted moving me into the Marketing & Modeling Department.

I was too good at what I did—not that you could tell by what they paid me.

I can't help but grin, though. Things are going to change now! It's hard to believe it took Sam to make that happen, but I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth! I know I pushed him into a more-involved contract than he anticipated, but what can it harm? Like they're going to want him to model!

I giggle at the thought and take the detour to R&D on the way to my new office area in search of Ginny. As promised, she's in her lab, and I wave to her through the glass doors. She waves back at me and motions for me to come in.

I exude early morning cheer with my current mood, "Good morning, Ginny! How's it going?"

She smiles and says, "Good morning, Julia! Ready to start that new position?"

I smile back and gush, "Oh, gosh, yes! I can't wait even though I am a little nervous! I've wanted to do this since I started here! Anyway, I have a quick question for you from Sam."

She pours us a cup of coffee, and I tell her about his issues with the drops. She guffaws at his 'lava' scale, then purses her lips in thought as she says, "Well, we have found that the drops can sting more at first, then get better as the subjects' eyes adjust to them. Generally, that just means that the person has very dry eyes, which is partially what the drops are for. As the drops help with the symptoms of the dry eyes, the stinging gets better. Keep me posted if it's not any better by day five—or if it gets worse. Otherwise, I'll be sure and follow up with him in our next weekly check-in."

I promise to do so and leave to go nervously to report to my new boss, Greta Garner.

I walk into my new department several minutes later, since it's quite a walk. Greta is already in—even though it's still early—and greets me with a bright smile, "Good morning, Julia! Ready to be our newest WunderGirl?"

I giggle enthusiastically and nod—and she pulls me straight into my induction. Like any WunderGirl, I'll be trained in marketing and also cosmetics modeling for the company—along with being contracted out for any type of commercial modeling shoot.

* * * * *

Mr. Rollings

* * * * *

I look up as Sam Brinkley gets out of his mother's car and screw up my face in bewilderment.

To be honest, if Gary weren't such a good friend and Chad such a good employee, I would have outright laughed when Gary brought him in for a job. There's no way I can have him working out in the yard or running the saws for any number of reasons.

I'm honestly totally at a loss as to what to do with him. Maybe I can use him just to sweep up and make coffee and stuff. I think I'm basically going to pay him good money for little output.

I watch him dejectedly walk towards the door. He'd certainly make a better girl with his stature. I mean, look at him! He looks like he's maybe thirteen—Chad was already well into puberty at the age Sam looks. And Sam is two years older than he seems.

I shake my head—he'll likely only be able to handle typical jobs that I would give the occasional girl that insists on working around here. Of course, I pay them only minimum wage—and they get fewer hours. Sam will be getting a dollar more and working more hours than I would give a girl. Of course, he's only fifteen, which means I'm restricted on what I can have him do by law, anyway—not that I didn't let Chad work the saws at that age.

He finally slinks up to me and has a mixture of a glum and sour look on his face. It's pretty clear he doesn't want to be here anymore than I really have a need for him. He's going to have a tough time with the guys—at least they typically flirt with the girls.

I'll have to watch out what I let him do—I don't need a lawsuit because he got hurt doing an everyday chore that a boy his age should be able to handle. Heck! I've had girls here that could probably do more than he'll be able to!

He mutters glumly, "Good morning, Mr. Rollings. What do you want me to start with?"

I put on a forced smile and scratch my head. This is going to be more of a challenge than I first even thought. If this will be his attitude on top of everything else, I don't know how it's going to work. Finally, I ask, "Do you know how to make coffee? No? Of course, you don't… Well, you're getting ready to learn. And smile for Chrissake! I've seen lumberjacks cut into their legs with an ax have happier faces than yours!"

I'm not sure, but I think he rolls his eyes. He does attempt to smile—sort of. It may be a grimace. I'm not sure!

Jimmy, my son, comes in before I can say anything else and sees Sam. He blurts out, "What're you doing here, Squirt? Your brother doesn't start until later since he's closing tonight."

That's just what I need, my son egging on his foul mood.

I admonish him, "Jimmy! Stop torturing the help! Just because you're my son—and he's your best friend's brother doesn't give you the right to call him names! Now, show him how to make coffee. Then—I guess he can at least learn to count logs, or something…"

I shake my head and leave him with Jimmy. I need to recheck my liability policy—just in case.

* * * * *

Chad

* * * * *

I get to the lumberyard a few minutes early. I'm still pissed at my little squirt of a brother. I'm only allowed to drive straight to work and then straight home for the next two weeks. I mean, I will have to get gas, though—so, I'll be able to sneak in a visit with Alice. And if she happens to come by the lumberyard store to look for some hardware, is that my fault?

But the Squirt is still in for it! I can't believe he didn't say anything to me at the Quick Mart before he disappeared! OK, so what if I was busy kissing Alice? Couldn't he wait a few minutes? Just leaving that note and going off with a total stranger like that. I really do have an idiot for a brother!

I shake my head as I walk into the main building, where I run into Jimmie coming out of the break room. He snorts when he sees me, "Hey, Bro. The Squirt's outside. I had no idea he was going to work here. Is it some sort of joke your Dad's pulling? He said he was making him."

I groan, "No. And I wound up getting grounded over the whole thing!" I tell him about all the strange goings-on yesterday.

Jimmie snorts, "You mean he's actually in a cosmetics trial? Wait until the guys hear about this!"

I shake my head and plead, "Leave it alone, Jimmie! I'm pissed at him, and he's going to pay! But he's going to have it hard enough around here as it is. Which will spill over to me with Mom and Dad—they'll somehow put it on me to watch out for him. You know how the guys out there can be!"

He shakes his head back and says, "OK. Maybe you're right. I mean, so far, all he's done today is make coffee—terrible coffee at that—and count logs. I'm supposed to have him sweep up in here before he leaves. Basically, Dad has him doing things he would if he had a girl. I'm surprised he's not paying him like one."

I shrug, "Well, it wasn't my idea to have him work here! My Dad's just so weird about it. He thinks it will make him man up. As much as I hate to stick up for the Squirt—it's not his fault he's lacking in the hormone department. After yesterday, I'm not so sure about the brains department, either. Anyway, what do I know? Maybe Dad knows something, and this will somehow kick-start some major development, and he'll bulk up."

I watch him struggle to climb up on a pile of logs and mark them as he counts them.

I shake my head in wonder. The wisdom of my father truly escapes me at the moment.

* * * * *

Sam

* * * * *

The day drags on. I'm scheduled to work eight hours today—and since I'm only fifteen, I can't work more than thirty hours a week, so I'm just scheduled for two eight-hour shifts and two seven-hour ones a week.

Mr. Rollings seems as happy to have me here as I am to be here. In other words, we seem to agree on one thing—I don't belong here. I overheard Jimmie muttering something about his Dad having me doing the girls' jobs. I'm not sure what that means, though. I'm sure it wasn't a compliment.

So far, my duties have been to make sure the coffee pot stays full and to count logs. It's been about as stimulating as watching paint dry! An hour before my shift is supposed to end, Jimmie comes to find me on a pile of logs. I nearly fall off, and he has to catch me to keep me from breaking my leg—or neck.

I grumpily thank him, and he says, "Careful, Squirt! Good thing you're light! Anyway, grab that push broom and sweep up around saw number one—we're done with it for the day. When you get that all spiffy and loaded in the composter, you can sweep the store—however far you get until your time is up."

I sigh and get the broom. I grudgingly start sweeping up the piles of sawdust. It's also harder than you would think—the piles of sawdust are really deep. I get the last pile loaded into the wheelbarrow and dumped in the composter and groan. I'm sticky with sweat and covered in itchy dust. This is what my summer is going to be like? Really?

I give the composter one final glaring look as I sneeze and go inside to start sweeping the store. I move the dirt around until the clock finally hits four-thirty, and I can clock out. I take a deep breath and go out to wait for Mom to come pick me up—still sweaty and uncomfortable.

She pulls up at a quarter to five, and I wearily climb into the car. I close the door and send out a silent prayer that I won't have to go back tomorrow.

Mom cheerily asks, "So, how was your first day, Hon?" 

I just give her a sour look and retort, "Just great. How was yours?"

Either she doesn't get my sarcasm, or she chooses to ignore it. She gushes, "Awesome! I learned a lot about marketing and did some practice modeling. What did they have you do?"

I tell her about my crappy jobs for the day, and she pats my knee sympathetically as she says, "Well, it was just your first day. Maybe it will get better. When we get home, you need to hit the shower and make sure you use your products. I almost didn't let you in the car!" She giggles.

She then tells me what Ginny said about the eyedrops.

I sigh, "Dry eyes? Well, yeah—with all of the sawdust flying around today, they felt irritated, but I've never noticed it being an issue before. She's sure it will get better?"

Mom shakes her head. "She thinks so. We'll just have to keep an eye on it!" She winks, and I groan at her terrible pun.

As soon as we get home, I run up to my bathroom to take a shower and get all the itchy sawdust off. I use all the products as directed and step out of the shower, tingling all over. It's really strong—almost unpleasant even. But pleasant at the same time. It's hard to explain.

My scalp is tingling so bad, it almost itches. I try and ignore it as I rub in the body lotion everywhere below my neck, as instructed. That just further increases the tingling, and I feel like my skin is crawling, but I'm starting to get more used to it. In any case, by the time supper rolls around, the tingling has sort of slowly faded to a faint background feeling.

Mom and I eat alone, and then I go to my room to play video games. 

When Dad gets home around eight, I have to come down to tell him about my day—he's much less sympathetic about my plight than Mom was, and I just grumble and go back to my room when he finally has enough of torturing me with how good this will be for me.

I'm in the middle of an intense battle when Mom knocks on my door at ten and says, "Time to wash your face and hit the hay, Hon. I'll be getting you up at six again."

I sigh and shut down my game before going into my bathroom to repeat the procedure from this morning—only with the night cream. The eyedrops still feel like a hot poker in my eye, but I guess that's better than hot, molten lava.

Right?