The laughter was not loud at first, but it was sharp enough to cut. It slipped out in short bursts, disguised as coughs and half-hidden behind smirks as the poor teen stepped forward with his papers trembling in his hands. The lobby felt too polished for someone like him, its floors gleaming beneath framed certificates and expensive lighting. People in pressed suits and tailored dresses filled the seats, carrying themselves with the ease of belonging. He felt immediately that he stood apart.
He noticed the way eyes dropped to his worn shoes before lifting again with quiet judgment. A man near the back leaned toward a companion and whispered something that drew two quick grins. The woman seated at the front desk paused just a second too long before accepting his application, her gaze lingering on the frayed cuffs of his borrowed jacket. “What position are you applying for?” she asked, her tone already flat with disinterest. “Internship,” he replied softly, forcing his voice not to waver.
This time the laughter came more openly, one short bark of amusement that was not even disguised. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, reminding himself of the script he had practiced endlessly. Walk in, hand over the papers, say thank you, and leave with dignity no matter the outcome. The sleeves of the jacket he had borrowed from a neighbor stopped awkwardly above his wrists, and the scent of cheap detergent clung stubbornly to the fabric. He wished briefly that it smelled less obvious.
“Do you meet the qualifications?” the woman asked as she flipped through the pages without much interest. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “All of them.” A man leaning against the wall scoffed loudly enough for everyone to hear and muttered about the school listed on the form. The teen heard every word but did not allow himself to react.
The panel seated behind the desk barely glanced up from the papers. Three of them sat in a row, two men and one woman, skimming his application as though it were already decided. “Any prior experience?” one of the men asked without looking at him directly. “No, sir,” the teen admitted. “But I—” The man lifted a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence, and the interruption triggered another wave of muted laughter.
Heat rushed to the teen’s face as his fingers tightened around the folder, the edges pressing into his palms. He reminded himself why he had come, replaying his mother’s words in his mind. Just try. That’s all you can do. The woman at the desk closed the folder with a soft snap and offered a perfunctory smile. “Thank you. You’ll hear from us,” she said, the dismissal clear.
He nodded politely and thanked them for their time, though he knew the words were empty. As he turned, someone called out for the next applicant before he had even reached the waiting area. He walked back past rows of candidates who suddenly seemed deeply engrossed in their phones. One girl glanced at him briefly, her expression flickering with discomfort before she looked away. He lowered himself into a chair slowly.
The laughter resumed, softer now that he was seated. A man whispered that it was a waste of time to let anyone apply. The teen stared down at the crack in the tile near his feet, tracing its jagged line with his eyes while counting his breaths. He thought about the two-hour bus ride he had taken, standing the entire way to save money. He thought about skipping lunch so he could afford the printing fees for his application.
A door at the front of the room opened, and the same woman stepped out holding a clipboard. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor, commanding attention. The chatter dissolved into silence as she cleared her throat. “We’ll be calling names now,” she announced. The room straightened collectively, confidence settling back into postures and expressions.
The teen did not adjust his seat. He was already preparing himself for the long ride home and the conversation he would have with his mother. The woman glanced down at her clipboard and hesitated, her pause stretching just long enough to shift the air. Then she looked up. “Next,” she said, her voice carrying across the room. “We’d like to speak with—” She called his name clearly.
For a heartbeat, he thought he had imagined it. The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar in that setting. He glanced around, expecting another person to rise. No one did. The woman repeated his name, louder and unmistakable. Every trace of laughter vanished from the room.
Heads turned slowly toward him, expressions transforming from amusement to disbelief. He stood carefully, his legs stiff as his chair scraped loudly against the polished floor. Each step toward the front felt unreal, as though he were walking through water. The man who had scoffed earlier shifted uneasily and whispered in confusion, asking if that was really him.
When he reached the desk, he handed his folder back to the woman. Her tone had softened noticeably. “Please, have a seat,” she said, gesturing toward the panel. The three members looked at him fully for the first time, not at his shoes or jacket but at his face. One of the men leaned forward and tapped a page in the folder.
“You didn’t mention this in your application,” he said. “Your project. The one that won last year.” The teen swallowed, surprised. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he replied honestly. The woman on the panel raised her brows slightly. “It mattered,” she said.
A murmur rippled through the waiting room behind him as recognition dawned among the other applicants. The teen sat upright, hands folded tightly in his lap, answering each question that followed. They asked how he built the project, who had helped him, and what motivated him to apply. He answered simply and truthfully, without embellishment. His voice grew steadier with each response.
When he finished, the panel exchanged measured glances. The man who had cut him off earlier cleared his throat, his demeanor altered. He admitted that they received many applications but very few like his. The woman on the panel acknowledged quietly that their earlier laughter had been a mistake. The room behind him was completely silent now, every person listening.
“We don’t usually do this,” one panelist said carefully. “But we’d like to offer you the position.” The teen blinked, certain he had misheard. He asked softly for them to repeat it. The woman smiled genuinely this time and confirmed that he had been accepted.
A breath escaped his chest, heavy and overwhelming. His hands trembled openly as he stood, gratitude rising through him. He thanked them sincerely and promised he would not waste the opportunity. One of the panelists nodded, replying that they believed him. Behind him, someone gasped quietly.
As he walked back through the room, the eyes that followed him felt entirely different. There was no mockery left in them, only shock and something resembling respect. The man who had laughed earlier kept his gaze lowered, his jaw set tight. The teen passed him without acknowledgment.
Outside in the hallway, he paused and leaned against the cool wall, letting the moment settle. The rejection he had braced himself for had not come. Instead, he had been given something far greater than acceptance. Behind the closed door, the laughter that had once filled the room did not return.
