“Totally, I mean, I’m sure by tomorrow he’ll have had time to adjust to the situation and be okay with it.” Zoe sucked up a bit too much of her drink and threw her right hand to her forehead. “Ow, Mary Lou Hou! Brain freeze!”
As I watched Zoe rub her temples I thought of Brandon, and I hoped he had calmed down some. I wanted to talk to him one more time. Not that I even knew what I was going to say to him when I saw him again. Somehow, I just felt like I needed to apologize or something. Methodically, I switched from the hot pink shirts to the neon green ones.
“Marissa!” Taylor squawked behind me.
Oh great! “Yes?” I quickly made sure the green shirt I was folding had perfect edges the way she liked.
Taylor stood in front of me and crossed her arms. “I trust you know this is work time not social time.” She glanced over at Zoe, who half-smiled at her as she sucked up some more slushie.
“Miss, do you have this shirt in teal?” Zoe picked up one of the shirts I had been folding.
Taylor rolled her eyes. “Finish the green shirts and then resize the skinny jeans rack. And I don’t want to see anyone who isn’t a customer in here hanging around.” She gave Zoe one last glare before turning on her heel and heading back to the registers.
“Ugh, she annoys me.” Zoe said.
I realigned the pile of green shirts. “Yeah well, the last thing I need is to lose this job, so you’d better go.”
“Oh all right, but listen, call me later, okay? I’m off to check out the shoe sale at Rio’s.” If there was one thing Zoe didn’t need any more of, it was shoes. But I had to smile as I watched her walk away ready to give her father’s charge card a workout. And I felt only a wee bit jealous. Okay, more than a wee bit, I suppose, but it’s not like I can be mad at her for having a father who makes a lot of money. Part of me can be kind of mad at her for having a father in general, since I never did. That and the fact that we don’t wear the same size shoes.
Working at a store like Denim, you soon come to realize that customers never put anything back where it’s supposed to go. Now, I know it’s my job to put the items back properly, but is it that hard to put the size eight jeans back with the size eights? I walked over to the skinny jeans rack and began resizing.
I wondered if Brandon would be in school tomorrow. Size six in size four. Would I even be able to face him if he was? Size ten in size two. What did he tell his little brother when he got home? Size eight in size zero. How did he explain the letter to him? Size twelve in size eight. Maybe he would take the day off from school so he and his family could revisit the grave and set a new balloon with the letter free again. Size ten in size six. Would his little brother cry? Size zero in size twelve. Maybe Brandon would do it alone to spare any more grief to his little brother. Size eight in size six. Maybe he would give the letter to his mother instead to let her figure out what to do. Size two petites in size two regular. Maybe they were meeting with a lawyer to see if they could press charges against me for invasion of privacy. No, that’s not possible. Size four in size ten. I didn’t even open the letter. Size twelve tall in size ten regular. Would Brandon even accept an apology from me if I offered one?
Once the rack was perfectly sized, I went to find Taylor to request my break. I found her sitting in her “office” — a student-sized desk and an ironing board.
“Did you finish the skinny jeans?” She was busy working on schedules. And she hated to be interrupted when she worked on schedules.
“Yup, they’re perfect. Could I take my fifteen now?” I was so thirsty. It felt like I hadn’t had a drink in days. My head was starting to get foggy. If I didn’t get some water in me soon there would be no way I could resize or organize anything.
Taylor let out a heavy sigh. “Make sure they don’t need coverage at the registers. If they don’t, then yes, you can take your fifteen.” I turned to leave when she started talking again. “And Marissa, fifteen means fifteen, not twenty.”
“Got it.” I made sure the girls at the registers were all set, and I headed for the food court.
I was sitting at one of the tables in front of the Sweet Cones stand sipping my water while wishing I was eating a soft-serve vanilla cone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone trying to get my attention. As I glanced to my right, I saw Rob, a guy who works at Freshly Made, waving at me.
“Hey! Is this seat taken?”
Before I could reply, he sat down across from me. Rob had started working at Freshly Made around the same time I started at Denim six months ago, now. I had come to the food court to get a salad on my first day working at Denim. It was Rob’s first day too. When I asked for a Caesar salad with chicken, he gave me a chef salad on iceberg. We met each other later that day as we both walked to the employee area of the parking lot and exchanged first day horror stories. His were much worse. Anything in food service is far worse than learning to fold T-shirts with a clipboard.
“Is your dragonlady boss working today?”
He pushed his
