“I met some girl earlier and she filled me in.”
“Brown hair, crazy tall, has a brother?” he asked.
“Yep, that would be her, except I didn’t meet the brother.”
“That would be Bethany and her brother Matt,” he said in a tone that was hard to place.
I looked at him wondering what the issue was, instantly suspecting it had something to do with her attire.
I turned my attention back to the less-than-friendly cashier as she scanned my items, deciding right then and there he was way out of my league.
“We’re all in the same class,” he continued. “Though they don’t like the rest of us all that much,” he added.
“Why not?” I asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“Not sure,” he replied, shrugging slightly. “Are you a junior or a senior?” He asked, changing the subject.
“Senior, and I have to admit, it’s wigging me out a little that we will be in the same school with a bunch of munchkins,” I said, grimacing.
He threw back his head and laughed.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, they keep us pretty separated.”
“So, is this the only job around here?” I asked, hoping for the opportunity to finally get a job.
“Pretty much. My dad owns the store, so I was a shoo-in,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed. “I could put a word in for you if you would like?” he said, shooting me one of his knee-melting-palm-sweating-dimpled smiles.
“Um, that’s okay.” I replied, not entirely crazy about being indebted to him.
“You sure? It’s no prob, my dad’s a fair boss and such.”
“That’s okay, but it’s cool you have a built-in job.”
“Yeah, well, he kind of owns a bunch of stores, but we live close to this one so I’m pretty much slave labor since he’s actually just grooming me for the fu-”
“How did you want to pay?” An impatient voice asked, interrupting him.
“Oops, sorry,” I said, turning back to the slightly aggravated sales clerk. “Um, with this,” I said, trying not to let it show that I was bothered about paying with my mom’s food stamp card. I shifted my body to the side so I wasn’t facing the cute bag boy that was making my pulse act erratically.
“Are you Lucinda Richards?” she asked, reading my mom’s name off the card.
“No, that’s my mom,” I said, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow me whole so I could escape. Even a meteor crashing through the roof would have been preferred.
“Then your mom will have to come in and sign for it,” she said almost gleefully, enjoying the fact that she was putting me on the spot.
“I never had a problem before,” I said coolly in an effort to cover my embarrassment. Being poor was definitely not fun at times.
“Marge, I’m sure it’s okay,” the bag boy said, coming to my rescue.
“Maybe I should call the manager to check,” she said in a defiant voice.
“Marge, my dad owns the store and I said it's okay,” he said in a voice that left no argument.
“Fine, but if I get in any trouble, I’m telling your father you approved it,” she said, clearly aggravated at being trumped by a seventeen-year-old.
I kept my head held high, trying to act like the entire confrontation hadn’t mortified me. Paying with the food stamp card was always embarrassing, but the majority of the time the stores were so busy no one paid much attention to you.
I met my rescuer’s eyes dead-on, feeling completely vulnerable as he seemed to peer through my defenses.