Survive—Chapter 1

 

“Paper or plastic?” With my best fake smile, I gaze at the old lady in front of me, my fingers drumming on the small ledge next to the cash register when she doesn’t respond. My eyes wander to the line of customers behind her and I sigh—so much for the extra bathroom break I so desperately need.

“What did you say, dear?” She fiddles with the small plastic hearing aid behind her ear.

“Do you want paper or plastic?” I ask a few octaves higher, hoping my words get through this time.

“Oh, paper, dear.” Her lips split into a toothless grin. “Plastic is bad for the environment.”

This time, my smile is genuine—someone her age who is concerned about the pollution future generations will have to endure totally rocks. My attention turns to Ricky, our bagging clerk, and I give him the thumbs-up, our sign for paper bags. He nods, but I’m not sure if he understands or just bounces to the music blasting through his earplugs.

He grabs a paper bag and I start to scan the first item. One by one, the groceries move forward on the belt, a low metallic beep indicating I’m doing it correctly. The lady is a health nut, buying mostly salads, fruits and vegetables, and lean chicken breast. The only sin is a small box of chocolates.

“That will be forty-two sixty-five,” I say when I’m done.

“Can I get a lottery ticket, please?”

I point to the customer service desk. “Sorry, we don’t sell them at the register anymore. You have to go over there.”

It takes her forever to count out the money, the line growing with every penny she places on the small space in front of me. I peek into her wallet and see an extra ten dollars, but she insists on giving me the exact change. After that, she is on her way.

I turn to the next customer with my fake smile, but the voice of Mr. Hill, the store manager, stops me before I can get started.

“Aeree, a word, please.”

Usually, he is friendly enough, but this time, he looks like he just choked down a glass of lemon juice. His lips are pressed together in a thin line as he regards me with a sullen expression.

My eyes dart from his face to the long line of customers and back to him. “Now?”

“Yes.” He signals for Tammy from the customer service desk to come over.

“Finish here,” he hisses before shooting me a nasty glare.

Somehow, I can’t shake the feeling I’m in trouble, though I can’t figure out what I could have possibly done wrong. I’m always polite, on time, and never have any cash shortage in the register. This is an entry-level job at the supermarket and hard to screw up.

He ushers me into his office and, to my surprise, closes the door behind us. The hairs on my neck rise in alarm—I’m not comfortable being around men on my own, especially those I don’t know well. My body tenses when he gives me a curt smile that doesn’t hit his eyes and points at the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit down.”

I oblige with hesitation, lowering myself on the front edge of the chair with my feet firmly planted on the ground. I measure the distance to the door—five, maybe six steps—too far to make a safe escape. If he tries anything, he will taste blood.

“Well, Aeree, it has been brought to the shop’s attention that you lied on your employment application.”

This earns him a frown. “Excuse me, what are you implying, sir?” I know exactly what he is getting at, but decide to play ignorant to try to salvage my job. Not that it is a great job, but with my rocky past, my options are severely limited.

“We received information that you have a criminal record you did not disclose.”

Busted. I force a sweet smile. “Well, don’t they always say people deserve a second chance? I’m an outstanding employee—that should count for something.”

“You still lied. Store policy is clear that, in an instance like this, I have to let you go.”

“Don’t you at least want to hear my side of the story?” The desperation in my voice makes me cringe. I swear to myself that I will not resort to begging like the last time—screw him and his job.

“It’s a little late for that. If you raised this in the interview, I would’ve been more than willing to listen, but not now.” His face is stern; he reminds me of the judge who sentenced me four years ago when all that shit happened.

“Okay.” I hate how timid I sound.

“You have fifteen minutes to clean out your locker. Your last paycheck will be available on Friday.” He makes a sour face and scribbles something on a piece of paper before waving his arms, apparently his way of dismissal. “I’m sorry it has come to this. You can go now.”

“Fine, your loss.” I jump to my feet and storm out, my heart screaming about another injustice. There’s no way the prick would have hired me if I had been truthful. People with felony convictions don’t make good employees, no matter what they say. It’s a fact of life I have learned the hard way. My chances of ever finding a decent job are nil.

I purposely bang the door of the locker against the wall a few times to get rid of my anger, but it doesn’t help, even when I kick against it and leave a good dent. The result is only a sore toe. Cussing under my breath, I stuff my phone and lunch box into my backpack, glancing around the staff room one more time. The job sucked anyway. I don’t need this. My husband earns enough money and will take care of me for the rest of my pitiful existence. Screw these people and their judgmental attitudes.

Chin held high, I march out of the shop without bothering to say goodbye to anyone. Mitch can pick up my paycheck or they can mail it—I don’t intend to ever set foot into this hellhole again. I swallow down the lump in my throat as the automatic doors slide open, only the cold harsh world awaiting me on the other side.

As I walk to my car, a tingling sensation spreads along my scalp. I gaze around. It almost feels as if someone is watching me. The parking lot is empty except for a woman and her kid who mind their own business. I squint at the windows of the supermarket; no set of eyes gawks back. An empty soda can rattles and holds my attention as the wind carries it over the smooth asphalt, which glimmers from the heat of the midday sun.

I tear my gaze off the can and continue my way to the car. The feeling of eyes burning into my skull persists. By the time I slide into the small convertible that Mitch got me for Christmas, my body screams from the tension, and I’m covered in cold sweat.

I try to ignore the prickling feeling in my scalp when I start the car and pull out of the parking lot. The heat is probably driving me crazy—nothing a cold drink can’t fix. On my way home, I stop at another supermarket and pick up a few cans of zero cola and a six-pack of beer for Mitch. Slurping the ice-cold drink, the liquid runs down my throat with a tingle, taking off the edge. The prickling is still in my scalp, but I’m probably just getting paranoid. There is no one watching me—my life is way too boring for that.