No Romeo Story

Chapter Eleven// Back Room

Emily's Point of View

Even though it is summer vacation, the mall doesn't seem that busy. The certain crowds that are always here still remain the same, but the walkways are actually bareable to walk through.

I collect my name badge from the front desk beside Frankie.

"Hey Emily. I put your clothes in the back, as asked. Boss wanted us to open shop early, I told her you said you'll be in a little later." Her long dark plaits braid to her waist.

"Thanks." My smile cracks, knowing the reason I have to be late is due to the five minute power-walk I have to take from where my mom drops me off to the mall. The parking lot near the ice cream parlour is the furthest point away from the mall entrance. Typical.

Once I have enough money to afford my own gas and that cute necklace from the jewellers, I'll be able to drive myself to work.

"Hey! Boss allocated you the good job. The clothes racks need unloading into idle three, I am stuck with till duty." Her eyes roll simultaneous to a sigh which makes me giggle.

"Wait, what did the boss choose for me to wear?" I follow Frankie down the length of the shop. Her heels click with every stride of her long legs.

Being two years older, she is literally someone to look up to. As well as being sweet, she was the only person besides my boss to welcome me into the job.

As the youngest new member in the group, she made it her own personal assignment to make me feel welcome.

"Boss gave you last month's clothes. I got the new stuff." She teases, her hand opening the door to the back room. "Sorry, but I have been here longer."

I walk in to see my work attire folded on one of the boxes. I snarl with my finger between my teeth, watching Frankie laugh as I break into another smile.

"Good thing red is my colour." I pick them up.

She laughs, pulling the door to a close. "Give me a shout if you need anything!"

My lips smile.

The black mini skirt is too tight and the red top may be a few sizes too cropped, but there is no point in complaining when I can't afford to even cross any lines. Not if those lines are steps away from the fire of getting fired.

I wear the shop's clothes to promote them, but I am handed specific items to wear which mom would no doubtably question if I left the house wearing. That is how Frankie helps.

All week she has left me my clothes in the back room, no questions asked.

"Emily I am glad you are here." One step out of the door and it seems as if the whole mall has decided to come and buy jeans, the crowds around isle three culminating as if the next pair of boyfriend jeans in 26 waist will go any second.

"Boss, what are you wanting me to do?" I ask, the moment I turn my head her figure gone, blocked from view as a group of customers pass to the tills. Another glance over and Frankie is scanning bar codes, a job I wish I had been given.

I rush over to the isle with the shout of a women in her early thirties tugging the belt of some jeans attached to the hands of a teenager with purple smoky eye makeup and bright blue lips. Their argument results with my arms colliding with the denim they both scream for.