Briyana
If she wasn’tmy boss, I might’ve whooped her ass.
When the woman I’d interviewed with asked if she could post me on the Just Kickin’ It Instagram page as the new hire, I had only agreed under one condition.
Please don’t tag me.
And what did her “so excited to have me” ass do?
Tag me.
Honestly, I thought it was weird that my Instagram handle had even been a part of the job application. But I suppose in the age of sneaker influencers and hype beasts, it was valuable for places like this to know if the person they were hiring was truly invested in the culture since their presence would only attract more like-minded individuals to the store, a fact that had already proven to be true since following fellow sneakerheads in the city online was the only reason I’d known to apply here.
Obviously, being a “sneaker enthusiast” -which was just their fancy way of saying sales associate- wasn’t the job I’d hoped to have at this stage of my life. But since it was at least relevant to my interests and I was already sick of being at my father’s house, I’d jumped at the opportunity with hopes of saving up enough money to get out of there sooner rather than later, grateful that the pay structure allowed me to earn both a decent hourly wage and 7% commission on all items sold since the sneakers we offered weren’t exactly the kind you’d find at your local Foot Locker.
Not that you couldn’t find dope shoes at Foot Locker.
But Just Kickin’ It had an insane collection of rare finds, limited editions, dead stocks, and even a few “holy grails” which all had crazy resale value. And since places like these tended to attract people with deep pockets who were often coming to buy more than one pair of shoes at a time, that little 7% added up, especially after you talked the person into buying a t-shirt or two to go with their new kicks.
Of course, that only worked when there were actually customers in the store. So during slow moments like this particular Tuesday afternoon, I was left to entertain myself until someone came in, choosing to do so by fielding the hundreds of follower requests I’d received on Instagram over the last few weeks which only reminded me why I wanted to beat my boss’s ass.
Because of her, I’d been compromised.
Not totally since it wasn’t like I had to accept any of the requests. But there was still a way for people to find me now, and I wasn’t sure if I liked that, especially as I scrolled through the list and saw a mix of athletes, fellow sneakerheads, local celebrities, obvious weirdos, andhim.
@_LanceHawkins had requested to follow me.
Considering he loved sneakers just as much as I did, I wasn’t at all surprised that he followed the hottest sneaker store in town on social media. But the fact that I hadn’t seen nor talked to him since the night we went to Whataburger made him wanting to followmea little more interesting, mainly because I’d assumed we were going back to not being cool after the time we’d spent together had ended on a bit of a sour note thanks to the whole college thing being brought up.
Maybe he was finally over it.
Or maybe I was just reading into his follow request way too deeply, trying to find a reason to justify the fact that I didn’t exactly want Lance to stay a stranger anymore because,well, we sort of had chemistry. And not just in the sexual way that I still wasn’t quite sure I could handle. But in the sense that joking with him, and reminiscing with him about random shit, and being vulnerable with him about things other people didn’t even really know about came so natural that I hadn’t realized I missed it so much until it was happening.
I’d truly missed having him as a friend.
Now, becoming the friends we once were with him looking the way he did these days would be tough. But for now, I was okay with letting him follow me on Instagram, even going as far as following him back just as the bell at the front of the store chimed in response to a customer.
Make that customers, plural, the adorable mother and son duo who strolled into Just Kickin’ It making me smile as I put my phone away so that I could greet them. But the closer I got, the more the little boy in front of me started to look familiar, my smile turning into a forced one as I told the mother, “Welcome in. Let me know if there’s anything I can help you find.”
“Actually, there is,” she responded, pulling up a picture on her phone before extending it my way to ask, “Do you guys have these in a size ten and a half?”
Glancing at the screen, I immediately recognized the Space Jam 11s she was showing me as the little boy chimed in, “Those are daddy’s favorite.”
Daddy’s favorite.
It was at that exact moment that I realized why the little boy looked so familiar, and it wasn’t because I’d ever actually met him before. It was because I’d seen him on Instagram the day I was creeping on his father’s page, the fact that I knew who he was without really knowing him at all only making the whole social media thing even weirder as I realized…oh shit.
Is this Darnell’s baby mama?
My smile became especially exaggerated as I answered, “Let me check in the back,” grateful that she hadn’t appeared to pick up on my awkwardness as I made my way to the stockroom to see if we had the size she was looking for. But the entire time I was there, all I could think about was if Darnell had been telling the truth about their involvement even though it wasn’t like I’d even been in touch with him since the night we met.
I wanted to be in touch with him though. I’d just been so busy getting settled into this new life that dating hadn’t even been on my radar. But now that two parts of what could easily make a perfect family of three were in my face, I was wondering if my delay in reaching out had been for good reason as I pulled the last pair in his size from the shelf and brought them back to the store floor with a smile.
“You’re in luck. There was one pair left.”
“Oh, thank God,” the woman sighed, wrapping a hand against her son’s shoulder as she looked down at him to say, “His father might’ve disowned him had I not been able to find a replacement pair.”
“A replacement pair? What happened to the first ones?” I asked, attempting to strike up some small talk that I hoped would last however long it would take me to ring up the shoes since the last thing I needed was another opportunity to make shit awkward. But instead of answering the question herself, the woman looked back down at her son and said, “Care to tell the kind lady what happened, D.J.?”