Their parents don’t work like I work, though—they own the businesses. The insurance companies, the financial investment services. The photography studios, clothing boutiques, and designer bicycle shops. They are a bunch of rich kids, totally confident that the world is going to be handed to them on a platter in just a few short years.
It’s hard to argue with that.
Quickly I finish dusting, then position myself behind the main counter so that I can see the whole shop at once. Even if they scatter into small groups, I can more or less keep an eye on them while they are in the store. This way, if somebody gets a bright idea to break something or steal something, at least I have a chance of catching them in the act.
The bell rings as the door swings open and a tall, good-looking kid saunters in, his face twisted with arrogance. Right behind him is a pretty blonde girl, looking bored, ostentatiously vaping and rhythmically filling the store with strawberry-scented clouds of steam.
There are six in total. They walk in and break off into three groups of two, looking bored but interested at the same time, occupying different portions of the store simultaneously.
The first couple is closest to me, so I smile professionally and say hello.
“Hello,” the blonde answers through a cloud of steam.
“Hey, Chelsea, doesn’t this look like you?” One of the other kids from across the room laughs, holding a porcelain figurine by its neck between two of his fingers.
I grit my teeth and smile politely at him as he wiggles it in midair. Happily, he puts it back without breaking it.
Just then, the phone rings. The green LED light flashes insistently. The high-schooler closest to me raises one eyebrow and gives me a challenging stare.
“Are you going to answer that?”
My palms start to sweat. If I answer the phone, I just know these guys are going to take advantage of the distraction. I just know it. And yet, not answering the phone is not an option either.
The phone rings again. And again. One more ring, and it will go to voicemail. And I’m sure that Tim will be pissed.
“Country Gifte Shoppe,” I smile nervously as I hold the receiver to my ear.
I feel the guys glancing at me sideways, checking to see how distracted I am.
“Tim? Is this Tim?” comes a voice over the line, uncertain and meek.
“Mrs. Whitley?” I ask politely. “It’s me, Olivia. What can I do for you?”
“No, no,” she replies, fussily. “I need Tim. He’s supposed to be there.”
Mrs. Whitley is Tim’s elderly mother. I think technically she owns the store. Everybody loves her. She has been a local celebrity for a long time. I can’t even imagine how long. They literally put her on a car float during the Fourth of July parade every year to show her off, like she is one of the local antiques.
“I will have him call you back,” I offer in my sweetest voice. “He will just be a minute. Any minute.”
“Tim? Tim?” she keeps saying, her voice escalating with alarm.
“No, Mrs. Whitley,” I answer, my voice also getting louder though I know I shouldn’t. “He’s at the library. He’ll be right back.”
“Don’t you get snippy with me!”
One of the teenagers seems to be missing from the room. I look around with alarm. Did he leave? I don’t think I heard the bell.
“Mrs. Whitley? Can I call you right back?”
“Tim!” she cries out.
The blonde traipses past me again, blowing a huge cloud of steam in my face. I feel my stomach clench. Somewhere behind me, a prolonged clatter is followed immediately by some barking laughter.
“Mrs. Whitley—”
“Tim!”
A teenager appears next to me, red-faced and laughing. He pushes long, gelled strands of hair off his forehead.
“Um, there’s been an accident,” he shrugs, grinning.
“Mrs. Whitley, I will call you right back!” I announce, and slam down the phone.
“Sorry to interrupt your phone call,” the teenager smirks.
“You guys are going to have to leave,” I say loudly, my voice quaking with every syllable. “The owner is going to be back any minute—”
“You can’t make us leave,” the blonde informs me, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, you can’t make us leave,” the boy laughs.
My heart pounds. I am not sure what to do here. Call the police? Get a broom and shoo them out the front door like an old-fashioned cartoon character?
Before I really think it through, I stalk to the front of the store and fling open the door, holding my arm out sideways and pointing toward the street.
“Out!” I bark.
The blonde girl raises her perfectly penciled eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I say with a reasonable amount of confidence. “You kids need to be on your way!”
“What’s going on here?” Tim asks, chugging down the sidewalk with his ruddy elbows pumping at his sides.
“These kids… They were just leaving,” I answer tightly.