Nothing More by Anna Todd Page B

hair is tucked behind a thin headband that matches her red sweater with small white dots.
    â€œHi there,” she says to me as I scan the refrigerated section in the back for milk.
    â€œHey, Ellen,” I say, grabbing a container of milk; I check the dates because I’ve left here with expired products more than once. Then I search for a blue Gatorade, to grab for Nora the next time she comes over, but they don’t have any. I have time, so I’ll just walk down to the next-closest store after I leave here.
    And for the second time today, I find I could have used one of the tote bags Tessa keeps a supply of near the door. She likes to discourage the use of plastic, and now every time I open the door, I hear her voice, reminding me of the damage plastic bags wreak on the environment. That woman watches way too many documentaries. Soon she’s going to boycott wearing shoes or something.
    Ellen closes her textbook as I approach. I grab a pack of gum from the shelf in front of the counter. She looks a little stressed, so now I really wish I had brought a tote, the one with a watermelon and a cantaloupe on it. Next to the watermelon is a text bubble that says, We should run away and get married and the cantaloupe replies, I’m sorry , and underneath that, the cantaloupe’s face is larger and it’s saying, I CANTaloupe.
    Ellen finds the fruit humor just as funny as I do, which makes her quality people. And maybe a joke would make her smile.
    â€œHow’s it going?” I ask.
    â€œGood, just studying.”
    The old register beeps when Ellen types in the cost of the milk and gum. I pull my card out and swipe it.
    â€œYou’re always studying,” I say. It’s true: every time I come here she’s alone behind the counter and is either reading from a textbook or filling out work sheets.
    â€œI need to get into college.” She shrugs, and her brown eyes flash away from mine.
    College? She’s in high school and works here this late, and this often? Even on the days when I don’t stop in, I see her working through the window.
    â€œHow old are you?” I can’t help but ask. It’s none of my business, and I’m not much older than her, but if I were her parents, I would be a little worried about my teenage daughter working alone, at night, in a store in Brooklyn.
    â€œI turn seventeen next week,” she says with a frown, which kind of runs counter to the typical teenage girl, who beams at the idea of getting another year closer to the golden age of eighteen.
    â€œNice,” I tell her as she hands me the receipt to sign.
    She’s still frowning when she hands me a red pen tied to a small clipboard with a dirty brown string. I sign it and give it back to her. She apologizes profusely when the printer machine jams before my copy of the receipt comes out. She pops the top off and I tell her that it’s fine.
    â€œI’m not in a rush,” I tell her. I don’t have anywhere to be except home to study for Geology. Oh, and my date with Nora that I’m pretty damn nervous about. No big deal.
    She rips the jammed paper roll out and tosses it into a trash can behind the counter.
    Thinking about her, I realize that Ellen has never really seemed as carefree as a seventeen-year-old should be. Often I forget that most people in the world don’t have a mom like mine—heck, most kids I knew growing up didn’t. I didn’t have a father figure growing up, but it never bothered me much, honestly. I had my mom. Everyone reacts to things differently based on their own personal experience and how they’re built. Hardin, for example . . . his experiences had different effects on him than mine had on me, and he had to take a different path to understand them. It doesn’t matter why; what matters is that he’s taken responsibility for them and is busting his ass to understand his past and shape his future.
    When I was