One
“Well, if it isn’t Karrie Stahl.”
Those words swam through my ear like the violent flood waters of Hurricane Katrina. The voice sounded like it was coming from the female identical twin of Satan himself. That devilish slur was followed by a recognizable hyena-like snicker that made my pale freckled skin crawl.
Hesitantly, I looked away from the register that still reflected the last number two combo meal that I’d rung up.
Our eyes met.
My heart sank.
The high pitched sound of her cackling laughter sent goose bumps flailing all over my body.
You’ve got to be kidding me , I thought. My first day at this dump and my high school rival walks in the door.
Despite my humiliation, I lifted my head high.
I adjusted my McDonald’s uniform shirt.
I smiled brightly.
Then, just as management taught the new employees during the “extensive customer service training,” I recited, “Hi. Welcome to McDonalds. May I help you?”
Just saying those words made my breakfast threaten to violently upchuck all over the counter top. Laying eyes on Nicole Richards, watching her judging and cynical smirk, made the urgency to throw up that much worse.
Her condemning eyes were right. This wasn’t where I thought I would be when I graduated from high school a year ago. I thought that I would have been enrolled in a top Ivy League school. I thought that I would be living on campus by now, with a roommate that was my best friend. That best friend and I would be in a sorority by now. I would be swooning over frat boys and jocks.
I thought that life would be, at the very least, utter perfection.
Instead, life was a horrid mess. I felt like I was in a never-ending nightmare on Elm Street. Surely, Freddy Krueger was chasing me. He had to be behind me, in the kitchen area, hiding behind the grill and waiting to attack me with his knives.
I was living in the same small town that I grew up in. I wasn’t at a top Ivy League school. I was enrolled at a community college. I didn’t have the best friend roommate either. I was living with my distant, nonchalant, and a jerk–most–of–the–time boyfriend.
Life was indeed not perfect.
It was far from perfect.
So far from perfect that I couldn’t even fathom what perfect felt like.
And the longer Nicole Richards stood in front of me, glaring at me as if seeing me behind that counter had made her entire year, I realized more and more how far away from perfection I was.
“Yes, I’d like a number three…and a pic of you to tweet!”
Then this bitch had the nerve to lift her iPhone to take the picture!
Luckily, there were very few people in the restaurant to witness my social media demise. There was only an elderly couple in the corner that always ate McDoubles; no fries, no soda, just sandwiches. They were so old that even with hearing aids they wouldn’t hear the commotion. I could hear my co–workers on the assembly line gossiping about chicks they planned to bang that weekend. Shaquana, or at least I think that’s how it’s pronounced, was at the window taking orders with a lot of attitude.
“Not so fast, Blondie. Put the phone down.”
My body whispered a sigh of relief as I heard Sabrina’s voice come into the restaurant like my knight in shining armor. She was indeed shining, with her fabulous blinged out arm candy and Estee Lauder glass lip gloss. With all of her accessories and trinkets, she looked like a walking holiday.
She was my best friend. Now, she was also my super heroine. She’d flown into this fast food chain and saved the day. She was saving me from social media humiliation.
“Schmidt.” Nicole was damn near snarling at Sabrina as she approached her.
“Richards,” Sabrina retorted.
They looked like feminine sergeants, approaching each other with threat across their brows and referring to one another by last name.
“This isn’t the army, guys,” I muttered, nearly in tears produced by sheer embarrassment.
I let out a faint moan that
“Well, if it isn’t Karrie Stahl.”
Those words swam through my ear like the violent flood waters of Hurricane Katrina. The voice sounded like it was coming from the female identical twin of Satan himself. That devilish slur was followed by a recognizable hyena-like snicker that made my pale freckled skin crawl.
Hesitantly, I looked away from the register that still reflected the last number two combo meal that I’d rung up.
Our eyes met.
My heart sank.
The high pitched sound of her cackling laughter sent goose bumps flailing all over my body.
You’ve got to be kidding me , I thought. My first day at this dump and my high school rival walks in the door.
Despite my humiliation, I lifted my head high.
I adjusted my McDonald’s uniform shirt.
I smiled brightly.
Then, just as management taught the new employees during the “extensive customer service training,” I recited, “Hi. Welcome to McDonalds. May I help you?”
Just saying those words made my breakfast threaten to violently upchuck all over the counter top. Laying eyes on Nicole Richards, watching her judging and cynical smirk, made the urgency to throw up that much worse.
Her condemning eyes were right. This wasn’t where I thought I would be when I graduated from high school a year ago. I thought that I would have been enrolled in a top Ivy League school. I thought that I would be living on campus by now, with a roommate that was my best friend. That best friend and I would be in a sorority by now. I would be swooning over frat boys and jocks.
I thought that life would be, at the very least, utter perfection.
Instead, life was a horrid mess. I felt like I was in a never-ending nightmare on Elm Street. Surely, Freddy Krueger was chasing me. He had to be behind me, in the kitchen area, hiding behind the grill and waiting to attack me with his knives.
I was living in the same small town that I grew up in. I wasn’t at a top Ivy League school. I was enrolled at a community college. I didn’t have the best friend roommate either. I was living with my distant, nonchalant, and a jerk–most–of–the–time boyfriend.
Life was indeed not perfect.
It was far from perfect.
So far from perfect that I couldn’t even fathom what perfect felt like.
And the longer Nicole Richards stood in front of me, glaring at me as if seeing me behind that counter had made her entire year, I realized more and more how far away from perfection I was.
“Yes, I’d like a number three…and a pic of you to tweet!”
Then this bitch had the nerve to lift her iPhone to take the picture!
Luckily, there were very few people in the restaurant to witness my social media demise. There was only an elderly couple in the corner that always ate McDoubles; no fries, no soda, just sandwiches. They were so old that even with hearing aids they wouldn’t hear the commotion. I could hear my co–workers on the assembly line gossiping about chicks they planned to bang that weekend. Shaquana, or at least I think that’s how it’s pronounced, was at the window taking orders with a lot of attitude.
“Not so fast, Blondie. Put the phone down.”
My body whispered a sigh of relief as I heard Sabrina’s voice come into the restaurant like my knight in shining armor. She was indeed shining, with her fabulous blinged out arm candy and Estee Lauder glass lip gloss. With all of her accessories and trinkets, she looked like a walking holiday.
She was my best friend. Now, she was also my super heroine. She’d flown into this fast food chain and saved the day. She was saving me from social media humiliation.
“Schmidt.” Nicole was damn near snarling at Sabrina as she approached her.
“Richards,” Sabrina retorted.
They looked like feminine sergeants, approaching each other with threat across their brows and referring to one another by last name.
“This isn’t the army, guys,” I muttered, nearly in tears produced by sheer embarrassment.
I let out a faint moan that
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