I glared at the Help Wanted sign Talia put in the window of our flower shop. She'd even gone through the trouble of writing it in red calligraphy—a talent that unfortunately had finally come in handy.
"Don't you think this is a bit much?" I asked, but Talia was too busy admiring her work. The giant sign covered half the baskets and decorations on our sorry excuse for a window display. It read Help Wanted, but did we need more help? No. Not in October when business would slow through the rainy winter. Not when we already struggled to pay rent for this place, let alone hire more employees.
Talia sighed when she finally saw the expression on my face. "I'm sorry, Romy, but we need help. You can't do all the managing on your own."
"Of course I can," I said. "I've been practically running the place since school started."
"You mean since you got back from juvie."
If I had a dollar every time she mentioned juvie, I could save our shop from bankruptcy. If she thought I was bad, she should see the girls I met there. They weren't the worst part, though I did have to smack a bitch or two. No, what I really hated were the bogus sessions with psychologists asking questions about my family life and troubled relationship with my father—though let's be real; you could say I had a troubled relationship with everyone.
Psychologists loved their diagnostic manuals. And by the end of it, I came out with another label tacked onto my identity: Romy Pereira. 17. Part Brazilian. Born in Hawai'i. Aspiring billionaire.
And now, diagnosed sociopath.
"Don't tell me I'm not doing a great job, Talia," I scoffed. My parents, horrified at the sociopath label—technically it was something called Conduct Disorder—decided that me working for the family business was the best way to develop my emotional intelligence and empathy as the psychologists suggested.
More like the best way to exploit my cheap labor.
Far from Seattle's hipster downtown, the colorful shop—Greta's Flores—stood on the side of a busy avenue, loud with cars and auto shops everywhere. And here I was, selling my stepmom's flowers. Talking to customers and pretending to care about their lives while convincing them to sign up for our monthly subscription.
Talia sighed. "I'll still make the bulk purchases, do all the numbers and legal stuff. You are my salesgirl, my marketing executive, and the one with the charm. All we need is someone in-between."
Someone in-between. I'd really spent the last three months ignoring most of my friends and getting pricked by rose thorns for someone in-between.
"How about Greta?" I suggested. "She's the owner."
"Greta's really busy, and I'll soon be busy if any of the jobs I applied to get back to me."
Being a florist really wasn't cutting it for her, huh? Was I the only one in this family who cared about the impending bankruptcy? Who wanted to preserve our integrity as a small business instead of letting some corporation monopolize the market next?
For another hour, I filled pots and tied stems together for custom bouquets. All while listening to Talia complain about our website. She'd learned basic web design to set it up, though I doubted the business would thrive if she was barely here.
Eventually, the time came for my hour-long lunch break. The flower shop got smaller the farther I walked away, colorful in the gray of everything else. I exited the busy street, looking for a new coffee shop to try—and no, mega corporate Starbucks didn't count; they could burn in hell for all I cared.
YOU ARE READING
The One Without Words
Teen Fiction"Go ahead," I said, backing up against the pink wall of the shop. "Do something other than glare at me." I waited. One, two, three seconds... and nothing. I raised my chin at him. "You're boring me, mute boy." He stepped closer. Leaned toward me as...
