Cities

"Winter's Elites": Chapter 1; Blacklisted

Potential first chapter for "Winter's Elites". Coming... sometime in the future.

Let me know how it's looking, and stay tuned for some updates this week/end

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This fucking snob, I think. I've had to deal with rich brutes for the past three years working in this store, and for the last two, he's been the absolute worse. I stare at the man—no, boy—as he continues his rant about how unreliable our products are.

Five minutes ago, Brett here brought a baseball glove up to the counter to show me a hole in it that I had to squint to even see properly. If he hadn't pointed to it, I'd think he was telling me something about the color.

Elites Sports Store houses the finest equipment for almost every sport imaginable, and not even the majority of middle-class citizens can afford half of it. This is why I see Brett, along with other students from Craftford University coming in and out of this store daily. I really doubt that most of them even play sports, it's obvious I'm the main attraction here. Besides, who's playing all these outdoor sports in winter?

Usually, I'd let him rant, but tonight I have too much on my mind to condone it.

"Sir, do you plan on buying this?" I cut him off, gesturing to the glove he's holding.

That shut him up and he stares at me for a moment. "Well, no," he says, stuttering.

I try to save him the embarrassment. "Then what's the problem here?"

He's getting red in the face now.

He takes a deep breath and leans across the counter, enough to make me uncomfortable, and says, "Listen, Summer..." I can't help but smile. Can he be any more obvious?

"My name is Winter, Brad." I want to add something about him not being competent enough to read a nametag even though he probably shits gold bars, but I remember that I'm an employee first when I sit behind this counter in this uniform. If I'm going to tell him off, it'll have to be on my own time.

I'm sure he's about to correct me about getting his name wrong, when my boss, George, steps behind the counter next to me.

"Is there a problem?" he says.

Early forties suited George, mostly because of his height, build, and his tendency to make a tree tremble. He's a handy bodyguard too when he hears the usual commotion out here from his office. I can almost see him facepalming every time, before sighing and forcing himself out of his seat.

Brett doesn't look the least bit worried but still leans back and fidgets a little.

"Some boxes need to be unloaded in aisle three, see to that would you?" George says, nodding for me to leave.

I don't question it and hop off my stool, leaving him to do what he always does—scold the kids that stir up trouble.

Shame you can't be in school with me, I think, easily seeing how much better my life would be if George was a college student.

I look over my shoulder briefly to see him leaning across the counter dangerously, and Brett leaned so far back it's almost comical. Whenever he comes here this is how his visits usually end and I have no clue why he doesn't just give up.

It's no secret that most students at Craftford aren't fond of me, but Brett goes out of his way to show me almost every day. The university is a small private school that not many commoners like myself get into on the first try—and I didn't. I didn't get in after high school, but I did for transfer, and somehow it got out that I could only afford it through a huge scholarship, and social pariah I became. It doesn't bother me, because I don't care about their statuses, I just don't understand why they go through all this trouble to make me feel unwelcome—the heels, polo shirts, dogs in purses, and too much pink already does that.