You stared ahead in an exhausted manner, prepping a cup of coffee, at around 3 pm, on Valentine's Day. It was way into your shift at this point, and you were tired as hell, but you continued to serve the masses, who poured in on the Friday afternoon in numbers untold.
What was even more unnerving was that Chloé sat in the corner, tapping her foot angrily. She'd come in, wanting her signature drink, and had ordered the "peasants" to move out of the way for her; in response, you'd told her you wouldn't make jackshit for her if she didn't shut up and wait her turn.
You didn't exactly say it like that, but British passive aggressiveness seemed to work in any language.
Her mood was fouler than usual as well, which wasn't surprising, considering she looked like she'd been run over by a truck, her blonde hair in disarray and her face streaked with dirt.
"That will be 2 euros," John droned, ringing up the customer you'd just served — surprisingly enough, you two had become close enough for him to switch work places, so now you two spent the afternoon together.
You'd learned he was a student, 19 years old, fresh out of high school, who was planning to attend university in a few years, after he gained some work experience. You were quite surprised by his choice to go to a foreign country, but he didn't seem all that attached to the US all the same.
Britney Spears had become a constant in your life after that. You weren't complaining, though.
"Alright, Chloé," you sighed, at last having finished, leaving her as the only person in the shop. "Come on. It's your turn."
"Your French disgusts me," she sneered, but she got up from her table nonetheless, and approached the till.
"I don't mean to be rude, but why do you look like you just got thrown into a pit of compost?" John asked, as he took her money.
Chloé gasped, "How dare you! Do you know who I am?!" she exclaimed furiously.
John turned to you, "(Y/n), who is this bitch?"
"Some kid in my class who likes frappuccinos," you responded dryly.
"Sorry, but you don't seem that important. Would you answer my earlier question now?" John asked, clearly not giving a shit.
"Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!" Chloé exclaimed, folding her arms, and groaning dramatically, "Ugh, first Ladybug ruins my outfit, then my hair gets ruined, and now you won't let me have a drink!"
"Who said I wouldn't let you have a drink? Madame, you paid me," John retorted, waving the receipt in her face for good measure.
"And didn't you publicly humiliate Kim?" you asked bluntly, showing her Instagram picture of the poor boy, looking completely miserable, as he clearly tried to confess to her.
Chloé winced, and looked away, "Well, there's a picture of me looking like merde, so we're even now," she scoffed, hiding her face.
(You were a bit shocked — Chloé Bourgeois seemed genuinely... ashamed of what she'd done.)
"Don't look at me like that," Chloé snapped, in response to your questioning stare. "It's what Mum would've done."
You paused, debating in your head frustratedly whether to try and understand Chloé a bit more; then, with a defeated sigh, you asked John to take over making the frappuccino. When he arrived at the machine, you silently crossed over to Chloé, and leaned awkwardly on the countertop, across from her.
"Who's your mum?" you asked, rubbing the back of your neck.
Chloé was taken aback by your query, not used to people not knowing who her mother was, but she quickly disguised it with a snort of disdain. "She's Audrey Bourgeois. How do you not know her? She's only a famous fashion critic and designer. She's so rich, she could probably buy your whole neighbourhood."
"She sounds... like quite a successful woman," you mumbled, shifting so you were more comfortable.
"She is," Chloé agreed, taking off her sunglasses, and inspecting them, running her finger over the rim. "She's... exceptional. But she's not here. She lives in New York. She has a lot of important things to do there."
"I'm sure," you responded mildly.
"Don't act like you understand anything! You're too poor!" Chloé snapped; but her eyes were filled up without something you never expected to see from her — longing, perhaps even distress — Chloé Bourgeois was desperate.
But for what?
That was a question you'd ask later, but for now, you had a new goal in mind.
"Chloé," you spoke, handing the girl her drink, from John, "Sabrina's not with you today, right? I'll sit with you, then."
"What?! Why would you want to sit with me?—I mean—you're kidding! I wouldn't let a peasant like you sit with me!"
"Too late," you replied, quickly coming out from behind the counter, and crossing over to the nearest table, and patted it with a raised eyebrow.
Chloé huffed, before rearranging her hair, in an attempt to make it look less messy, and reluctantly sat opposite you. "I can't believe I'm doing this." She sneered, taking a sip of her frappuccino.
"Me neither," you admitted. "But, here we are. So, tell me, what was that thing you made Adrien sign this morning?"
That was all it took to get Chloé talking.
She talked, and talked, and talked; you vaguely wondered if this was what Sabrina had to endure all the time; but it was clear she needed somebody to rant to. She went from having a fit about Marinette being better at fashion design than her, to venting about Adrien being more popular than her in school, to whining that her mother never remembered her birthday, and topped each complaint off with her trademark "Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous!". You listened to every word dutifully, though it was certainly hard.
You sat there for god knows how long allowing Chloé to spill her guts out to you.
The whole of Britney Spears' Blackout album played during that time, over the loudspeakers in the cafe.
"... and now Adrien expects me to be nice to people! I don't want to be nice! It's not what Mum is! Mum's not nice, and that's how she became successful! You need to be ruthless in the world of business, and if I'm going to go in there, I need to be exactly like her!"
You just sort of stared, tilting your head in confusion. Though it was a complicated puzzle, you were starting to make sense of the convoluted jigsaw that was Chloé Bourgeois, and see the bigger picture of her character. Chloé, like most people, was not a 2D, transparent person — she had feelings, problems and secrets.
Secrets which you now knew; you doubted that even Sabrina was aware of them.
"I've talked enough, and stayed in your disgusting presence more than I need to," Chloé's voice snapped you out of your daze. "I'm leaving."
"Oh... alright," you stumbled to your feet, as she stalked over to the doorway, ready to leave.
However, she paused at the exit, and glanced over her shoulder, to glare at you. "I don't want him making me a drink again," she scoffed, pointing rudely at John. Again, she stopped, before forcing out, "It was awful." Chloé then left, with a flourish, sashaying out like Mackenzie Hollister.
Huh, come to think of it, there were many similarities between her and the fictional character in Dork Diaries.
"What are you smiling about?" John accused, as he cleaned up a pot. "She just insulted my coffee making skills."
"Sorry, John," you apologised, but you couldn't stop yourself from beaming, "but although she doesn't like yours, that means that she likes mine."
"Ok, I get that you're kinda smitten with that rich girl, but come help me clean up."
"I'm not smitten!" you defended, heating up furiously. "I'm just... glad to know she's not as one dimensional as she seems."
John raised an eyebrow, "Yeah, gotta admit, I was surprised too. Now get over here and help me clean up."
You complied, stepping in time to 'Oops! I Did It Again...' as you did. Nothing was perfect but it was a living, and you were slowly coming to appreciate the strange city you now inhabited.