The customers at register four want to speak to the manager, so he leans across the counter and explains: the jeans folded in front of him are Buy One Get One 50% off, NOT Buy One Get One Free.
Which is exactly what I’ve been saying, but the customers at register four seem to be satisfied now that I’m not the one talking. I’m not even angry. I can see why. My voice strains against a song playing for what must be the third time this shift. It practically moves up an octave and still, customers ask me to repeat myself. “It’s hard to hear behind the counter,” they say, “and the glass they put up doesn’t help, and now these masks…” I shift my weight so I am standing on my toes, as if that will help.
Where my voice strains, his softens. I don’t know how anyone can hear him over the blaring soundtrack. No need for tippy toes, he is tall enough to rest his arms next to the register as he talks through the promotion. He takes up space. And he sounds like he is really taking you in. Like he cares about the $59.99 you are trying to save. Maybe he does.
I don’t know how old Joe, the manager with the soft voice bagging clothes and handing over a receipt, is. Older than my brother, who he used to work with at ShopRite. Old enough to buy alcohol. Old enough to prefer getting high, instead. When the customers pass through the censors, leaving behind jeans not worth any BOGO deal, he tells them to have a good day.
He turns to me, “How are you doing, kid?”
I stammer something about annoying customers, about how I said the same thing he said. He tells me not to worry, asks if I’ve opened any credit cards this shift, if I know what day I’m leaving for school. When he talks, everything he says feels like a Big Deal. I try to memorize his words, to blush over in the break room, to report back to my friends. I try to see what he might see in me. Quiet, not shy—like his girlfriend, he told me once. Someone, a friend, who will listen to stories about that awful job at the grocery store and might have a clever comment if she gets asked an icebreaker question during a slow hour. Would you rather be a mermaid or vampire? A young girl who wants to do her best even after a school day full of French tests, even when customers argue and scream. Someone who meets everyone with a soft kindness and looks at you like they are really looking at you. When I meet Joe’s eyes, I see who I want to be.
I say, “I still don’t know what day I’m leaving for school.”
What I do know is that I am in love with him.