Page 5 of Bronson

Then, I see it for the first time.

The inside of Bachman’s.

It’s more beautiful than I’d imagined from my quick glances in the windows. The air is clean, cool. I take a deep breath. It’s the same smell you’d expect to find in a spotless museum or brand-new library. Not a speck of dust flies through the sunlit room.

The glass counters sparkle beneath the lights. No harsh LED bulbs, but a soft white warmth shines down from the heavy brass pendants that hang overhead. The counters seem to go on for miles.

This store is endless.

I hold my breath in awe as my hand flutters to my chest. The word reverently slips from my mouth.

Bachman’s.

My whisper is followed by a greeting. “Hello. Welcome. How may I help you?”

I look over my shoulder to see the face that belongs to the cheerful voice.

She is nothing like what I expect.

A girl, perhaps a few years younger than me, with blonde curls spilling over her shoulders, openly smiles at me. Her small white teeth are like pearls. Her hazel eyes are large like mine. Her gaze holds a hopeful optimism that only those with parents who love them can possess.

“How may I assist you?” she asks. A look of genuine helpfulness crosses her face as she makes her way over to me. Stopping just a few feet short of me—a polite distance—she folds her hands in front of the lap of her mint green dress.

I expected a harsh, angry, beautiful woman. Dressed in a tailored black gown. Her nose high in the air as she sniffs out my poverty.

This is not her, the arch nemesis I had dreamed up. Not a beauty, but cute. Sweet, even. Her button nose is not turned up at me. She patiently awaits my response.

Which is… what?

“I—ah… I,” I stutter.

She studies my outfit. Not in a mean way. Just an honest one. Observing her guest. “Just browsing?” she suggests helpfully.

“Y-yes,” I manage.

Her eyes light up. “Oh, goody! That means I get to make suggestions.”

She takes my hand in hers, as if she’s known me forever. She’s tugging me over to the corner that is furthest from the front of the store. Tossing her curls over her shoulders, she trills, “We just got this collection in. And it is adorable! All butterflies.”

She releases my hand. Careful not to touch the glass, she waves her fingers over the displays and sighs, “Aren’t they gorgeous? Perfect for girls our… age.”

Her pause says it all.

Girls like us. Girls who get paid by the hour. Girls who don’t really matter.

Standing here in Bachman’s, breathing the expensive air, I no longer care whether I matter.

I just want to be here. Take it all in. I meet her eyes, shooting her a timid smile.

She returns it with a grin. Just a couple of girls playing dress-up.

“Go ahead, take your time. My name is Alice. Call me if you need anything,” she says. Giving me one more warm smile, she turns to leave.

Her name is from a storybook, and it suits her. I watch as she flounces to the other side of the store.

Guilt gives one sharp tug beneath my ribs.

That’s inconvenient.