Straighter than Parallel Parking

≈ t w e n t y - t w o ≈

A/N: Don't forget to vote and comment your favourite parts and opinions! Hope you laugh as hard as I did!

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{ Chapter Twenty-Two: To Muffle Banshee's With The Promise of Nudes }

BRIELLE IS SINGING ALONG TO THE RADIO that plays above through the store speakers as she folds new shipments, and Janice doesn't know how to break it to the poor girl that if you were to search up the word tone deaf, Brielle's name would be listed as a noun.

Janice has learned to gradually juggle her workplace and schooling expertly, and today's Thursday evening fell into place almost fittingly. The three of them (Renée, Brielle and Janice) work casually alongside each other, and Janice is whelmed by the well alignment. Usually one to scrummage for extra hours before work or leave early so she could catch the late bus, this shift seems to instead be presenting out in a way that little could be done otherwise to perfect it.

Except, you know, putting a sock (or a cheap, frilly thong) into Brielle-the-banshee's mouth.

Thankfully, Renée didn't have anything against telling the girl the bitter truth. "Bri, I go to church on Sunday's and the pastors preach better than you can sing. And I don't go to church unless I drink too little and the God's are upset with how un-party-like I am."

"I am Beyoncé," screeches Brielle. "Standing in the light of your shadow!" Brielle pauses, scrunching her nose. "Wait, isn't it halo? Can you even have light in shadows? Guys, I think I just found proof I might be God."

Renée leans in towards Janice, who is amusedly watching Brielle fumble with a lacy bra clip, speaking quietly. "This is precisely why we don't have lunch break before work. You gave the poor girl too much soda."

"I can hear you. And I don't mind being high on coke!" Brielle said loudly, before cringing. "Crap, do you think security cameras catch audio? That might be difficult to explain to James's uncle..."

Renée lets a stretch of silence rest. "Hon, you're not Beyoncé. You're not black enough to be such royalty, darling. You're more of a sexually frustrated Robin Thicke mixed into Billy Rae Cyrus. Having a cold."

"You're just jealous that I can pitch higher than you!" Brielle sings faintly.

"More like I'd pitch you through the glass showcase because your voice is just as scratchy as it, except I'm too broke to pay for cleaning support," Renée mumbles. "Janice, babe, can you please tell Bri that she's like a crying baby with rabies?"

Janice bites her tongue, "Bri, Renée says you're like a crying baby with rabies. Try not to foam at the mouth when the next customer comes by; they might actually think these clothes will look good on them."

"Encourage them, Janice! They're our source of income."

Renée smirks. "Again, no wonder I'm broke. I have more faith in Robin hoarding a girl than I do in someone actually buying a two piece. A random kid asked his mom if I was a bikini seller!"

They laugh, their conversation lulling into a pleasant chatter. Janice had found herself integrated into the workplace very quickly after her first week, healthy relationships masking her usual self doubt and often having her actually smile at customers (it fades after she makes eye contact so).

"Okay, I can't sing!" pouts Brielle. "Stop smiling, I could just start hitting Adele — don't throw that box at me! I just sorted it, you sonofabitc — hello, I'm Brielle, how may I help you?" Brielle quickly plasters a preppy smile as a new customer walks in, sending glares to the poorly concealed laughter of her co-workers.