Bite the Billet

People are always so quick to judge. It’s ridiculous.

I mean seriously, who are you to tell me that I’m weird? Who are you to tell me that I’m not as good as you are? No one. That’s who you are.

And yet, I still get people looking at me with those criticizing stares and talking to me with those condescending tones. It’s pathetic.

Get a life people! Do you really have nothing better to do with yourself than make me feel like I’m some piece of garbage someone forgot to throw out?

I guess so, if you can waste so much of your time doing just that.

Ok, I guess I should probably end my little rant and tell you a little bit about myself.

Just a little bit, I promise.

So, my name’s Zaire. Yup, Zaire like the country in Africa. (I bet you’re already judging me, but I’ll forgive you.)

I’m seventeen, and as of right now my life sucks. The people who claimed to be my friends abandoned me, as did my mother, sending my dad into a depressed alcoholic state to the point where I’m pretty much on my own. I don’t have any siblings (not that I know of, at least—my mom’s been gone for like seven years now, so…)

I go to the prison more commonly known as Linden High, and just like my life, it is a complete hellhole.

Precisely at this moment, I’m in English class. I’m supposed to be writing an essay on 1984 by George Orwell, but instead of wasting anymore time on that atrocious novel, I decided to vent out my feelings via paper and pen.

“Zaire, how’s your essay coming along?” I hear over my shoulder. Immediately I move my arm to cover up the majority of my writing, so that Mr. Kingsley won’t be able to realize that I’m not exactly writing what I’m meant to.

“Um, it’s going good,” I say without even looking up. Mr. Kingsley doesn’t say anything in response, but as I sneak a peek at him, I see him nodding just before he walks away to check up on the other students.

You know, it’s actually really funny how much I can get away with in this school. Everyone looks at me like I’m some charity case because I’m raising myself off of the little bit of my dad’s unemployment check that he doesn’t waste on alcohol. On top of that, I sort of had a cancer scare a couple of years ago, so people pity me even more. I’m just that poor cancer survivor with the alcoholic dad and the mom who abandoned her.

I actually want to get a job, but I’ve been denied everywhere I applied. At this rate, I’m gonna end up working at the devil’s workshop—yeah, you called it, Hollister.

Once upon a time, I would have never said this about the store. I think Hollister has great clothing, but it’s not like I’ve ever been able to afford it.

Now, the reason for my hatred, you ask? All of the girls who were at one point my ‘friends’ practically live at the store. Nowadays, those same girls are the ones spreading rumors about me and making me look like even more of a weirdo and outcast than I already am.

On the plus side—about Hollister—I’m pretty sure they have a strict no makeup policy for their employees. Now that sounds like benefits. This way, I won’t have to put in the effort of really getting ready for work.

So, to apply or not to apply?

I’m gonna go with… apply. I really need the money, and I feel like I have exhausted all other options, that is unless I want to join the drug dealing business…maybe I’ll save that as a last resort.

Ok, ok I was kidding. I would never deal drugs. I’m too much of a good girl. Yeah, good girl, that’s definitely what I am. Alright, I’m a good girl at heart; I just don’t think it’s that important to do useless homework and sit in a class listening to a teacher lecture, but that doesn’t make me bad, right?

Whatever, the point is I’m not going to deal drugs, and instead I’m going to apply to Hollister. Hopefully I’ll get a job so I can maybe have some spending money, not just money for the essentials. I know I’m lucky that I even have food and a home, but I still wish I could at least buy myself a new outfit every once in a while.

Ding-Ding-Ding.

The trill sound of the school bell rings above me, interrupting my thoughts and signaling the end of both my English class and the school day.

I stand up immediately, rushing to put all my things into my worn out backpack. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I make my way out of the room. Just before I reach the door, I fail to notice that a foot has magically appeared in front of me, causing me to trip and tumble down to the floor.

I feel people’s eyes staring at me, judging me, as I struggle to compose myself and get back up to my feet. Laughter is also eminent in the air.

“Oh my god, Zaire! Are you ok?” I hear a familiar voice ask. I should probably mention that there was an obvious fake, sarcastic, mocking tone to that voice.

I take a deep breath, willing myself not to snap and feed this girl more ammo to attack me with. Turning around, I come face to face with the she-devil herself.

I pull an utterly fake smile onto my face as I say, “Yeah, Nina. I’m fine,” matching the fake tone she had used. I want so badly to say a witty comeback and make her feel even the slightest bit of embarrassment I feel on a daily basis, but I know that that will only lead to more trouble for me.

I turn back around, this time successfully leaving the room. In the hallway, I am ‘accidently’ run into by Nina’s minions several times before I am able to escape the school.

I decide to walk home today since I want to stop by the mall to pick up an application to Hollister.

After about twenty minutes, I have made it to the mall, and I quickly go in, heading straight to my destination. Upon entering the poorly lit store, my nostrils are bombarded by the scent of overpowering perfume. Wow, ok, that’s strong.

There is music playing, but unlike the perfume I actually like that.

I walk up to join the small line that is forming in front of the registers. I know that it’ll only take two seconds for me to get an application, but I’d feel rude just walking up to the counter, cutting all the people in line.

After about two minutes, I am called up to the counter.

I walk up and immediately notice that the guy behind the register is absolutely gorgeous. He might as well be a model with his disheveled blonde hair and strong jawline. Oh my god, ok, breathe!

I clear my throat, unsure of if my voice will come out properly in front of this god. “Hi, um I was wondering if you guys are hiring…” I trail off.

A blank stare comes onto his perfect face. “Um, hold on a sec,” he says holding up his hand before walking away. My eyes follow him, and I see that he is talking to an equally attractive but sligthtly older guy, who I’m assuming is his manager.

He finishes talking to him, and then proceeds to look for something under the counter. He comes back to standing before me.

“Yeah we are. Here’s an application,” he states, holding out some paper to me. “Just fill it out and bring it back as soon as you can.”

Taking the application I mutter a quick, “Thank you.” I then walk out of the store in an unbelievably good mood.

With coworkers that look like that, working at Hollister might just be amazing.

Even if I have to deal with the bitches from school.

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Please comment and vote if you liked it! It will definitely encourage me to keep writing.

Give this story a chance, it starts out slow but I promise it'll get better!