Page 9 of Beauty and the Beach
“Uh,” the cashier says, looking suddenly awkward. She can’t be more than a few years older than Maggie—sixteen, maybe—and her forehead is shiny, her eyes rimmed with eyeliner that’s much too dark for her natural coloring. “Do you want to try again, or…?”
“I have cash,” I say quickly, fumbling to open the cash flap of my wallet.
It’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. Tuition must have gone through at the same time as insurance. It could happen to anybody. I’ll get paid on Friday; I can manage until then.
I pull out the wad of neatly tucked bills, my hands trembling as I flip through them, my horror growing with every millisecond that passes.
No—no—no.
Ones. These are allones.
“Excuse me,” a clipped voice says from somewhere behind me. His voice is smooth and deep and slightly impatient, which is how I know it must be the hot guy in the suit. Hot guys in suits have beautiful voices, and they’re always in a hurry.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my composure as I do some rapid math in my head. If I get rid of the chocolate bars and keep the tampons?—
But my train of thought comes to a screeching halt when I’m nudged sideways, the suit guy stepping into my field of vision.
“Allow me, please,” he says, giving me only the briefest of glances before extending his arm, a shiny black card in his hand.
“No,” I say, grabbing his arm and pushing it away. “That’s kind, but I’m really?—”
“Please don’t mistake this for kindness,” he says, pulling out of my grip. “I’m in a hurry, and I frankly don’t have time to stand around waiting while you figure this out.” Then he turns his gaze to the cashier, who’s watching with wide eyes. He points to the bags on the counter. “Is this all?”
I gape at him as a twinge of irritation plucks at my insides. It seems his personality is not nearly as pretty as his exterior.
“Um,” the cashier says, looking back and forth between me and the man. “Yes?”
“What’s that?” the man says, pointing to one of the bags—out of which is poking the large box of tampons. He frowns, moving forward and pushing the bag down, revealing more of the box. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
That twinge of irritation grows stronger. What the heck is even going on right now?
“Excuse me,” I say faintly. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” There’s blood boiling under my skin, a furious blush arising because this man has just revealed to the entire line waiting behind us—and it isquitethe line—that I can’t even afford tampons right now.
“I’m not paying for that junk,” he says, pointing at the tampons.
“They’re notjunk,” I say, my voice heated. “A woman’s menstrual cycle is a normal biological function?—”
“Imean,” the man says, cutting me off with a roll of his dark eyes, “I’m not paying for that brand. Calm down, please.” Then he turns to the bag boy, whose pimply face has gone pale. “You.” He points at the box of tampons. “Take these back and grab a box of Butterfield instead.” Then he glances at me, frowns, and says, “Better make it two boxes. The kind for normal flow, please.”
Theaudacity.
“Heavy flow,” I manage to say. I think my brain has short-circuited. I can’t think of any other explanation for what’s happening right now. Sadly, I also can’t think of a way out. Maggie is waiting for me at my place, probably scared and nervous, and I’m wasting time here. I’ll figure out how to pay the stranger back later; right now I just need to swallow my pride and get home to my little sister. “Heavy flow.”
The hot suit guy cocks his dark brow at me. “Do you really insist upon that?”
Unbelievable.
“What—who—who do you think you are?” I say instead of answering him. “Are you going to be picky about what kind of tampon I use? The heavy flow ones are more cost-efficient. You can keep them in for like twenty-four hours?—”
“I strongly recommend against that,” he says, another frown creasing his forehead. “The maximum I would recommend is eight hours?—”
“What kind of psycho are you?” I say, stomping my foot. My already fraying patience is wearing thinner by the second. “Do you get off on this kind of thing? If you’re going to buy my groceries for me, just buy them! If not, stop talking. I thought you said you were in a hurry?”
The man’s lips twist at this, but he just grunts, and I feel a petty stab of satisfaction.
Got you there, you weirdo.
“I’m sure there was a ‘thank you’ in there somewhere,” he says after a second of glaring at me. “But fine. Just so you’re aware, those”—he points to the box of tampons—“are full of synthetic junk that’s horrible for disposal. They will sit in a landfill for a hundred years and remain in pristine condition. Butterfield are biodegradable with organic cotton?—”
