He gave a stunned laugh. “They’re right. You’re mean.”
“Efficient,” she corrected. “Goodbye.”
The bell chimed again. Two twenty-something girls burst in like they’d nailed a Broadway entrance.
“Okay,” said the blonde, all gloss and confidence, “so, if I’m going to a party and my ex will be there, and I want to look like I’ve moved on, but also make him regret recent life choices, what do I wear?”
Frankie blinked. “Fire pits involved?”
“Yes!”
“Then no wigs unless they’re heat safe, and no heels that sink into gravel. Go with black. Structured, sleek, a little mysterious. Add a red lip. Minimal jewelry. Let him sweat wondering if you’re there with someone.”
The second girl gasped. “You’re incredible.”
“I know.” Frankie turned toward the door. “Now leave.”
They left in a flurry of high-pitched gratitude.
When the door stayed shut, Frankie exhaled, stripped off her bracelets, and muttered, “One offhand comment at a council meeting and suddenly I’m the town’s unapproachable fashion priestess.”
From the back of the shop, a sneeze.
Frankie didn’t look up. “You can come out now,” she called. “Unless you’re waiting to weigh in on emotionally vengeful jeans.”
A cough. Young, tentative. Maybe the Rae she’d been warned about.
Then the girl emerged, arms folded, gaze flicking between Frankie and the exit like she was bracing for a lecture or an ambush.
Frankie didn’t give her either. She leaned against the counter. “You could’ve joined the fashion parade, you know.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
Frankie raised an eyebrow and waited.
The girl sighed. “I was…gathering intel.”
That earned a half-smile. “And?”
“You know your stuff,” she mumbled. “You make people feel like…maybe they could actually look good.”
Frankie blinked. She’d expected snark. Not…that.
“Could you teach me?”
Frankie’s heart pinched. She remembered being that age…secondhand clothes that never quite fit, wishing someone would offer more than judgment.
She kept her tone even. “Yes. But at a price.”
The girl’s expression shuttered. “You didn’t charge them. Why me?”
“Relax, discount Wednesday Addams. I need cheap labor. These shelves are a crime scene. You show up after school, not instead of it, and I’ll teach you how to turn the local thrift store scraps into personal style.”
“Threads.” Her arms tightened like she was bracing for kindness to turn into a punchline.
“That’s your name?” Frankie asked.
“I’m Rae. Threads is the name of the thrift store. And it sucks.”
