1
Jingle Bells
The only thing ‘fresh’ about Fancee’s stock rooms were the fashions hidden in its depths.
I grunted and pushed aside giant yard-waste sized bins of tennis shoes and flip-flops to get to the good stuff: a treasure trove of untouched designer footwear. I popped open a box and took a whiff of the perfume. New shoe smell was on par with new car scent: that fresh, high-quality leather interior, the reassurance of comfort and performance. These shoes would lick the arches of my feet and pump up my calves. With these, I was powerful, elegant, and rich. Or I would be, once I posted enough pics.
A few warehouse guys eyed the bins–and me. It didn’t matter how garish my neon green uniform tee was or that I barely used makeup today; my clear skin, symmetrical features, and hip-hugging pants were enough to garner an extra glance. Fancee’s should put me in their ads, but so far, they'd only used models with ‘catalog and TV experience.’ Whatever. I’d get there. For now, I got a great discount on designer goods.
I dragged the high-quality bins closer to the shoe department service window for a shot at lighting other than our warehouse yellow-tinted dinge. It was easier to sort everything here–not by size, but by value.
I texted pics of a few of the designer shoes to my boyfriend, Theo.
I smirked and shook my head. Yeah, they were money. But which ones were the best investment? We had to be smart about these things.
I checked my hair, then sent him a selfie of me leaning against the bins with the mini ring light on my phone case activated for the ultimate flattering lighting.
Oh, I should’ve known. Warehouse guys usually snatched that stuff up right away, so there wasn’t much point digging through the bins, but I lifted a few boxes anyway.
I rolled my eyes. The holidays were over, and we’d been on-and-off since our one-year-anniversary. I wasn’t about to drop $400 on a pair of Zeezys unless he gave me a ring. At least then I could sell it for greater or equal value when he did something stupid. Well,ifhe did something stupid. No point being pessimistic. After all, there was a chance we could get married. But not until I was at least thirty and agencies no longer wanted to hire me. Single girls always did better at casting calls. We still had time. I was only twenty-three.
A bell dinged behind me.
Ugh, a customer.
I sighed and strolled out to the shoe counter. There weren’t many windows on the first floor of Fancee’s after last year’s smash-and-grabs, but we had enough overhead fluorescents to fake daylight for ambiance. It was supposed to make people happy, which higher-ups thought meant more spending. It was less strain on the eyes, anyways, except the blinding change in light quality from warehouse to the sales floor.
A woman with limp hair held out a silver flat. “I need this in a size eight.” She was probably going to a New Year’s party this weekend. Sparkly dress, shiny shoes, it was all very ‘classic’ by most standards. But no heel and no ring meant she was probably resigned to a mediocre time. Well, whatever. Maybe she had friends. Most people did.
I took the shoe and wandered to the stacks in back, ignoring the unsorted discards on my right. I wiggled my fingers at labels and tapped my long, white nails against the boxes to track down the silver flats in size eight.Got it.
I marched to Miss NYE and offered her the box. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” She clutched the shoes and hurried to a far chair instead of taking a seat in the closest section to try them on. Some people avoided salespeople like the plague–as if I was going to kiss her ass for a commission. Fancee’s employees mostly relied on hourly pay. I’d get a bonus if she signed up for a store credit card, but it wasn’t worth the ten extra bucks to sell it beyond a general ask, in my opinion.
I sauntered through the open doorframe and unsheathed a pair of luxury heels.Thesewould get me my dream job. Or at least my rent money. I popped off my tennis shoes and took the heels for a spin on the concrete floor, the dim lights, narrow hall, and muted pop music from the store providing a catwalk effect. As I ‘worked’ the runway, schooling my expression, future fan edit possibilities filled my imagination.
Would I go by ‘Nikki’ or ‘Nyx,’ Queen of the Runway? Stage names affected personal brand. I wasn’t sure if I should be hot-but-accessible urban chic or You Wish You Could Be Like Me HBIC.
Ding.
At the sound of the bell, I wobbled and flapped my arms for balance. Someone kept smacking the bell to the tune of ‘Jingle Bells.’
Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-ding. Ding-ding-Ding…ding-dnn.
The last note muffled like someone smashed their hand over it.
