Free Britt-Marie Was Here by Fredrik Backman

sight of a glittering power ball.
    “If you want new hubcaps for your car I can fix it. Or anything. Shampoo or handbags or anything. I’ll fix it!”
    “Maybe some Band-Aids?” hollers Somebody mischievously and points at his lip.
    Britt-Marie keeps a firm grip on her handbag and adjusts her hair, as if the boy has offended the both of them.
    “I certainly don’t need either shampoo or a handbag.”
    Omar points at the bottles of Faxin.
    “Those are thirty kronor each but you can have them on credit.”
    “On credit ?”
    “Everyone shops on credit in Borg.”
    “I certainly don’t shop on credit! I can see maybe you don’t understand such a thing in Borg, but there are some of us that can pay our way!” hisses Britt-Marie.
    That last bit just slips out of her. It wasn’t quite how she meant to put it.
    Somebody is not grinning anymore. Both the boy and Britt-Marie have red faces, caused by different kinds of shame. Britt-Marie briskly lays down the money on the counter and the boy picks it up and runs out of the door. Soon the thumping can be heard again. Britt-Marie stays where she is and tries to avoid Somebody’s eyes.
    “I didn’t get a receipt,” Britt-Marie states in a low voice, which is not at all incriminating.
    Somebody shakes her head and smacks her tongue.
    “What does he look like, IKEA or something? He doesn’t have, what’s-it-called? Limited company, you know. Just a kid with a bicycle.”
    “Ha,” says Britt-Marie.
    “What else do you want?” asks Somebody, her tone noticeably less hospitable as she puts the jar of baking soda and the bottles of Faxin in a bag.
    Britt-Marie smiles as helpfully as she can.
    “You have to understand that one has to get a receipt. Otherwise one actually can’t prove that one isn’t a criminal,” she explains.
    Somebody rolls her eyes, which Britt-Marie feels is unnecessary.
    Somebody presses a few keys on her register. The money tray opens, revealing not very much money at all inside, and then the register spits out a pale yellow receipt.
    “That’ll be six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre,” says Somebody.
    Britt-Marie stares back as if she’s got something stuck in her throat.
    “For baking soda?”
    Somebody points out of the door.
    “For dent in car. I have done one of those, what’s-it-called? Bodywork inspection! I don’t want to, what’s-it-called? Insult you, Britt-Marie! So you can’t have credit. Six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre.”
    Britt-Marie almost drops her handbag. That’s how grave the situation is.
    “I have . . . who . . . for goodness’ sake. No civilized person walks around with that much cash in her handbag.”
    She says that in an extra-loud voice. So that everyone in there can hear, in case one of them is a criminal. On the other hand, only the bearded coffee-drinking men are there, and neither of them even look up, but still. Criminal types do sometimes have beards. Britt-Marie actually has no prejudices about that.
    “Do you take cards?” she says, registering a certain amount of rising heat along her cheekbones.
    Somebody shakes her head hard.
    “Poker players do cards, huh, Britt-Marie. Here we do cash.”
    “Ha. In that case I’ll have to ask for directions to the nearest cash machine,” says Britt-Marie.
    “In town,” says Somebody coldly, crossing her arms.
    “Ha,” says Britt-Marie.
    “They closed down the cash machine in Borg. Not profitable,” says Somebody with raised eyebrows, nodding at the receipt.
    Britt-Marie’s gaze flickers desperately across the walls, in an attempt to deflect attention from her bloodred cheeks. There’s ayellow jersey hanging on the wall, identical to the one in the recreation center, with the word “Bank” written above the number “10” on its back.
    Somebody notices her looking at it, so she closes the register, knots the bag of baking soda and Faxin, and pushes it across the counter.
    “You know, no shame here with