Free A Not-So-Simple Life by Melody Carlson Page B

thievery. I walk through the shop looking for something to do, something to distract me from fuming at Vivian and her stupid accusations. Then I notice Em standing behind the counter. She smiles at me like nothing’s wrong and announces she’s going to lunch.
    I try to act natural as I smile back at her, but I feel resentful that Em might be responsible for this. Could she have somehow insinuated that I stole the merchandise? But why would she do it? Perhaps to draw attention from herself? But that’s so wrong. So low. And to think I was trying to be friendly with her. I should’ve known better.
    Fortunately some customers come in, a very well-dressed couple who are probably my mom’s age, and I am distracted with trying to help them. And I’m surprised at how friendly they are. But then I’ve seen the woman here before, just a few days ago. Finally the woman says something odd to the man.
    “See, what did I tell you about her?”
    Now I’m not sure how to respond…or whether to, so I sort of step back, giving them their space. The woman opens her purse, a very expensive Ralph Lauren bag (I cantell by the initials in the lining), and she removes a card and hands it to me.
    “If you’re ever looking for work,” she says quietly, as if she doesn’t wish to be overheard, “you just give me a call.”
    I blink and try not to look too shocked. “Thank you.”
    She smiles, and the man nods, and then they leave. After they’re gone, I head over to the dead spot and read the card. The woman is the manager of the Ralph Lauren shop—a shop that is much nicer than this one. So I’m standing here, thinking that it’s flattering and in some ways tempting, when Vivian comes out and insists on knowing what I am doing.
    I tuck the card into my vest pocket and look evenly at her. “I’m actually just standing here.”
    “Why here?”
    “Why not?”
    “Hold out your hands.”
    So I put my hands up, palms forward, as if she’s holding a gun on me.
    “Empty your pockets.”
    “My pockets?” I frown at her.
    “Yes. Your pockets. Step over to the counter and empty them, Maya.”
    I go over by the cash register and empty my pockets. This is a little embarrassing because I have, among other things, a used tissue, a dog-eared stick of clove gum, and my worry stone. Finally I set the business card down as well.
    She examines the contents of my pockets and even picks up the stone. “What’s this?”
    “A worry stone,” I say with a sigh, thinking I could’ve used it right then.
    “And this?” She holds up the business card.
    “Someone gave it to me.”
    She scowls now. “And you have nothing else in your pockets?”
    “Do you want to frisk me?”
    She goes back to where I was standing in the dead spot and carefully searches through the bags to see if I’ve tucked something back there. Finally she seems to give up. But when she returns, she’s still looking at me in an accusatory way. “Why were you standing over there, Maya?”
    I pick up the business card again. “I was slipping this into my pocket.”
    “Why?”
    “Because those people who were just in here offered me a job at their store.” I stand up straighter now. “And, as a matter of fact, I think I will take them up on it. I quit.”
    She actually sputters at this. But ignoring her, I go to the back room, pick up my purse, and walk out. Then I march over to the Ralph Lauren shop, where I show the first employee I see the business card, and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in a very nice office and explaining to that nice woman, whotells me to call her by her first name, what happened with Viv.
    “Oh, I hope we didn’t get you fired,” Diane says.
    “No, but my boss confronted me just now. She saw the card and wanted to know how I got it. So I told her the truth. She wasn’t very pleased, but to be honest, she’s not the easiest person to work for either.”
    “So we’ve heard.”
    And suddenly I am signing a tax form and explaining