Page 42 of The Naughty List

I’m not taking the blame for this. No chance. Sandra was probably flirting with Billy in the forklift bay, giving no attention whatsoever to her workload, and that’s not my fault. It never is.

Tracy raises her voice over the Christmas jingles, loud enough that customers turn their heads.

“All you have to do is apologise and take more care next time, Ella! It’s a verbal disciplinary, nothing more.”

A verbal disciplinary! Is she having a laugh? I could earn a few k for taking a night ofverbal disciplinaryfrom a well-paying client.

Having a laugh or not, my work ethic still has my blood pumping with nerves, totally at odds with my rage. I’m all for keeping my head down, soldiering on, brushing off the criticism for the sake of holding things steady, but something is bubbling inside me, and it’s not just the period demon.

I’ve been relying on my job at this store for over twelve months straight now. No sick time, no staff politics, nothing but pure, hard work. And what difference has it made to the people in the chain above me? The people who pay my wages?

None whatsoever. It never will.

I stare Tracy right in the eyes, still silent, and she looks puzzled.

“Are you going to apologise?” she asks.

“No.”

“No?”

My arms are still folded across my chest. “No. I’m not. Give theverbal disciplinaryto your best friend’s niece, instead. She’s the one who fucked up today.”

Tracy looks so affronted.

“What the hell?! Sandra being Ashleigh’s niece has got nothing whatsoever to do with this!”

“It’s goteverythingto do with it. It always has.”

My blood is pumping faster now I’ve drawn the sword of personal insults. My comments are close to the bone, and Tracy could take some fuel from them. So, what to do? Swing or yield. Put my head down and say sorry, or keep on pushing for an equality that will never arrive. The delightful Sandra will always have the top spot over me in this place, no matter how manytwo for onesI stack all day.

I brace myself for Tracy’s onslaught, fight or flight mode engaged and ready, but there’s no need. The sigh that comes out of her mouth is almost a let-down, it’s so puny. It’s her who puts her sword away, not me.

“Just take more care next time, will you? No need to get into a tizz about it.” She pats my shoulder as she walks on by, and I’m in shock, open-mouthed at her response to me finally standing up to her.

A tizz?

I’d usually be shitting myself at her stock damage accusation, terrified that she’d use it against me to cut my shifts or log some crappy incident on my HR record. But the whole time I’ve been scared for nothing. Sweet fuck all.

I dared to accuse her of unprofessional favouritism in front of customers, and all she did was pat my shoulder and walk on by.

Yet again, my world is reeling. I feel almost sick as the aisles start closing in…

I’ve spent so long being afraid of losing money. Of not trying hard enough. Of not working hard enough, or being responsible enough, or earning every single penny I can in this place. And it’s all been false. Fear for nothing. Tracy isn’t going to do anything to me at all.

The store seems to stand still as I watch her pace away in her clacky shoes. The customers are still looking at me, and the tunes are still jangling overhead, but I feel distant. Empty.Done.

Yep. I’m done with this place.

My tolerance for both minimum wage AND Tracy is ready to take the leap.

“Hey,” I call after my manager. “Wait a second. I need to tell you something.”

She spins back, fake grinning like nothing’s fucking happened.

“What’s that?”

“I quit.”

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