The Me I Thought I Was

Mediocrity - the type of life that people like me are destined for. Hi, my name is Jasmine Elaine Dawson. I'll be eighteen in just a few months, and I've never been less excited. I used to fantasize about finally turning to an age where I'd be legally free from my home life. Now it doesn't seem to matter so much. You have to see yourself going somewhere in life in order to dream it, so it would seem. As I blindly price items on the shelves of this ancient corner store, my only escape from home, it's hard to imagine my future any less bleak. "JAS!" The sound of my name from behind me wakes me from my sad internal monologue with a jolt. I whipped around to see Mr. Carlsen glaring at me with crossed arms and a unibrow that has set the standard for any more to come. "We have a sale on those items this week, I've told you this!" He squawks patronizingly. I roll my eyes as his attention is briefly averted by the sound of the bell on the front door. "And?" Mr. Carlsen turns his beady eyes back to me and tosses a roll of price tags at me. "And if you don't get this shelf redone and start paying attention when I speak then I'll be forced to look for someone with more competence. Which, as you haven't exactly set the bar very high, would be more than worth my while. Do we have an understanding, Miss Dawson?" His smug face is beckoning my bad side to respond in my usual way... but this job is my only semblance of freedom, so... "Yes, Mr. Carlsen, I'll get to it now." I mutter as my head drops in defeat. "Well, good then." And with that he was gone again though not completely out of earshot before I hear him mutter something like 'Just like her parents, no god damn respect.' under his breath. Savagely I begin pulling items off the shelf and ripping off the tags I'd spent the last however long putting on. Oh, how I loved being compared in any way to my deadbeat parents... Funnily enough my reputation as one of the bad began because of words like that. I couldn't attend public school anymore because Ms. Kelly-Anne McBride – a stuck up airheaded cheerleader type – had thought it funny to do impressions of my drunken mother at the school's bus stop one day. She proceeded to inform the rest of the students that it would be a miracle if I didn't end up dead in my own vomit by prom. The joke was on her though because I shattered both of her clavicles when I picked her up and slammed her into the wall of the school. Apparently bones and red-brick walls don't mix. Who's not making it to prom now b***h?! I laugh internally, remembering. Unfortunately, once you break a fellow student's bones out of pure, unadulterated rage, you get labeled a problem child. Who knew? "Is laughing a normal reaction for you when hearing your boss bad-mouth your folks, or am I interrupting a murder fantasy?" An amused voice asks from close by. My whole body jerks around to find the source, and sure enough, leaning with an elbow resting atop a nearby shelf stood a boy who could only be described as tall, dark, and handsome. My witty response dies on my lips as my dull blue eyes catch his deep brown ones... only briefly though. "Well, I have always loved Dateline, but being featured on an episode has never made my bucket-list so... read into that what you will." I turn quickly away, back to the task at hand. His breathy chuckle seems to contain both amusement and slight surprise. "Well, I'll be sure to stay up to date on the highlights, just in case." He laughs again. I chuckle, and without turning back to him I smile, "If you wanted to see me again, you just have to ask." I tease, not quite knowing why, as if this perfect stranger would have any inkling to see me again. I feel, rather than see, his advance towards me. "I'll definitely keep that in mind, Dateline Girl." He whispers over my shoulder, and I feel his hand graze my lower back as he steps past me and meanders to the till counter. Stunned silent, I can't help but allow my gaze to follow him as he goes... He can't be much older than I am, maybe early twenties at most. He's definitely part Hispanic – maybe Spanish? – built but lean, his muscles utterly obvious under his thin grey t-shirt. His dark wavy hair was cropped short, recently, considering the skin at the nape of his neck is just a shade or two lighter than his shoulders below. Of course, I could be looking to closely, and as I notice a family tree tattoo etched into the top of his spine, I know that I am looking too closely. As he leans across the counter to hand over some cash I can see more ink, intricate words tattooed on his outer left forearm, though I can't make out the words. My oh my is he tall! God Jas stop staring at the poor guy! As I am about to drop my eyes back to their menial task, his eyes catch mine again. I didn't get a good look when he was close, but even from across the store I can see that I hadn't been entirely accurate on the color of those eyes. They were brown, but there was so much depth to them... as if they were lit from somewhere inside, and even from here I could make out some nearly golden flecks woven throughout his iris's. I feel as if the breath has been knocked out of me, and he must have noticed because before he saunters out the front door, he gives me a wicked grin and devious wink. And then he was gone... and as soon as the door closes behind him its as if my lungs immediately refilled with air and I can move again. Jesus... what was that?!