Chapter 7 - The Page She Did Not Mean to Show
My feet stung once I was standing. The marble was colder than it had looked, and the grit from the dirt pile pressed into my soles. I shifted my weight and tried not to wince.
The manager still had the clipboard. She held it up against her chest now with both hands, like a tray she was afraid someone would take. Her breathing was shallow. I could see the gold buttons on her blazer rise and fall.
She glanced down, just once, to check whatever was clipped there. That was when I saw it.
It was upside down from where I stood, but close enough. A printed sheet for today, columns of times and names in her handwriting. Most lines had a check or initials. Mine was near the bottom. No name. Just a time, 10:40, and then two words in sharp black ink.
Trash risk.
My stomach tightened. I stared at those two words until the letters blurred. She hadn't written barefoot or need assistance. She'd decided what I was before I'd said a single sentence.
Marcus saw me looking. He stepped a half step forward, his voice low and even.
"Ma'am, can I photograph that page for the record?" he asked the manager. "Just today's list. So we keep everything clear."
The store went quiet. Even the recessed spots overhead seemed too loud, humming faintly. The women by the entrance stopped whispering.
The manager's jaw tightened. She pulled the clipboard tighter against her blazer until her knuckles went pale.
"No," she said. "That's internal. Client information. You don't have permission."
It was the first time she'd sounded controlled since Marcus walked in. The clipboard edge dug into the fabric of her jacket. She didn't look at me. She looked past me, toward the back wall of handbags, like she could find a policy to stand behind.
"I need to protect our clients' privacy," she added, a little faster. "That's procedure."
One of the crowd women, the one in the black sleeveless dress with the quilted bag clutched at her elbow, let out a short breath. She'd been quiet since she'd spoken up earlier. Now she shook her head.
"That's what she told me last month," she said. "Not those words. But the same thing."
Everyone turned. Her cheeks flushed under the bright lights.
"I came in after my shift," she went on, looking at Marcus, then at me. "Scrubs. No makeup. She told the associate not to pull sizes for me. Said I was probably just looking for the restroom."
The manager's eyes flicked to her. "That's not — you were —"
"You had that same board," the woman said, nodding at the clipboard. "You wrote something down and you wouldn't show me either."
I felt my breath catch. It wasn't just the dirt. It wasn't just my bare feet or the cream dress wrinkled from the floor. Someone else had stood on this same marble and been sorted the same way.
Marcus didn't push for the clipboard. He lowered his phone slightly, but kept it in his hand where the manager could see it.
"I understand privacy," he said. "I'm only asking about today's sheet. With your entry on it."
The manager hugged the board harder. The black plastic creaked. For a second her stern mask slipped and I saw something raw underneath, fear, not anger. She glanced down at the page again, as if checking how visible those two words were.
"I've followed procedure all morning," she said quietly.
May you like
I didn't move toward her. The dirt was still at my feet, dark against the white floor. The words trash risk hung in my head louder than anything she'd said out loud. I realized my hands were shaking, so I pressed them flat against my dress.
Behind us, another phone camera clicked.
