That morning, as I walked into the health food store, the smell of fresh fruits and herbs filled the air. I tied my apron, thinking it was going to be another ordinary day at work. But something felt off, like today was going to be different.
“Hey, Grace! Ready for another thrilling day of juice-making?” Ally, my coworker, called out, smiling from behind the counter.
I chuckled and shook my head. “Yeah, sure. Gotta keep all those entitled customers happy, right?”
But my gut told me something wasn’t quite right. And I knew exactly why. There was one customer who always made our lives miserable whenever she showed up.
We called her “Miss Pompous.” It was a name that fit her perfectly. She always strutted into the store like she owned the place, treating us like we were beneath her.
As I started my shift, I tried to focus on my job. I really needed this job. It wasn’t just about me—I had bills to help with. My mom’s medical expenses were piling up, and my younger sister was counting on me to help with her college. Quitting wasn’t an option.
A few minutes later, Ally leaned in and whispered, “Heads up. Miss Pompous just pulled into the parking lot.”
My stomach twisted. “Great,” I mumbled. “Just what I needed.”
The bell above the door jingled, and there she was, walking in with her designer heels clicking on the floor like a warning. She didn’t even look at me as she marched straight to the counter.
“Carrot juice. Now,” she snapped.
I put on my best customer-service smile. “Of course, ma’am. Coming right up.”
As I made the juice, I could feel her eyes burning into me, watching every little move I made. My hands started shaking from the pressure, but I kept going. Finally, I handed her the juice.
She took a sip, and her face twisted in disgust. “What is this watered-down garbage?” she screeched. Before I could even react, she flung the drink right into my face.
Cold carrot juice splashed all over me, dripping down my cheeks. I stood there, completely stunned, as she kept yelling. “Are you trying to poison me?”
I blinked, trying to clear the juice from my eyes. “It’s the same recipe we always use,” I said, my voice shaking.
“Make it again,” she demanded. “And this time, use your brain.”
My face burned with humiliation, and everyone in the store had stopped to stare. Tears started to well up, but I refused to let her see me cry. No way.
At that moment, my manager, Mr. Weatherbee, walked over. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, though it was clear he was more worried about losing a customer than about me.
Miss Pompous turned to him, her voice dripping with arrogance. “Your employee can’t even make a simple juice! I want a refund and a replacement.”
To my shock, Mr. Weatherbee started apologizing. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’ll remake your juice immediately, and you’ll get it for free.” Then he turned to me, shaking his head. “Grace, be more careful next time.”
I was speechless. “But sir, I—”
“Just get the carrots, Grace,” he cut me off, “and make the juice again.”
Miss Pompous smirked at me, clearly loving every second of my embarrassment. I felt a surge of anger, and for a moment, I wanted to rip off my apron and walk out. But then I thought about my family. I couldn’t lose this job.
I took a deep breath. If I had to remake this juice, I was going to do it on my terms. I wasn’t going to let her win.
I stared her down, refusing to let her intimidate me. She thought she could buy her way through life, bossing people around just because she had money. Not today.
As Mr. Weatherbee walked away, I headed to the fridge, but instead of grabbing the usual carrots, I found the biggest, ugliest carrot I could find. It was tough and gnarly, perfect for what I had in mind.
“Just a moment, ma’am,” I said sweetly as I fed the oversized carrot into the juicer. The machine groaned under the pressure before it sprayed juice everywhere—across the counter, the floor, and best of all, all over Miss Pompous’s fancy designer handbag.
She screamed, grabbing her bag and desperately trying to wipe off the bright orange juice. “My bag! You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said, trying not to laugh. “It was an accident, I swear.”
Her face turned bright red. “You’ve ruined my three-thousand-dollar purse! I want your manager!”
Barely keeping a straight face, I gestured toward the store. “I think he’s helping another customer right now.”
She stormed off, furious, in search of Mr. Weatherbee. As soon as she was out of sight, I ducked into the stockroom to hide my grin. From there, I watched her march out of the store, still clutching her dripping purse and leaving a trail of carrot juice behind her.
I thought that would be the end of it. But no, Miss Pompous wasn’t one to let things go.
The next morning, she came storming into the store, demanding to see the owner. Mr. Larson, the kind old man who owned the place, came out to greet her. She went on and on, insisting that I be fired and that she deserved compensation for her ruined bag.
Calmly, Mr. Larson said, “Let’s take a look at the security footage.”
My heart skipped a beat. I had completely forgotten about the cameras.
We all gathered around as the footage played. It showed Miss Pompous throwing juice in my face, and then the “accident” with her purse. The store was silent as everyone watched.
Mr. Larson turned to Miss Pompous, his voice firm. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you any compensation. What I see here is an assault on my employee. If anyone should be thinking about legal action, it’s us.”
Miss Pompous’s face twisted in disbelief. “But… my purse!”
“I suggest you leave,” Mr. Larson said calmly. “And don’t come back.”
She glared at me one last time before storming out of the store.
Once she was gone, Mr. Larson turned to me with a knowing smile. “That was just an accident, right, Grace?”
I grinned. “Of course, sir. Why would I ever want to ruin a customer’s belongings?”
He chuckled and walked away. Ally rushed over and gave me a high five. “You really showed her, Grace! You didn’t let her walk all over you.”
That night, as I shared the story with my mom and sister, I realized something. Standing up to Miss Pompous hadn’t just put her in her place—it reminded me of my own worth.
