The moment I walked into the health food store that morning, the familiar scent of fresh produce and herbal teas surrounded me. I took a deep breath, letting it settle in my lungs. This was my routine, my job, my way of helping my family. I tied my apron around my waist, but something in my gut told me that today was going to be different.
“Hey, Grace! Ready for another thrilling day of blending and juicing?” My coworker, Ally, teased from behind the counter.
I chuckled. “Oh, you know it. Keeping the customers happy is my mission in life.”
But as I said it, a knot twisted in my stomach. Not every customer was easy to please—especially not her.
We called her “Miss Pompous” behind her back. She walked in like she owned the place, always ready to belittle us like we were her personal servants. No matter what we did, it was never good enough.
I tried to push the thought of her aside as I started my shift. I needed this job. My widowed mother’s medical bills weren’t going to pay themselves, and my younger sister’s dream of going to college depended on me helping out. I couldn’t afford to lose this job, no matter how hard some people made it.
As I wiped down the counter, Ally suddenly leaned in close and whispered, “Heads up. Miss Pompous just pulled into the parking lot. Brace yourself.”
I sighed. “Just what I needed to start my day.”
The bell above the door chimed, and there she was. Click. Click. Click. Her designer heels echoed through the store like a warning. She strutted to the counter, her nose so high in the air I was surprised she could see where she was going.
“Carrot juice. Now,” she demanded, without so much as a “hello.”
I forced a polite smile. “Of course, ma’am. Coming right up.”
I grabbed the fresh carrots and began juicing, but I could feel her eyes drilling into me, watching my every move as if she expected me to mess up. The pressure made my hands shake slightly, but I refused to let her rattle me.
Finally, I placed the drink in front of her. “Here you go, ma’am. Enjoy!”
She snatched it from my hand, took a sip—and then her face twisted in pure disgust.
“Uh-oh,” I thought. “Here it comes.”
Before I could react, Miss Pompous THREW the entire cup of juice at my face!
Cold liquid splashed across my cheeks, dripping down my chin and soaking into my apron. I stood there, frozen in shock.
“What is this watered-down garbage?” she screeched, loud enough for the entire store to hear. “Are you trying to poison me?”
I wiped the juice from my eyes. “I… I don’t understand. It’s the same recipe we always use.”
“It’s disgusting! Make it again, and this time, use your brain!”
Heat rushed to my cheeks as I felt the weight of everyone’s stares. Humiliation clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down. I wouldn’t let her see me cry.
Suddenly, my manager, Mr. Weatherbee, appeared beside me. “Is there a problem here?”
Miss Pompous turned on him, her eyes gleaming with self-importance. “Your employee can’t even make a simple juice correctly! I demand a refund and a free replacement!”
To my horror, Mr. Weatherbee immediately apologized. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’ll remake your juice right away, free of charge.” Then he turned to me. “Grace, be more careful next time.”
My jaw dropped. “But sir, I—”
He cut me off with a look. “Just get the carrots, Grace.”
Miss Pompous smirked, victorious.
For a split second, I wanted to rip off my apron and storm out. But then, I thought of my mom’s tired smile and my sister’s hopeful eyes. I needed this job.
So I took a deep breath and decided: if I had to make another juice, I was going to make it count.
As Mr. Weatherbee turned his back to answer a call, I grabbed the biggest, ugliest carrot in the fridge. It was gnarled and tough. Perfect.
I locked eyes with Miss Pompous, my voice sugary sweet. “One moment, please. I’ll make sure this juice is absolutely perfect for you.”
Miss Pompous watched, suspicious. I fed the oversized carrot into the juicer.
The machine groaned. Juice sprayed out in every direction—onto the counter, onto the floor, and best of all, all over Miss Pompous’s designer purse.
She shrieked. “My bag!” She snatched it up, trying to wipe away the orange stains. “You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”
I gasped dramatically. “Oh no! I’m so sorry, ma’am. It was an accident, I swear.”
Her face turned purple with rage. “Where is your manager?!”
I barely contained my laughter. “I think he’s helping someone over there.” I gestured vaguely and slipped away into the stockroom.
The next morning, Miss Pompous stormed into the store, demanding to see the owner. Mr. Larson, a kind-faced man in his sixties, listened patiently as she ranted about her purse and how I should be fired.
When she was done, he simply said, “Let’s check the security footage.”
My heart pounded. Oh no. The cameras!
The footage played: her throwing juice in my face, me “accidentally” ruining her purse. Silence filled the room.
Mr. Larson turned to her. “Ma’am, I see an unfortunate accident that happened after you assaulted my employee. If anyone should consider legal action, it’s us.”
Miss Pompous gasped. “But… my purse!”
“I suggest you leave. And please don’t return.”
With one last glare, she stormed out, the bell clanging behind her.
Mr. Larson turned to me, eyes twinkling. “Well, Grace, I hope that was just an accident.”
I grinned. “Of course, sir. Why would I ruin a customer’s belongings on purpose?”
Ally high-fived me. “You stood up to the wicked witch!”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
Justice, served with a side of carrot juice.
