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“You know you’re supposed to serve the food, not eat it all.”

Rose colored eyes darted over towards the young man addressing her. The chewing didn’t stop - but the comment did bring the sides of perfectly painted lips upwards into a smirk as her tongue savored the sweet chocolate morsel that was still melting in her mouth. She thought she’d tucked herself far enough around the back corner not to be caught, but it didn’t surprise her that he’d search for her. After all, who wouldn’t want to be around her?

“He’s coming back any minute, Prissy.” The barista sighed, absentmindedly wiping his hands on the edges of his apron. “I don’t want you getting in trouble. Again.”

If he was trying to shame her, it wasn’t working.

Okay, maybe slightly.

The young woman winced at the mention of the manager - ugh. If she had her way, she’d tell him where he could shove his pudgy little self and give those beady little creepy eyes the finger they deserved to see. But she needed the job - not for the money, anyways - but to prove she could be responsible enough, yada yada, blah, blah, life lesson baloney.

The Sugar Cube was a cute little cafe tucked away within one of the corners of DC’s most vibrant shopping mall. She’d seen it dozens of times while on excursions and their cookies were absolutely fabu but she’d never dreamed of being forced to actually WORK there. Hmph.

Daddy and his little “lessons”. Hmph. He’d figure it out soon enough, she and her pretty, soft hands weren’t made for any sort of manual labor. Until then, though…

“Fine, fine.” She followed him through the back room, popping the last bit of chocolate chip cookie into her mouth before they made their way back into the shop. After all, the sooner they gave these mallrats what they wanted, the sooner they’d leave.

The small cafe was quaint, no more than the size of a normal mall store. It had the basics that any other cafe would provide - coffee, smoothies, teas and fruity drinks. There were cases of baked goods and small sandwiches. Thankfully, they’d only needed a waitress - she’d paled at the thought, initially, of having to actually cook anything in the back. But the manager clearly knew a beauty, such as herself, needed to be displayed as opposed to stuffed in the back, unseen and slaving over heat and ovens and ugh!

There were still a few groups scattered around the small tables that lined the other half of the shop. Couples and friends casually chatting as they sipped on their drinks, one or two munching on a croissant or cookie. It wasn’t a full fledged restaurant by any means, but it still pulled in way more traffic than Priscilla Stratford cared for. More foot traffic meant more work and more tables needed cleaning, more bratty girls wanting their mocha frappa whappa whatevers and more effort for her.

Stepping up to the cash register, she suppressed an eyeroll as another gaggle of preteens approached. Her adorably pink shellac nail punched the computer screen as she set up for a new order.

B-o-r-i-n-g.

She finished up the teenagers’ order - thankfully, it wasn’t anything too terribly time consuming. Couple cookies, couple fruit smoothies. Daniel took care of the drinks, she’d tonged the cookies into little paper bags and handed it to them. Easy enough.

Her back was turned to the entrance, her elbows propped against the countertop as she stared at the clock. Another six hours.

Six. Long. Hours.

She wasn’t a mathlete by any means, but she knew it meant 360 minutes which was 359 more minutes than she cared to hang around for. Sigh.

When Daniel made a motion towards the tables, she initially ignored him. He repeated the motion, this time, saying her name. Glancing towards him, she followed his motioning until her gaze rested on the back of a nobody’s head. Someone had snuck in, taking a seat at one of the tables when she wasn’t paying attention.

It was an unspoken rule among the employee that if a customer did not approach the register to order that they were required to approach the customer to order. The manager was not a fan of people loitering and using the wifi without purchasing anything, so they were prompted to ensure that a purchase was made. To Prissy, this just meant more work.

Giving her coworker one of her looks, she finally moved to escape from behind the register, pulling a small notepad and bright pink pen out from within her own apron. The pen had a large, pink fake diamond at the top of it, candy cane stripes wrapping its way down the length of the writing device. It was shiny and it made her happy, no matter what kind day she was having.

Approaching the table, the pen tapped the top of her notepad, ensuring the ink was still active and useable. Her voice sounded half-interested, at best, as she started her rehearsed speech.

“Welcome to the Sugar Cube, my name is Prissy, what do you want.”

She looked at the girl. She turned and looked at the giant menu plastered against the wall behind the counter, all the drinks and treats labeled in big, white font with neat little prices adjacent to their names. She looked back at the girl, as if to say, “Really?”

But she didn’t. It wasn’t worth it. If the little witch wanted a menu, fine. She’d get a menu.

Without another word, she turned around and headed back towards the counter. Leaning over, one hand dug for the stack of laminated menus on the top shelf - that they hardly ever used, for goodness’s sake - and plucked the top one off the pile.

Black flats spun around and she practically stomped her way back to the table. Sliding it in front of the girl, she forced a smile (more of a grimace, really) in the direction of the stranger. “Would you like a moment to decide?”

“You think you’re ready or do you know you’re ready?” She muttered under her breath, though clearly still loud enough for Daniel, the barista, to have heard and give her a disapproving look. Shrugging her shoulders, she emitted a short huff and weaved her way through the handful of tables to return to Need a Menu Girl.

Although she hadn’t stood there for the duration of the time, she’d made a point to watch the girl. The menu that she’d requested hadn’t even been touched, which sent Prissy into a much more irritated mood. Who did this chick think she was? Didn’t she realize that Prissy had much more important things to do, like not serving snitty little girls?

“Yes?” Her voice dripped fake sweetness, her words being forced out (especially since she knew Daniel was now watching), “What can we get you?”

“We don’t serve green tea lattes.”

Priscilla knew that Daniel was notorious for whipping up several special items not listed on the menu. She knew how to ring them up accordingly. She also knew that her manager would insist that even if an item was not on the menu, that they should attempt to make it, both for the sake of money and to make the customer happy. But Prissy just plain didn’t like this girl.

The comment about the tables sealed Menu Girl’s fate. It wasn’t like the little skank was going to eat off the table - she’d get a plate for that fancy little biscotti, so what was her deal??

“Maybe I can interest you in a low fat hot chocolate instead?”

Her smile grew, matching the fake sweetness of her customer.

Her teeth gritted together, fingers holding so tightly to the pen that it threatened to snap in half. Tip? She thought she was after a tip? At this point, the best tip she could get was having this girl walk out of the store!

“Green tea latte. No whipped. Vanilla soy.” Her words were sharp, curt and to the point. “And a biscotti.”

Not that those hips could use one, she thought bitterly to herself, furious at having to listen to little brats like this one. Before the girl had any time to respond, Priscilla leaned over and snatched the menu away from her, sliding it in front of her notepad as she spun around and stalked off towards the barista, ensuring each step with her non-heeled flat made a resounding thump with every step.

“She wants a green tea latte. No whip. Extra milk.”

“Milk?” Daniel had already gathered supplies - repeat customers were easy, since most of them tended to be partial to the same drink with every visit. “Are you sure, Prissy?”

“Positive, Danny.”

Her smile was genuine, this time, as she hummed softly to herself, waltzing over to the pastry display as she began the hunt for the almond biscotti, tongs in one hand, bag in the other. If this chickiepoo thought for an instant that she’d serve her on a plate… well, she’d already insulted her waitressing skills, she insulted her table cleaning… she could eat out of a bag like any other peasant she served!

Trying would have to imply that Priscilla cared and caring for what her newest customer wanted or even thought about her? Not happening. No, what she cared about more than anything right now was getting back at this little witch.

She gave the drink a few minutes to cool off, just for good, lukewarm measure, before picking up the cup with one hand, the bagged biscotti in the other. Daniel the barista still had a curious look on his face - he’d seen the waitress perturbed before, but never this aggravated.

It was worrisome, to say the least.

There was a new strut to her step as she made her way towards the table with a single occupancy, still busy with her phone and seemingly oblivious to the order making its way towards her.

Despite the urge to “accidentally” spill the drink onto the girl’s lap, she set the cup down on the table alongside the phone, the bag next to it.

“I’m so sorry for the wait.” Her voice had returned to sweetness, though she did make an actual effort to sound genuine (this time), “Daniel has reminded me of my lack of...manners. Your drink, ma’am, free of charge, along with the biscotti. For all of your…” She hesitated, revealing a brief moment of irritation as she forced out, “...inconvenience.”

This time, instead of turning tail and making her way back to her safe haven (also known as the back storage room), she remained by the girl’s side, giving her damndest attempt at looking sincere in her apology.

For the love of goodness, she really hoped this girl was lactose intolerant.

I’d like you to go, please.

The smile plastered on her face wavered, threatening to reveal the irritation hiding below the surface. “Do? Daniel the barista makes the drinks, ma’am, I just deliver.”

Her hand moved back to point at the handsome young man, who glanced their way just in time to give a friendly (yet slightly confused) wave in their direction. Surely this little snot wouldn’t suspect her coworker of sabotaging her drink, not if she already knew Daniel was more than willing to make special off-the-menu drinks for his customers.

But still, it was clear that the girl was not the trusting sort. Which, Prissy had to admit, was a fair judgement call to make. It was probably better off that way, anyhow - if she were to get sick from the additional milk in the drink, Prissy would prefer it to happen far away from her store instead of adding yet another mess (in the figurative and literal sense) for her to clean up.

“Alright, ma’am.”

The cup was swiftly swiped away once again, shoes turning themselves around for the umpteenth time and headed back towards the counter. She poured it into the sink, setting the cup at the bottom (for someone else to clean up, clearly) before returning to Daniel for a second time.

“She said it didn’t have enough milk in it. And wants it to go this time.”

One finger twirled a lock of pink hair as she smiled sweetly at him, tilting her head to the side as he stared at her with confusion. But, as faithful as he was, he made a fresh drink, pouring it into a paper cup with a cardboard wrapper around it, pink fonted The Sugar Cube wrapped around its outside.

The idea of delaying her drink for a second time was tempting, but Prissy ultimately decided that it would be in both of their best interests to have her leave as quickly as possible, hot drink in hand or not. So the drink was returned, this time a level above lukewarm, and offered to her.

Instead of setting it down in front of her, she presented it to her by hand. Maybe if she didn’t let it touch the table, the girl would get up and leave?

“Your drink, to go, ma’am.”