Cool Girl—whose real name Imogen had always thought ought to have been something like Skylar or Brooklyn or Indie, because Daniella was just such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary girl—spoke up first.

“Imogen. How wonderful to have you gracing us with your presence. Are you going to wear the helmet during work hours to prevent scaring away the customers with all of that sunshine that you bring to the job?” Cool Girl smirked, her north-suburb staccato especially prominent when she was giving someone else hell.

Little Miss Perfect gave Cool Girl a gentle, correcting tap on the arm. “Hi, Imogen,” said Little Miss Perfect in her most appeasing, brightest voice, because Little Miss Perfect was never not trying. “Hot outside, huh?”

It fascinated Imogen to look at the contrast between the two girls. Little Miss Perfect had dark hair, controlled curls. She was pretty and femme and everything about her was a little bit soft—big eyes, wide nose, full lips.

And then there was Cool Girl, with last night’s eyeliner and her hair bleached and frizzy. Cool Girl was not pretty in any sense of the word. She was electric—and occasionally bordering on stunning—but nothing so palatable or socially acceptable as pretty. She had a proud nose that jutted out from her face and eyebrows that punctuated her angular features. Like somebody crossed Maria Callas with Debbie Harry and gave her a worse attitude than the two of them combined.

And Brooding Art Boy, he just stared at Imogen. For a second, Imogen stared right back.

It was strange that Imogen felt so at home in a place where she had so little in common with her coworkers. But the facts were the facts, and Imogen had stopped questioning the truth of them a long, long time ago. Wild Nights was better than home, for reasons that would always remain a little mysterious to Imogen. There was love at home. Here, there was none.

She would rather be here.

Imogen committed herself to ignoring them all and kept on walking. One step after the other, the heels of her heavy boots digging and clomping against the old wood floor. The back of the store got darker and darker as she moved away from the storefront facade and into the spaces where the light from the windows didn’t reach that well.

Imogen didn’t stop until she got to the employee bathroom in the back. It was off the side of the break room, where they kept Wild Nights’ boxes of surplus inventory that didn’t fit in the storeroom, along with all the staff lockers and the two sad, worn cozy chairs that looked like they hadn’t even been new when The Golden Girls had gone off the air.

Imogen slammed the bathroom door shut.