"Let me think about that for a second... Yeah, no."
A teenage boy with messy, walnut-colored hair stands impatiently in front of the cash register at the local 7-Eleven. Money is laid out on the counter and it's clear that he is ready to pay and leave, but there is one roadblock standing between him and his desired cigarettes—the middle-aged woman, with a million piercings and tattoos, working the dreaded late shift.
"Seriously?" He gapes, his fingers quickly making their way through his curly hair to the bright red bandanna tied securely around his head. "You've got to be kidding me."
"I'm sorry, kid, but you need a valid ID to purchase these cigarettes in Australia." The bored-looking woman drones on monotonously. "Or any cigarettes anywhere, for that matter."
There is silence for a moment as the boy angrily sighs, groaning in frustration.
I peer over at them both from afar, hidden by the metal shelvings. An unopened pack of original-flavored Oreos are clutched in my arms, along with my wallet and two packs of peppermint gum.
There is no logical reason for any of them, besides the fact that I'm literally starving, twenty-years-old, and crave mint gum.
Otherwise, I would not be in this convenience store at all, waiting for this one boy to complete his purchase.
I thought this would be the best time to purchase my Oreos, but apparently not. Apparently midnight is the prime time for teenage boys with ripped jeans to attempt to buy their cigarettes without valid IDs.
"Really?" The boy bitterly laughs. "That's your logic?"
She sighs impatiently in response. "Look, kid, this is 2014. Come back in a few years, when you're all grown up. That should solve all your problems."
I almost laugh at the irony of it all. I always thought people at gas stations were willing to sell anything to anyone, given that no one else was around.
Clearly, I was wrong.
I give this woman credit for being so strict, but that also explains why no one comes to this particular store.
"Do you know who I am?" He now yells, furious. "I'm Ashton! Ashton Irwin! Do I even need an ID?"
I release in a breath I didn't realize I had been holding. That boy seemed familiar from the moment he walked in the shop, and now I know why.
He's Isaac Irwin's son.
How could anyone not know him?
Isaac Irwin is wealthy, wealthier than anyone else in this small town. He owns many franchises, including many hotels, banks, and clothing lines.
This town basically owes all its fortune and fame to him, as he's its main employer and taxpayer.
I would've thought his son would be professional, businesslike, and serious like him, but apparently not. He seems like quite the opposite: definitely the type to ditch all his classes at his fancy private school and spend all his free time getting wasted.
Also unlike his father, instead of being skinny and thin, he has the perfect built and muscles for a drummer, or perhaps a guitarist. I'm not sure how I formed that theory, but his white shirt with a small picture of drumsticks and a guitar probably helped my thought process.
It's apparent he's really into music, too.
Hell, maybe I might've seen him around a couple of times had he been my age range. I'm definitely the type to be at every concert worthwhile--from small-town rock bands to Blink-182.
The woman cocks a pierced eyebrow, obviously playing dumb. I'm sure she already knows who he is, just can't stand snobby, rich, entitled kids. "And?"
The boy, presumably called Ashton, groans again. "And? And I'm clearly old enough to buy cigarettes, God dammit! Ask anyone, anyone, and they'll prove it to you."
At precisely the wrong moment, I trip on my own feet and into view. They both turn to their heads to look at me, the woman with a monotone expression and Ashton with an agitated and slightly expectant one.
"Well?" Ashton snaps, gesturing to me. "Do I look eighteen to you?"
"Um," I hesitate, mainly since the boy looks barely seventeen. "Sure?"
The woman chuckles at my honesty. "Nice try, kid, but it's a no deal. Come back with your ID and we'll possibly work something out."
I stand frozen the aisle as the Ashton kid nearly throws a fit, his frustration vibrating through the whole store. His toned biceps peak out from underneath his white t-shirt as he reaches in his pocket for his wallet, pocketing the insane amount of cash on the counter.
Then he's right in front of me, making his way towards the door. His expression is unreadable; a mixture between frustration, fatigue, and shock.
"Thanks a lot." Ashton mumbles as he passes me before stumbling out the door.
As soon as he leaves, I return my gaze to the woman, peering at me expectantly.
Hesitatingly taking a step forward, I finally exhale and set my own items on the counter where Ashton had just stood.
That certainly wasn't something you see everyday.
"Teenagers these days." I swear I hear the cashier mumble under her breath, I stifle a laugh. I'm not sure she meant for me to hear or not, but either way the reaction she had gotten from Ashton earlier was priceless. "They're rotten, spoiled, and think if they've got enough cash they can do anything. Well, here's something they haven't heard before—"
As her rant continues, a small pang of guilt pulses through my veins, and an odd thought suddenly strikes me.
I may not be a rebellious sixteen-year-old teenager anymore, but I find myself suddenly pulled to Ashton's side, wanting to defend him.
I was once in his shoes and I have to respect that.
Now if only the woman would stop mumbling about gangs and hooligans...
Thankfully, after the woman finishes ringing up my items, she stops and stares at me expectantly. "Is that all?"
"Actually... If you don't mind, I'll have a pack of those cigarettes, please." I dig in my wallet for my ID and some cash, gesturing towards the ones Ashton had wanted.
This comes as a surprise for both myself and her, but I'm so tired and hungry right now I don't give a shit. I just want to get out of this goddamn store.
The request isn't received well as the woman stares at me with an expression of utter disgust as she retrieves a pack of them from the cabinet, reluctantly adding them onto my pile.
