It was a warm Saturday afternoon in downtown Chicago, and the trendy boutique Vera & Co. buzzed with shoppers. Known for its fashionable dresses and designer handbags, the store often carried an air of pretension.
Seventeen-year-old Alicia Thompson, an African American high school senior, had saved her babysitting earnings to buy a prom dress. Nervous yet excited, she casually browsed the racks in jeans and a hoodie, blending in with other teens as she held up a navy-blue satin gown. Suddenly, a sharp voice interrupted her.
“Are you planning to actually buy that, or are you just wasting time?”
The words came from Linda Matthews, the boutique’s manager, a woman in her early 40s with a severe bob haircut and an air of superiority. Other customers turned their heads, sensing tension.
Startled but composed, Alicia replied, “I—I was going to try it on,”
Linda smirked. “Uh-huh.
We’ve had… problems in the past with people coming in here, touching things they can’t afford. You understand what I mean?”
The implication was clear, and Alicia’s heart tightened. She gripped her wallet, softly insisting, “I have money.”
Linda’s voice rose, falsely sweet.
“Sweetheart, this dress costs four hundred dollars. Why don’t you check the clearance rack in the back? That might be… more realistic for you.”
The cruelty stung, but Alicia held her ground.
“I’d still like to try it on.”
Linda sighed and warned, “Fine. But if anything happens to that dress, you’re paying for it. No exceptions.”
As Alicia made her way to the fitting room, her heart pounded.
She quickly sent a message to the one person she trusted most—her mother, Denise. The text was brief: “Mom, I need you at Vera & Co. Now.”
Within twenty minutes, the situation took an unexpected turn that Linda Matthews could never have anticipated.
The boutique’s door jingled again as Denise Thompson entered, a calm and commanding presence. A registered nurse still in her scrubs from work, her eyes immediately found her daughter’s anxious face near the fitting room. “Mom,” Alicia whispered, relief washing over her.
Denise embraced her tightly, then faced the manager. “Excuse me,” she said firmly, “I’m Alicia’s mother. Can you explain why my daughter texted me saying she was being harassed here?”
Caught off guard, Linda straightened her blazer.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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