In my town, you can’t sneeze at the gas station without it turning up in the PTA group chat. The Rite Aid clerk knows your gum flavor. The crossing guard knows your GPA. I’m seventeen, a senior, and every shift after school I face the same CVS aisle, sweeping up glitter from spilled highlighters and restocking shampoo like it’s a sacred calling. On weekends I babysit. Every crumpled tip and quarter anyone ever said “keep the change, sweetheart” over went into a red Folgers coffee can under my bed.

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