Chapter 2: The Price of Speaking Up

After she finished talking, the nail tech proudly held out her Venmo QR code, waiting for me to pay.

The neon-blue code hovered in front of me like a threat, the phone screen trembling just slightly in her hand. She smiled with a confidence that felt rehearsed, like she’d done this before and always gotten her way.

The comments kept coming: “The main character’s so smart—she just got next semester’s tuition!”

My mind filled with snarky mental chatter, the kind that would blow up on TikTok: "Can you believe this? Girl’s about to cash out on tuition!"

“Poor main character, her family’s broke and her dad’s a gambler. She can only skip class to work. If only she’d met the boyfriend sooner.”

The melodrama of these imagined voices almost made me laugh. I pictured my life as a reality show and wondered who the audience would root for.

“Doesn’t anyone think what the main character did is a little shady? If it were me, I definitely wouldn’t pay so easily.”

“Yeah, how is this any different from a scam?”

When I didn’t move, the nail tech raised her voice. “What? Planning to skip out on the bill?”

The question cut through the salon’s background noise. People in nearby chairs looked up from their magazines or phones, sizing me up with sideways glances. Their expressions ranged from mild curiosity to open suspicion. I felt my cheeks get hot, but I kept my voice steady.

I ignored them and said, “You put on the wrong crystals. Just take them off and give me the ones I actually picked.”

I calmly sat down and held out my hand.

Sliding back into the vinyl chair, I extended my fingers as if daring her to make the next move. My posture was all business—no trembling, no apology. I met her eyes, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

Earlier, when she was trimming my nails, she’d accidentally cut my skin and made it bleed a lot. She didn’t even apologize—instead, she blamed me for moving and wasting her time.

The memory stung more than the nick itself. I flexed my hand, the cut still sore beneath the new, too-expensive crystals. Her lack of accountability made my patience wear thin.

She looked about my age, so I figured she must be short on cash and working part-time, so I was patient—but my patience just gave her an opening to take advantage of me.

I remembered thinking, maybe she’s hustling between classes like I am, saving for something bigger. But kindness only works when it goes both ways, and clearly, she’d mistaken it for weakness.

“Your rhinestone style was out of stock, so I used these instead.”

“I can tell your clothes aren’t cheap, and your purse is worth almost two grand. Nine hundred bucks is nothing to you, but to some people, it’s life-changing.”

She eyed my Michael Kors bag, and I realized my accessories had painted a target on my back. The salon’s fluorescent lights caught every shimmer of the crystals—and every judgmental glance.

The comments surged: “Yeah, yeah, evil supporting character, hurry up and pay! Don’t keep stalling and delay our main girl from making money.”

“Aww, the main character is so pitiful, I want to Venmo her.”

“Boyfriend, hurry up and show up—then the supporting character will pay immediately.”

“Am I the only one who thinks the main character is guilt-tripping people…”

People nearby chimed in too: “Since she already put them on for you, just pay the difference.”

“Yeah, yeah, this girl worked so hard, sticking on all those tiny rhinestones one by one—it took her two hours.”

The sympathy in the air was almost tangible, but I could sense it was shallow, just folks picking the side that sounded like the underdog. In America, people root for the little guy—unless the little guy is running a scam.

Rachel, encouraged by the support, continued sarcastically, “I think you just want a freebie. These crystals are so shiny, anyone can tell they’re not just glass. If you didn’t stop me, doesn’t that mean you agreed to it?”

Her tone dripped with fake innocence, and she folded her arms, tapping her manicured nails against her elbow, like she was daring me to push back.

I glanced at the time—study hall was about to start. I couldn’t keep arguing, so I said patiently, “How about this: just take them off, no need to replace them.”

The clock on the wall ticked louder in my ear. If I missed study hall, I’d fall behind—something I couldn’t afford. I tried to keep my voice measured, my face neutral, though my patience was running out.

“Fine, removal plus labor loss fee comes to $400 total. Scan my code first.” She held out the Venmo code again.

She sounded as if she was offering me a favor, not another rip-off. The audacity almost made me laugh—almost.