Chapter 1: The Drama Behind the Counter

Some days, I swear, it feels like I’m living in the middle of one of those old-school, angst-ridden coming-of-age novels.

Sometimes, I could almost laugh at how thick the nostalgia and teenage drama get in my shop—it’s like someone left a John Hughes movie running on a loop and forgot to clue me in. Every morning, as I turn the key in the lock, it’s like stepping straight into a story that’s already halfway through. Maybe it’s the sunlight, slanting just right through the front window, catching the wind chimes and bouncing off pastel notebooks. Or maybe it’s just the way these kids look at each other—bright-eyed, full of secrets and longing, each of them with their own private soundtrack playing in their heads. Honestly, sometimes I feel like the only adult in a world built out of after-school specials.

I run a little boutique called Maple & Fern Gifts. The place smells like lavender and a hint of vanilla, and the old wood floors creak under every step—sometimes I think they’re groaning right along with me. Most days, I’m fussing with displays or dusting shelves, but I always keep one ear tuned to the door, waiting for the bell to jingle. There’s a certain magic to the way a shop wakes up in the morning, and I never get tired of it.

It’s the kind of place you only find in small towns—squeezed between the bakery and the hardware store, where the bell over the door jingles every time someone walks in. My shelves are crowded with handmade candles, quirky greeting cards, and, honestly, way too many hair accessories. Seriously, I might have gone a little overboard with the barrettes and scrunchies, but the kids love them. There’s always a jar of peppermint sticks by the register for the after-school crowd, and the walls are plastered with Polaroids of regulars showing off their latest finds. It’s cozy, a little cluttered, and every inch of it feels lived-in.

Today, the story’s heroine and her rival both came into my store. They both made a beeline for the same crystal hair clip. I know, it sounds like something out of a YA paperback, but I swear I couldn’t make this stuff up. For a second, I almost wanted to duck behind the counter and grab popcorn.

You could practically feel the tension crackling—two girls, both with that determined glint in their eyes, reaching for the same bit of sparkle like it was the last slice of pizza at a sleepover. I watched them from the corner of my eye, half-expecting a dramatic soundtrack to kick in. Instead, there was just the hum of the ceiling fan and the soft clink of glass beads as they hovered over the display. Honestly, I almost snorted. If this was the key to the universe, then I was definitely in the wrong business.

And then, just like that... a barrage of on-screen comments started popping up in front of me—like social media overlays, flashing and intrusive, only I could see them.

[Those two are cut from the same cloth.]

[This is the most annoying heroine I’ve ever seen—she clearly wants it, but acts all cool and above it.]

[Classic catfight. No two guys are exactly the same—and good luck finding two identical hair clips, either.]

Actually, there are.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes a little—there’s always more stock in the back, and honestly, high school drama over hair ties is nothing new. The comments floated around me like digital graffiti—snarky, relentless, and invisible to everyone else. I had to stifle a laugh. Some things just never change, even when you’re living inside a story.

I ducked behind the counter and pulled out a big cardboard box. “How about I grab each of you a new one? And hey, I’ll even throw in a free braid.” I grinned at them, trying to keep things light.

Their faces lit up at the mention of the free braid, and just like that, the tension melted away. In a small town, word gets around fast about little perks like that. I’d braided more hair than I could count—French, Dutch, fishtail—you name it, I’ve braided it. Every time, the girls walked out feeling just a little more themselves. It’s my own small way of smoothing over the rough edges, a tiny act of peacekeeping in a world that always feels one snap away from drama.

When it came time to check out, a mother and daughter started arguing right at the register.

It was the kind of argument that makes the air go thin, everyone suddenly pretending to be fascinated by the shelves. The mom’s voice was sharp, her words clipped, while the girl’s shoulders curled in like she was bracing for a storm. I saw embarrassment flicker across her face, cheeks flushing as she fiddled with a hair tie she already knew she wouldn’t get to keep.

The mom flat-out refused to buy her daughter any of the hair clips or hair ties. “You should be focusing on your grades right now. Why are you always thinking about this kind of junk?”

Her tone was harsh, the kind of lecture that’s not really about hair ties at all. It’s about everything else—expectations, disappointments, old dreams that never quite panned out. I let out a tiny sigh, watching the girl’s lips press into a thin line, her eyes darting to the floor. The other kids in the shop tried not to listen, but I caught them sneaking glances, a mix of sympathy and relief on their faces—thankful, for once, that it wasn’t them.

“Why can’t you be more like your sister and give me less to worry about?”

Those words landed like a slap—sharp, unfair, and straight to the heart. The girl winced, her fingers tightening around the plastic package. I felt my own chest tighten—a memory surfacing of my mom saying almost the exact same thing, years ago, when I was about her age. That ache? It never really goes away.

She picked out a couple of SAT prep books and some pens, then told her daughter to put the rest back.

The girl moved slowly, almost robotic, as she put the hair ties and clips back on the shelf. Her eyes lingered on a sparkly barrette, but she didn’t say a word. I wanted so badly to tell her it wasn’t fair, that she deserved a little beauty too, but I bit my tongue. Sometimes being the adult means knowing when to keep your mouth shut—at least when parents are around.

“I’m not buying you any of that stuff. You’re always at school, but not studying. Are you just trying to get boys’ attention and start dating?”

That was too harsh.

The accusation hung there, heavy and mean. I saw the girl’s jaw clench, her whole body going rigid. The other students shifted, glancing at each other, whispering just loud enough for the words to sting. The mom didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she just didn’t care. She paid for the test prep books, grabbed her bag, and swept out, leaving her daughter standing there, blinking back tears. I wanted to throw something.

And since my shop’s right next to Maple Heights High, it’s always packed with students drifting in and out. Everyone snuck glances at the girl, some pretending not to, some whispering behind their hands.

It’s a small town—everybody knows everybody’s business. I caught little bits of conversation as the door swung shut: “That’s Lexi’s mom, right?” “Poor kid, she’s always in trouble.” The girl stood frozen, cheeks burning, wishing she could disappear. I remembered that feeling, too—like the whole world was watching and judging, and you couldn’t do a thing about it.

Her mom just left her there and walked out.