(When I am in the fifth grade, we take a class trip to an alligator park. I find a few little knick-knacks that I like at the gift shop and take them to the register.)

Cashier: “Your total is $5.35, please.”

(I pull a ten-dollar bill and 35 cents out of my pocket and try to give them to her.)

Cashier: *smiling* “I just need the $10, honey.”

(She tries to take just the $10, but I don’t let go.)

Me: “But I want $5 back, so you need to take the change, too, please.”

Cashier: *condescendingly* “Sweetie, I only need the $10.”

Me: *sighs* “Ma’am, I’m trying to get back $5, because I’ve already got a bunch of change in my pocket and don’t want more.”

Cashier: *loudly* “And I said I only need the $10, you stupid brat! $5.35 is less than $10!”

(My teacher, who has been looking at a nearby display, rushes over at the cashier’s sudden hostility.)

Teacher: “[My Name], what’s going on here?”

Cashier: *glaring at me* “This stupid kid can’t do math, that’s what!”

(My teacher ignores her and asks me again.)

Me: “I have a bunch of change and didn’t want more, so I tried to give her $10.35 to pay for my stuff, and she keeps saying she only needs the $10. I just want a $5 back.”

Teacher: *sighs* “Is that all?” *to the cashier* “You are the one who can’t do math. She’s trying to give you $10.35 so that she can get back a five-dollar bill. What part of that don’t you understand?”

Cashier: *scoffs* “Whatever.”

(She finally cashed out my transaction, and I got my $5 bill and went back out into the park area. My teacher spoke to the cashier’s manager. I never went back, but apparently the manager later called my teacher to say the girl had been fired.)

(I go to get my hair cut at a local, low-cost hair salon. Nearly every time I go in there it’s a new cast of stylists. This is the first and only time I see a male stylist. It is very slow there today, with no other customers. He’s a nice and normal-seeming guy, and we’re having friendly conversation as he cuts my hair.)

Stylist: “Hey, you want me to take care of that part of your beard on your jaw that’s starting to curl under your ear?”

Me: “That’d be fine. I usually take care of that myself when I trim it, but you can save me time.”

Stylist: “Man, I just hate it when guys let that get out of control.”

Me: *thinking it’s not been anything I’ve ever noticed,but just going with the conversation* “Yeah, it can get out of control.”

Stylist: “I just want to pull on it when I see guys not taking care of that and yell, ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU LETTING THIS THING GROW? IT’S SO F****** DISGUSTING AND NASTY! QUIT BEING GROSS! CUT IT OFF!’ You know?”

Me: *stunned* “Yeah, sure. I know what you mean.”

Inventory is done late at night after we close. It takes eight hours and is always a headache. We have an inventory company that scans and counts all our items. Employees are on hand to double-check their counts and help with any issues.

This inventory was a perfect storm. Everything that could go wrong did. The inventory company was late. They couldn’t connect their controls to our Internet for at least an hour.

Two of the inventory company employees came to blows over a miscount and had to work at opposite ends of the store.

Two more were caught smoking illegal drugs and were immediately kicked off the premises.

One lady would periodically pick an employee to tearfully hug and absolutely no one found this weird or told her to stop.

Another was making a mess of the clothing tables and cussed out the store manager when asked to clean up after himself. (The store manager cussed him out right back and kicked him out after the druggies.)  

I recently learned I have unused vacation time. I’m using it during next inventory season.

This story is part of our India roundup!

Read the next India Roundup story!

Read the India roundup!

(There’s a girl in my year at school that no one really likes, due to the lengths she goes to just to get attention. If you don’t immediately rush to her and shower her with attention, she tends to try some pretty crazy things to make sure you will. Many of us believe she may have a learning disability, not because of how she acts, but because of how the teachers treat her, and the fact that she’s in a special class with only one or two other students. I’m in the library during lunch one day, minding my own business, when a teacher comes up to me with a pretty large scowl.)

Teacher: “Phone. Now.”

(He holds his hand out expectantly, glaring at me. I just stare at him.)

Me: “What? What’s going on?”

Teacher: “Just hand it over, missy. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

(Confused and slightly worried, I get my phone from my bag and hand it to him. He turns it on and starts scrolling through something. Due to the angle, and him being much taller than me, I can’t see what he’s looking at and just stand there as he slowly starts looking angrier and angrier.)

Teacher: “So, you deleted them, did you?! Rather than own up to your actions, you’d rather be a spiteful coward and hide the evidence?”

Me: “What are you talking about?! Evidence to what?!”

(I don’t get a response as he simply drags me outside the library to “talk.”)

Teacher: “Listen, missy. We have no patience for your kind here at [School]. Since we’ve had no trouble from you before, we’ll give you two choices. Own up and simply get a suspension, or keep lying and we’ll have to get the police involved.”

(Now I’m majorly freaking out. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t seem to want to tell me.)

Me: *stammering* “W-what?”

(The teacher sighs heavily, looking at me like I’m a misbehaving toddler, and gives me back my phone.)

Teacher: “I can see you’re not going to cooperate. Cyber-bullying is dealt with severely; you should know that. I expect you in my office first thing tomorrow, ready to face the consequences.”

(He leaves, and I end up bursting into tears in the hallway. Leaving my stuff behind, I head home and burst through the front door in hysterics, much to the worry of my mother. It takes a while, but I manage to tell her what happened, and she is furious. She sends me to call my grandmother, a policewoman, and tell her what happened.  My mother phones the school, then goes in with me the next morning. She takes me to the teacher’s office and glares him down.)

Teacher: *obviously uncomfortable* “Ah, Miss [My Last Name], I do hope you’ve calmed down.”

Mum: *icily* “I’m perfectly calm, thank you. Now, are you going to finally explain the reasoning behind you threatening my 12-year-old daughter with the police, or do I have to take this issue higher up?”

Teacher: “We’ve received several complaints from [Problem Girl], along with a series of screenshots of texts messages that show [My Name] has been cyber-bullying her quite viciously for the past week. It’s rather disgraceful that anyone would bully [Problem Girl], and we won’t take this lightly.”

Mum: “What?! [My Name] would never do that.”

Teacher: *sternly* “Well, it’s quite obvious that she did.”

(My mum looks about ready to slap him, slamming my phone down on his desk.)

Mum: “And what proof do you have that those screenshots aren’t fake?! Any fool could send them to herself!”

(The teacher opens his mouth to respond when [Problem Girl] bursts into the room, wailing dramatically.)

Problem Girl: “Mr. [Teacher]! I just got more messages from [My Name]! She’s getting really mean now!”

(The three of us look at her, then at my phone, which is still on the desk.)

Teacher: “When did you get these new messages?”

Problem Girl: “Just now! See?!”

(She thrusts her phone towards the teacher. The time the messages were sent was barely a minute ago, when I hadn’t even been in touching distance with anything capable of texting her.)

Teacher: *extremely uncomfortable* “[Problem Girl], that’s impossible.”

Problem Girl: “What?! Are you saying I’m lying?!”

Mum: *cutting the teacher off* “Given that my daughter hasn’t had anything electronic during the time you got those messages, yes.” *turning to the teacher with a death glare*

(The teacher promptly waved us from his office and my mum took me home, refusing to let me into school until everything was sorted. It turns out, the girl had sent the messages to herself in order to get me in trouble. Why? I hadn’t believed her when she faked being pregnant and had called her out on it. My mum and I got a profuse apology from the head-teacher, and I believe the teacher got suspended for a week, but the girl was never punished.)

(My mum is telling off my younger brother — seven or eight years old — for annoying me, which he takes great delight in. He especially enjoys testing me until he finds my breaking point, before pushing past it and seeing how far he can get before I explode. Severe annoyance can end up with him being tussled/wrestled; we rarely hit each other, but sometimes I will give a light bump on his backside with the side of my foot — more of a tap than anything else — that results in him scuttling out of reach, giggling maniacally.)

Mum: “Why are you teasing your brother? Leave him alone!”

Brother: “I get a kick out of it!”

Mum: “[Brother]!”

Brother: “Yeah, I tease him and he gives me a kick!”