Mouse.

According to anybody ever, Monday was the worst day of the week. It made sense. No one has ever said, "I have had so much fun this weekend. But you know what would be the cherry on top? Going back to the one place that has made me suffer more than high school: My place of employment!"

But this Monday was different. This was the second Monday of the month which meant I got to work with my two best friends all day. I know, I know, you must be green with envy. So I'll take this opportunity to rub it in some more. One of my friend's parents owns the cafe I work at. That's like killing two birds with one massive stone! You don't know true relief until you've fucked up at your job all day and your only punishment is not being able to take the leftover brownies home with you.

I can't lie. It's a pretty sweet gig.

Although I will say that if it weren't for my friends I'd hate Mondays as much as the next person. Bee and Pencil are my ride or die bitches. And no those aren't their legal names. It was decided in the third grade that we would all have nicknames since we hated the ones our parents had given us.

Beatriz, who was horrendously bullied because of her dark skin and towering height, hated the added ammunition her birth name gave to the shitty classmates she had to deal with on a daily basis. She decided to stick with something short and sweet. Bee.

Penélope hated her name because of the woman that was associated with it. Penélope Cruz. The kids we went to school with would call her Penélope Snooze and then make fun of her accent. It didn't matter how many times she tried to explain that she was Puerto Rican and not Spanish, the kids wouldn't listen. She demanded to be called Penny from there on out. Which she was... Just not by Bee and myself. We preferred to call her Pencil.

The story behind my name was a lot simpler than my friends. I thought Melanie was too girly so I picked Mouse. I'm still not sure how eight year old me picked that out.

Working with them made the days so much easier to handle. If one of us were ever having a bad day we could always rely on each other. We normally didn't need that kind of support at work. Sure, having someone scream in your face because you forgot to put cinnamon on their whipped cream sucked, but we took it all in stride. So when I went into work that fateful Monday I had high hopes that it would blow over like a calm breeze. Instead it turned into the 1996 disaster flick Twister.

Flying cow included.

-

The morning hadn't started horribly. I'd only burnt my hand once on the steamer and a customer gave me a ten dollar tip, admittedly it was probably meant to be a one dollar bill but I sure as shit wasn't going to say anything. Pencil had also found her mom's old Pointer Sisters CD tucked under the register so we danced and sang along between drinks. It would have been a disservice to listen I'm So Excited and hide it.

It was the calm before the storm, and then the storm barreled into the cafe wearing a purple tracksuit.

I hadn't noticed her at first due to my fixation on a stubborn sticky spot on one of the tables. It had been there so long we named it Stan The Stain. No amount of scrubbing could get rid of him, but I'd be damned if I didn't try at least once every shift. Stan's tenacity had me so captivated that I only caught the last half of the woman's complaint.

"So you're telling me that you don't have the eggnog lattes anymore?"

I briefly broke my match with Stan to catch a glimpse of what was happening. All I could see of the customer was that God awful tracksuit and her haircut that screamed I'd Like To Speak To Your Manager. Behind the counter was Pencil with an apologetic look on her heavily freckled face.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but the eggnog lattes are seasonal. We won't have them again for a few more months." She gestured to the menu behind her, "But right now we have-"

"I can see the menu, thanks," the woman snapped.

To her credit Pencil didn't look fazed, in fact she looked pleasant as a peach. Her customer service face was truly something to be marveled at. I once saw a kid sneak behind the counter and then puke all over her shoes. What did she do? She faked the most convincing laugh I'd ever heard and then cracked a joke. I've heard of paint splatter, but never puke splatter! As much as I liked to joke about her fuse being as short as she was she always managed to hide it in front of customers.

The customer groaned irritably and waved a hand.

"Just get me a medium caramel latte."

Pencil smiled charmingly, "Right away, ma'am."

She grabbed a cup from the counter and made quick work of jotting down the woman's order. She handed the cup to Bee to finish then returned to the register so the customer could pay. In the meantime I had decided to give up on Stan. He clearly wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the woman had a pinched look on her face. I chalked it up to her being upset over us not having the eggnog lattes (Eggnog latte? In August? Anybody with a shred of common sense would know that shit wasn't available) but of course I was wrong.

The customer leaned over the counter, her eyes never leaving Bee, and asked Pencil in a hushed whisper, "Do the owners think that hairstyle is appropriate to have around food?"

Pencil tilted her head in confusion, "Excuse me?"

Dark clouds of disappointment were settling deep in my gut. I knew immediately what this woman was trying to say. We didn't live in a small town but that didn't stop small minded thoughts popping into a persons head.

Bee was a tall black woman with a large afro. Her hair was like her; bold and beautiful. On her days off she let her curls bounce freely, but at work she had her hair split down the middle and pulled up into two puffs. It was only recently that she started wearing her hair naturally as opposed to what other people deemed 'acceptable'. Bee was proud of her hair and Pencil and I were proud of her for finding the courage to love every aspect of herself. The problem was that most people didn't feel the same way.

The woman rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, "I don't want to find any nappy curls in my drink," she shot in a low voice.

Whatever smile Pencil had plastered on was gone. There were many things she was willing to tolerate in the name of customer service, but comments about her friends wasn't one of them.

Pencil's brows furrowed in irritation, "Her hair is pulled back, ma'am. I assure you there will be no contamination."

The woman scoffed and rolled her eyes again.

"You know what? I think I'd like to speak to a manager about this."

"Called it," I quietly sang under my breath.

"A manager?" Pencil smiled bitterly and turned to Bee. "Oh, Beatriz! A customer would like to speak with you."

This was not going to end well.

I ditched Stan The Stain and moved to a table closer to the counter to get a better look. Bee had just finished making the woman's drink and moved towards the register with it in her hand. She set the latte on the counter and greeted her with an easy smile.

"How may I assist you, ma'am?"

Moving tables was totally worth it. I got to see the realization fall over the customer's face when she saw who exactly she'd have to file her complaint to. Her mouth was moving to form words but no sound came out. Her cheeks turned a shameful shade of red.

"You're the manager?" She questioned disbelievingly.

"That's me." Bee smiled proudly and pointed to the name tag printed to her apron. "How can I help you today?

Once again the woman was speechless. Pencil took the opportunity to fill our friend in.

"Well," she drawled, "according to our guest here, she is concerned about finding 'nappy curls' in her drink."

A heavy silence fell over the entire cafe. Even the students from the local college had stopped typing on their laptops to watch the scene.

Bee was barely managing to conceal her embarrassment. Her hand raised to her head as if to touch her hair before she quickly adjusted her apron instead.

"N-No!" The customer stammered indignantly. "You're twisting my words! What I meant was I don't want to find her kind of hair in my latte."

Standing a few feet away from the counter was Marvin. He was one of our regulars and he looked eerily similar to Doc Brown. He twirled a lock of white hair around his finger and asked with a mad smile, "Would you rather have one of mine?"

A loud snort left me before I could stop it.

"No!" She cried out.

"Ma'am," Bee interrupted, "I can guarantee that my kind of hair is not in your drink." She punctuated her sentence with a tap to the lid.

"Oh, don't do that," the customer said sharply, "Don't play the victim. Your people always do that."

Her face went white instantly. She regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth. But like my father sending me a Christmas gift in January, it was too late.

Bee's jaw dropped in shock. "She just said that," she said to herself in disbelief.

"She sure did," Pencil affirmed angrily.

My mind was working on autopilot. Move, I told myself. Do something, anything! But I couldn't force words out of my mouth. I just stood there, mouth agape, while spraying the table over and over again.

The customer started huffing and stammering, trying to back track on what she just said, and then she reached for the latte. Pencil saw her moving for the drink and smacked it off the counter before she could grab it.

"No!" She exclaimed. "You don't get to insult my friend and then get your drink to-go!"

"Th-This is ridiculous!" The woman yanked her purse up her shoulder and turned to march out of the cafe, "I'm never coming back here!"

"Can I get that in writing?!" Pencil yelled at her retreating back.

All of the patrons, myself included, watched slack-jawed as the woman slammed the door shut behind her. The tension remained for another moment before the customers returned to what they were doing.

It was then that I noticed I'd been spraying my hand and not the table for the last few minutes.

"Shit," I muttered, hastily wiping my hand on my pants. I stepped over the forgotten latte and hurried towards my friends.

"Pencil!"

My hands waved wildly in the air as I spoke.

"What the fuck you just do?!"

Pencil's jaw was clenched tight enough to crack a few teeth. Her amber eyes cut through me like a blade.

"You were here, you saw me. If that piece of shit has a problem then boo-fucking-hoo."

She snatched the rag out of my hand and bent down to clean the spill with a scowl.

"And stop calling me that. It stopped being funny years ago."

"First of all, Pencil will always be funny," I corrected. "Second of all, just because your parents own this place doesn't mean you can say shit like that to customers! And thirdly, Bee-"

I turned to my friend and placed my damp hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?"

Bee had been stuck in the same spot wearing the same empty expression on her face. She snapped out of whatever trance she was in and nodded, "Yeah."

She cleared her throat and held her head high.

"I won't be bothered by anything that comes out of the mouth of a grown woman in a tracksuit."

Her words were full of bravado and I sincerely hoped she meant them. It had been a while since someone had said something that shitty to her. She thought the worst of it would have been said while we were in school. People were continuously proving her wrong.

I smiled sadly and wrapped my arms around Bee's thin frame. She returned the hug and rested her chin on top of my head.

"I'm sorry she said that to you," I whispered.

"Yeah," Bee murmured, "Me too."