AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Well, she’s here now. Let’s ask her.” Gianni is fired up, a total contrast to how he’d been outside.
“Ask me what?” I gulp, hoping I can stand my ground as I did outside.
“It’s nothing to worry about—” Lewis begins, but Gianni cuts him off.
“There’s an issue with some stock. The amount of coffee in the stockroom doesn’t add up to what was delivered last week.”
I’m baffled. I can’t see how this involves me. Lewis has been precious with the stock.
“We’ve had a busy week. This is only our second week, and we’re still getting hit hard early morning and lunchtime.” Lewis is talking to Gianni but staring at me, an apology in his eyes for having somehow dropped me in it.
“I run enough coffee shops to regulate the amount of coffee ordered and know the amount used. Looking at your takings for last week, I know exactly how much coffee you used and how much should remain in the stockroom. And looking at your figures, this isn’t the case.” Gianni turns his attention to me. “We’re missing several bags of coffee from the stockroom.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t see how this is my fault.” Is he suggesting I stole them? The idea seems preposterous, but then again, people steal many things to make a bit of money. My back is up, and my ears are burning as I wonder if this is his plan. Is he going to frame me for something so he can fire me? Gianni throws a glance at Lewis, signaling he needs to explain.
“You checked the order that arrived last week,” he mutters. I close my eyes, the color draining from my face as I realize where this is heading.
I remember the morning the order arrived. Lewis had shuttered himself away in the stockroom, checking over the invoice, while I’d been left to manage the counter. A rush of shoppers had descended upon us as the heavens opened and rain beat against the windows. And at this precise moment, the cash register stopped working. I didn’t know how to sort the cash register out, and the queue had been growing. The disgruntled customers scowled at me as if I’d sabotaged the cash register myself simply for my amusement. I’d had no choice but to get Lewis from the stockroom.
He rolls his eyes when I tell him we need him.
“I need to get this delivery unpacked. I’ll get it in the neck if Gianni turns up, and it’s still all in boxes,” Lewis complains. I am about to tell him that the fact we are busy is far more pressing, but I know what he means about Gianni. I feel a little kindred spirit. I’m not the only one not wanting my actions to fuel Gianni.
“Here…” Lewis says, thrusting the invoice in my direction, “… you finish this, and I’ll go sort out the cash register.” And he vanishes, leaving me stranded with a pile of boxes and a piece of paper that might as well be in a different language.
I panic. The invoice is a complicated list of alphabet spaghetti. The letters float against the page, laughing at me as they dance before my eyes, spelling out nonsense words like a Dr. Seuss book. But I have no choice and won’t admit defeat. So, I muddle through, working it out as best I can. When Lewis returns, I’m almost finished.
“Is everything here? They cocked it up last week, and I don’t want to deal with that again,” Lewis complains as he pulls the invoice from my hand.
“I think so,” I reply.
“You think so?” Lewis glares at me. I know how fastidious he is about the stock, so I ask him to double-check it as I’ve never done a stock check before. He insists it will be fine, but what if it isn’t? Before I know what I’m saying, I’m confiding in Lewis. Admitting I am dyslexic. I make light of the situation, and Lewis tells me he will check the order again to be sure.
“You double-checked the order for me after you’d finished sorting out the cash register.” I throw this back to Lewis, who stammers, and I instantly know that he did not check the order again, but he doesn’t want to admit this in front of Gianni. Right now, I don’t care. I don’t want him to tell Gianni about my dyslexia. I suddenly feel like Damocles.
“We were busy. I didn’t have time to check over an order you told me had already been done.” He pauses, weighing up his chances as he glances from me to Gianni. Gianni appears to be chewing on something as he places one hand in his pocket.
“So, was there a problem with the delivery?” Gianni asks, looking from me to Lewis. I place my hands together as if in silent prayer, willing Lewis to keep his mouth shut, but it is in vain.
“Chloe told me she is dyslexic. I’m not sure if that hindered her ability to check off the order correctly.” It’s as if there is a rat in my stomach as the heat rises in my cheeks. I picture my little unicorn rearing on her back legs and bolting for the door.
“What?” Gianni retorts, not aiming this question at anyone specifically.
“Dyslexic, it’s a difficulty with reading,” Lewis explains.
I hate it when people label me. I’m irritated that he doesn’t fully understand that dyslexia involves a lot more than having trouble reading a few words. Still, I’m not about to enlighten him on the full range of my difficulties. This will only bang the nail in further with Lewis’s accusations.
“So, Chloe could’ve made an error when checking the invoice,” Lewis adds. “It might account for the missing stock.” Gianni stares at me as if I’m something to be avoided while anger and embarrassment simmer beneath my calm surface.
“You shouldn’t have asked her to unpack stock when the shop was so busy. You should have sorted out the cash register and left Chloe to help on the counter. Stock is to be sorted when the shop is quiet, and you should have done this yourself when you were able,” he scolds. “I want all stock to be overseen by myself. No other staff member is to check orders off. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” Lewis nods, his head hanging like a broken nodding dog.
“I’m going to be keeping a tight check.” Gianni scowls at Lewis before dismissing him. Lewis scurries through the door with his tail clearly between his legs.
I wait for whatever is coming next. My nails dig into the palms of my hands as Gianni turns. His shoulders seem to slump as he perches on the edge of the desk and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing his white shirt against his skin. We’re alone, and his intensity seems to treble in the small office space.
“Why am I learning this now? How did you even fill out the application form?” Gianni inquires, his eyes narrowing as if he’s searching for evidence of my dyslexia somewhere on my face.
