I glared at the Help Wanted sign Talia put in the window of our flower shop. She'd even gone through the trouble of writing it in red calligraphy—a talent that unfortunately had finally come in handy.

"Don't you think this is a bit much?" I asked, but Talia was too busy admiring her work. The giant sign covered half the baskets and decorations on our sorry excuse for a window display. It read Help Wanted, but did we need more help? No. Not in October when business would slow through the rainy winter. Not when we already struggled to pay rent for this place, let alone hire more employees. 

Talia sighed when she finally saw the expression on my face. "I'm sorry, Romy, but we need help. You can't do all the managing on your own."

"Of course I can," I said. "I've been practically running the place since school started."

"You mean since you got back from juvie."

If I had a dollar every time she mentioned juvie, I could save our shop from bankruptcy. If she thought I was bad, she should see the girls I met there. They weren't the worst part, though I did have to smack a bitch or two. No, what I really hated were the bogus sessions with psychologists asking questions about my family life and troubled relationship with my father—though let's be real; you could say I had a troubled relationship with everyone. 

Psychologists loved their diagnostic manuals. And by the end of it, I came out with another label tacked onto my identity: Romy Pereira. 17. Part Brazilian. Born in Hawai'i. Aspiring billionaire. 

And now, diagnosed sociopath. 

"Don't tell me I'm not doing a great job, Talia," I scoffed. My parents, horrified at the sociopath label—technically it was something called Conduct Disorder—decided that me working for the family business was the best way to develop my emotional intelligence and empathy as the psychologists suggested.

More like the best way to exploit my cheap labor. 

Far from Seattle's hipster downtown, the colorful shop—Greta's Flores—stood on the side of a busy avenue, loud with cars and auto shops everywhere. And here I was, selling my stepmom's flowers. Talking to customers and pretending to care about their lives while convincing them to sign up for our monthly subscription. 

Talia sighed. "I'll still make the bulk purchases, do all the numbers and legal stuff. You are my salesgirl, my marketing executive, and the one with the charm. All we need is someone in-between."

Someone in-between. I'd really spent the last three months ignoring most of my friends and getting pricked by rose thorns for someone in-between.

"How about Greta?" I suggested. "She's the owner."

"Greta's really busy, and I'll soon be busy if any of the jobs I applied to get back to me." 

Being a florist really wasn't cutting it for her, huh? Was I the only one in this family who cared about the impending bankruptcy? Who wanted to preserve our integrity as a small business instead of letting some corporation monopolize the market next?  

For another hour, I filled pots and tied stems together for custom bouquets. All while listening to Talia complain about our website. She'd learned basic web design to set it up, though I doubted the business would thrive if she was barely here. 

Eventually, the time came for my hour-long lunch break. The flower shop got smaller the farther I walked away, colorful in the gray of everything else. I exited the busy street, looking for a new coffee shop to try—and no, mega corporate Starbucks didn't count; they could burn in hell for all I cared.

After twenty minutes, I finally found a small café doubling as an indie book shop.

I ate my chocolate delight cake with my eye on the clock, and I was almost done when two people came through the door. One of them was a brown-haired boy in a hoodie, with who I assumed to be his mother by his side. When he turned and I got a clear view of his face, it didn't take me long to realize exactly which boy this was.

He looked my way, but his blank expression remained the same.

Jack Michel.

His mother touched his arm gently. "Go sit down. I'll order for us, okay?"

He scowled.

"I know you're upset, but this will be good for you. I just want you to try."

Talk about spoiled, I thought. Jack glared at her, and I recognized it as the glare he usually gave anyone who tried to talk to him during school. I stared him down as he walked in my direction, wanting him to notice, wanting him to feel awkward about seeing me in public, but he passed without meeting my eye.

There was no way he didn't see me. No way he didn't remember who I was. He might do a great job of ignoring all human life, but two months ago, during this summer support group for troubled teens my parents forced me to attend, guess who showed up one day? Him. He only lasted one session, but I got a real kick out of seeing him there. Sitting with his legs and arms crossed, refusing to look at anyone, earbuds in his ears like the brat he was. Fumbling. Awkward. He must've recognized me from school, and he was the first to learn that yes, I had indeed spent the last three months of junior year in juvenile detention for shoplifting. If he'd been anyone else, the gossip would've circulated like the plague. But Jack Michel was a master at keeping his mouth shut.

After paying, I left the café without bothering to look back, and when I returned to the flower shop, the Help Wanted sign was gone.

"What happened?" I asked.

Talia was grinning big. "I found someone already! That was so fast, wasn't it? See, the sign was perfect."

"Without asking me? I'm gone for an hour and you've—"

"If I had consulted you, you wouldn't have seen his potential as a wonderful addition to our business."

His?

"Who is it?"

She ran her hand through her dark, grown-out bangs. "A lady came by with her son, and she said he's looking for a job. He has experience with web design."

That stupid website. "Is that the only reason you hired him?"

"Um, no. He has experience with flowers. And he's also mute, which is kind of weird, but working on the website and cleaning doesn't require that much talking. Besides, he could write notes to us, even though his mom mentioned he's really not comfortable with that."

An unfamiliar, very not Romy feeling of unease jolted in my chest. "Is his name Jack?"

Talia nodded in utmost excitement. "You know him?"

Great. Excellent. Just wonderful.

"I can't believe this," I said, shaking my head. After all my hard work, she was letting some random boy into our family business? A random boy who didn't speak? Talia would get her job, and she hadn't considered the fact I would be having to deal with him?

"What's the big deal?" she asked.

"You're the worst stepsister and business associate ever, that's the big deal."

"I actually think this is a great opportunity for you to start learning how to get along with people, Romy," she said, her voice now sour. I narrowed my eyes. "Oh, and by the way, go around and see if you can sell the Help Wanted sign. We'll probably get a couple bucks for it. Take it as a consolation prize, my little delinquent sis."

I took the sign and shoved it into our trash can. When I looked back, Talia's mouth had fallen into an "O" and hung open for a second until her face stiffened.

"He starts on Monday."

❀     ❀     ❀

2020 update: I began writing this book in 2014. Throughout the years, the response this story has gotten has been incredible and so important to me as a writer. I've decided to revisit Jack and Romy's story, edit it a little, and give it a new spin. Since I'll be rearranging things, some of the in-line comments readers have left over the years may not be visible. 

If you're an OG reader, I would love to hear what you think of this new version, and if you're a new reader, I hope you enjoy ^-^

Thank you so much! 

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