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“You asshole!”

I felt a cold, watery sting as the ice struck my neck and slithered into the collar of my shirt. I wheeled around, directing my verbosity at the culprit: Danny Bishop, the son of my employer. I thought I had been blessed when I landed a summer job at one of the hottest eateries in town, which happened to be owned and operated locally. For a non-franchise establishment, the Down South Deli sure brought in a lot of people, which usually made every workday fast-paced and tiring. As if that wasn’t enough, I constantly had Danny making life hell for me. For some reason, he and I never seemed to really get along. Actually, thinking on it, the reason is pretty clear: we’re as different as night and day. He’s a spoiled, private school educated prep who has about thirty friends who all look exactly like him. Never dressing in an article of clothing priced under fifty dollars, he’s definitely the type who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. His view of society is one of conformity; if you’re not like everyone else, that means something is wrong with you. This makes me the embodiment of everything threatening to his “anti-individuality”. I’m the eccentric type; I don’t dress like a J. Crew model, I don’t objectify the opposite sex (when it’s not deserved), and my intelligence quotient isn’t at or below my shoe size. So, of course, he hates me. Which really doesn’t bother me, because at the moment, I’m not too fond of him either.

“What’d I do?” Danny asked with mock innocence. ...

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