It should be illegal for grocery stores to be busy in the prime of summer.

Like, seriously.

As a cashier, there is nothing worse than manning your register, minding your own business and watching the clock, and then hearing the sound of dozens of squeaky cart wheels racing your way with all the speed of a rocket. The only thing worse than said stampede would be the charade that follows: a feigned smile, peppy questions, forced laughs at corny customer jokes, and counting out change as a million little kids zoom around the floor with their tiny carts, ends of their hair damp from the community pool, having the time of their lives

And trust me. I would know.

Tearing the hundredth mile-long receipt of the day from its printer, I whirl back around and thrust it towards the mother of two standing exasperated on the other side of my register. "Thank you for shopping with us! Have a nice rest of your day!"

The mom snatches the receipt from my hand, stuffing it into her bag and corralling her two kids away from my lane and towards the doors. I almost feel bad for her: trying to steer a cart full of groceries while also trying to discipline two young kids must take a lot out of you. But then I remember that unlike that mom, I am not free to go about this end of summer weather just yet. I am shackled to my customer service chains and my red polo for three more weeks, and that is three too many.

I sigh and stand on my tip-toes, leaning over the conveyor belt to watch for any impending customers. Apparently, the rush has died down so I am safe for about another ten minutes, tops. I'm just busting out the paper towels and spray from underneath my register--compulsively cleaning my register passes more time than you'd think--when a blur of red sweeps into my peripheral vision.

"Willa," my manager, Joseph, says in his deep voice. "How's it going?"

I blink, mentally on pause for a moment. I lower my spray bottle, clearing my throat. Joseph is one of the stricter managers, but I can never tell what kind of mood he's in. If it's a sour one, I'll be sent to run errands through the rest of the store.

"Oh. Well...it's going," I manage, trying for a weak, innocent smile. "Its been pretty busy today."

Joseph nods, casting a quick look down the lane like he's watching for any particularly deceptive customers--although how deceptive one can be with an obnoxious cart is beyond me. Anyway, Joseph continues his investigation before turning back to me.

"Do you want to go home early?"

Music to my ears. No, really. An angelic choir should be playing right now, and the rays of the setting sun outside should reflect heavenly onto my moment of glory.

I rein it in and make for a content, mildly surprised expression. "Sure!"

Joseph pats the conveyor belt. "Alright, just clean up and hit the road." And with that, he darts away to check for any crimes to customer service. As soon as he's gone I clench my fist in victory, shutting my eyes and pressing my lips together like I'm about to cry.

My job isn't necessarily a hard one, per se. It's long (seven hour shifts three or four times a week), it's taxing (standing on your feet for seven hours with a twenty minute break isn't fun), and trying (customers think they're hilarious), but it isn't hard. You memorize some produce codes, steer complicated questions to the front desk, and don't bag the meat with the fruit and you're golden.

But man. Nothing is better than going home before sunset when you're scheduled for another two hours.

As an employee at Carlino's Produce Market for just over a year now, I've gotten pretty used to cleaning my register so swiping it down is a breeze. I log out of my register, snap up my till, and race to the count down room as if Joseph will some how see me running and change his mind about sending me home early.

And before I know it, I'm walking out into the balmy late-July air, breathing it in the way people inhale the smell of the sea or a bonfire or fresh meals at a restaurant. There's a twinge of car exhaust in the air but right now, this is the air of the gods, the free.

I race to my mom's silver car, parked in the lot. Without missing a beat, I leap into the passenger's seat and draw out a long exhale.

"Long day?"Mom asks from the driver's seat. There's a sarcastic gleam in her dark brown eyes, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. She's in her gym uniform--she probably just got out when I texted her to come grab me.

"You have no idea," I shake my head as my mom pulls out of Carlino's lot and onto the street. "I swear, we have too many sales."

"Just take it easy," Mom offers her sage advice--the same advice she gives me whenever I complain about work. "You'll mess up more if you try and do a million things at once.'

I mutter an agreement as I pull my hair from its bindings, relishing in the feeling of my locks falling down my back. It's finally long enough from when I cut it last November to be put in a bun, but a bun for seven hours does nobody any favors.

We get home and I peel up to my room, flopping onto my light blue comforter. My mom opened my window while I was gone, so even though I'm face down on my bed, I can still hear the sounds of summer echoing into my room from where I am. It sounds enticing, and melancholic; the soundtrack of summer that followed bike rides, games of kickball, and hunting for change for the ice cream truck. I suppose this is my last summer of listening to those sounds with a similar feeling in the back of my mind, knowing they'll be replaced by back to school ads on TV any time soon.

Ugh. School. The thought nearly makes me gag. I roll over onto my back, staring up at my ceiling, wondering how my last summer as a high schooler has flown by. In four weeks, I go back to West High School as a senior, a feat I've strived for my whole life. This is the year where things fall into place, and my future begins to shimmer like train lights approaching the station.

But it also means turning back into a social pumpkin, and that's what frightens me the most. You see, I'm not what people would call popular, unless being known for being smart counts. I'm not caught up in the latest drama, flirting with the football team with the cheerleading squad, heading to the latest parties, or anything of the sort. It's never been my scene, but I respect that it is some people's. I guess being popular has always had a glamour around it, but for me, the idea is more than that.

All my life, I've been trapped in a box I nailed myself into in elementary school. Apparently, getting the best scores on vocab quizzes and doing lots of freelance I Wonder projects sets you on course for a life of AP and Honors classes and life in the academic fast lane. Also, you're rewarded with a bonus of being the unsung teacher's pet and goody-two-shoes, because apparently following rules isn't cool. If only I'd known. Because here I am, seventeen years old, and I've still never had a serious boyfriend, or been to a high school party. I feel like I'm missing out on something.

And this year, I intend to find out what.