I stood outside the ice cream shop, watching a couple of children jump and point to flavors while a few teenagers stood behind them—one with his hands tucked into the pocket of his ripped jeans, the other doing a small dance and chattering to her friend about how much she missed ice cream.

I wish I could walk up to her and say, “Hey, me, too.”

Rain pelted the sidewalk, but the line in the ice cream shop wasn't reducing. It was as though with each second that passed, it became even longer.

I thought I was the only one weird enough to crave ice cream on such a cold day.

I rummaged inside my knapsack for the card the lady at the apartment had given me. Pulling out the pink piece of plastic from the tight-knit chaos that was happening in my bag. I raised it to the glaring lights lining the glass windows of the shop for an inscription. I find none.

I couldn't go in there with this piece of plastic to buy anything without coming out embarrassed when the card didn't work.

I mean, who even used a pink credit that didn't have a known bank name or anything of the sort. It was just pink plastic.

I'd be dumb to go in.

Why did I leave the apartment in the first place? What was I hoping for? A miracle? What was that lady at my apartment trying to do? Make a fool of me in public?

This was one of those times when I remembered my parents and wondered if the chaotic relationship we shared was worth the money I'd have gotten to satisfy my cravings. But that even if they would give me any money to go out and get ice cream.

“Hey!”

A woman shrieked as the dirty water I kick from a puddle splashed on her skirt.

I turned my head the other way.

“You stained my skirt!”

My hands shook and my heart beat fast as I replaced the card in my bag and walked into the ice cream shop

I didn't look back until I do as sure she was gone.

The relief that came with knowing that she had walked ahead was insurmountable. She could use some water to rinse off the skirt before drying it, I thought. I didn't stain her skirt with anything permanent. But then I hadn't apologized because I'd seen her walking with a camera, clearly making a vlog in the rain.

My apparent poverty was enough punishment. I didn't need to be seen on a random stranger's blog with a red nose while I'd been pitying myself before kicking that puddle. I didn't need the internet, and generally my schoolmates, to point fingers at me or walk up to me and say, “Hey, Netty. Did you really ruin that lady's 600-dollar skirt and all you said was ‘sorry’? The least you could have done was get her a new skirt.”

That's right. The word would be ruined. But no one would mention that the puddle contained only sand and water, two very harmless elements when it came to clothes.

“Join the queue, Miss.”

He had such huge, dark brows sitting on his young, weak-chinned face. In his doorman uniform, you could easily mistake him as some spoilt gentleman from a bastardly rich home who'd materialized out of a British novel as the man seeking the hands of a shy bride.

“It's right over there, Miss.”

I looked in the direction he was indicating.

“I'll just stay here,” I whispered to myself and stood close to a wall of ice cream graffiti, pretending to be taking pictures of the murals. He offered me a small smile as if he understood. I glanced at him and glanced away, saying nothing.

Here I was in this shop with a useless piece of plastic in my bag, and I was still unsure if I should leave without buying anything or walk towards the counter and embarrass myself.

I would wait for a few minutes before I walked out, I thought to myself, but half an hour later, I was no longer taking pictures. Instead, I was watching as the line thinned down to only three people—a small girl in tights soiled at the bottom by rainwater and a blue tutu with sparkles, and her parents.

Her father lifted her and she gently pointed at the bubblegum-flavored ice cream.

“It's blue like my tutu, daddy.” She looked at his face expectantly and hugged his neck with her tiny arms.

We'll have that flavor, please. With vanilla and chocolate.”

“Impressive, aren't they?” A man said. His phone, back camera targeted at the wall, made excessive shutter sounds while he changed angles with the speed of light. “One would think it unnecessary to use graffiti for an ice cream shop. I mean, why not plaster cute stickers all over for the kids and some gangster-looking ones for teenagers? But no. Graffiti. Genius. What's your name again?”

I looked around me to be certain he was speaking to me. No one was standing close to us so it had to be me, but I started scrolling through tweets on my phone without even reading them.

“You didn't tell me your name. I should take a picture of you.” Snap! “Perfect. You'd look good on an ugly wall. Best way to brighten up something that's already damaged.”

“You can't take my pictures without my consent.” My shyness evaporated. I felt blood pounding through my veins. “Delete it.” My tone was hard as anger burned in my heart.

He straightened up with a hurt look on his round face. Then he pouted and held his phone down with both hands like a child being scolded. “Be nice,” he said.

I nearly threw up with the tone he used.

“Delete my picture.”

“Be nice, young lady.”

His tone changed, and he spoke to me like he would to a misbehaving dog he was trying to correct.

Confusion sets in then. The confusion changed to fear.

What did he mean by I should ‘be nice’?

I walked away from him and headed to the counter. He watched me with that pout on his face and I felt so close to retching. If I didn't vomit, I'd probably smack his face with one of the ice cream trays if he got any closer to me. Anything to stop him from treating me like I was a bad, wicked pet.

“Your order?”

“Two scoops of chocolate, one scoop of vanilla, and one scoop of bubblegum,” I said the order I'd had in my head all day with my eyes on my soaked sandals and my voice very low.

The couple and their daughter were gone.

The loud smack of the covered plastic ice cream bowl hit the counter and I remembered that I had no money.

Shutter. Shutter. Shutter.

My heart jumped.

I looked to the left and saw the man with his phone held up, the pout still on his face. The staff was oblivious as their loud voices were raised high in jokes from the back.

“Do you accept credit cards?” I asked in a shaky voice.

We do.”

I handed over the card the woman had given me.

She gasped before swiping it through the machine. Then she handed it back to me with my ice cream secured in a plastic bag.

Shutter. Snap.

"Learn to be nice, young lady! Or I'd be very disappointed!”

The man shouted from inside the store as I rushed past the doorman with tears already riding down my cheeks.

My shoes squelched with the quick rhythm of my walk.

I paused on the almost empty street.

With a shout of frustration, I smashed the ice cream on the sidewalk. Picked it up and smashed it again.

Alarmed people formed a line that went directly around me like I was some dangerous animal.

I fell to my knees and sobbed.

How could someone I didn't even know make me feel so much less than human?