Lola was a bad girl.
Being a bad girl didn't mean being the kind of girl who fought or cursed. When Lola was fifteen, she had been taken to the police station for smashing the windshield of a police car with a baseball bat, along with her classmates.
However, that incident wasn't entirely her fault; at that time, almost all teenagers were causing trouble. According to the FBI, nearly half of those arrested that year for crimes like murder, rape, robbery, assault, and car theft were under the age of 18¹—it was a dark and chaotic time. Teenagers paraded around with wigs and shiny nylon clothes, exuding an aura of freedom, yet one tinged with decadence.
Lola hung out with that group until she was 17. After turning 17, she looked at her angelic face in the mirror and suddenly realized that she should be a goddess, not someone who spent her days fooling around with immature boys. So, she decisively left those delinquent teens behind and focused on her beauty.
From then on, she cared only about her appearance, perfected her makeup skills, and stayed away from troublemakers. But that didn't mean she had become a good person—she simply wasn't interested in vandalism and theft anymore.
Now, staring at the empty locker, she suddenly felt an urge to smash someone's head with a baseball bat again.
Lola told herself to stay calm, stay calm, and not act impulsively. Mr. L was so elegant and dignified; he certainly wouldn't like a violent delinquent girl. But she couldn't suppress her anger. The thought that today might be the last time she saw Mr. L, and that the perfume was their only remaining connection, made her want to bash the thief's head in.
Taking a deep breath, Lola turned and looked around. The other girls were changing their clothes. The waitresses at the restaurant were mostly people of color, or mixed-race girls like Lola. Except for a few particularly pretty girls, most customers didn't like being served by Black girls, thinking their fingers were too dark and might harbor some unknown bacteria. So, the ones who served the food were either white girls or beautiful girls like Lola, whose beauty transcended genetic boundaries.
Because of her looks, Lola had rarely faced discrimination growing up, except for the time an extreme racist old man told her to "go die." As the child of a Latina and a white parent, her life had been relatively smooth compared to other mixed-race people. But that didn't stop her from disliking white people.
Everyone assumed Black people's hands were dirty, but in truth, she had seen more white thieves in her life. Back in school, it was even the children of government officials who smashed windows with them². So, Lola never believed that crime had anything to do with skin color.
With this thought in mind, she crossed her arms and coldly scanned the room. Finally, her gaze settled on a white girl. She had already changed out of her uniform and was wearing a bright orange jacket. Her right hand was in her pocket, and her left hand was retrieving her backpack from the locker.
Her movements seemed normal, but when it came to spotting bad behavior, Lola was an expert. Who in their right mind would keep their right hand in their pocket while using their left hand to grab something? And the way she stood, clearly trying to use her body and the locker to shield whatever was in her pocket, made it obvious that she was transferring something into her bag.
Words like "calm," "communication," and "peaceful resolution" didn't exist in Lola's vocabulary. The moment she spotted this, she lunged like a predator locking onto its prey, slamming the white girl against the locker and growling like an angry beast: "You bitch, you stole my perfume!"
The white girl opened her mouth, ready to deny it, but before she could utter even a single word, Lola let loose a tempest of insults. The girl was completely stunned by Lola's extensive and vivid vocabulary. Lola's words were so diverse and forceful. To the astonishment of the white girl, Lola even threw in some words in French,.German, and lcelandic.It was obvious that these words had been picked up by Lola from her mother's guests.
Finally, Lola finished with a crisp curse in Mandarin: "Cao!"
The white girl was completely dazed, forgetting to even argue. But Lola wasn't finished. After exhausting her cursing repertoire, she launched into an imaginary tale of the white girl's entire family's promiscuous history. Within a minute, the entire locker room knew that the white girl had stolen the perfume to sell it, and was using the money to treat her mother's venereal disease.
For the first time, the white girl learned what it felt like to be insulted to the point of tears.
Her eyes reddened, and large tears began to roll down her cheeks as she stammered, "I… I didn't take your perfume…"
Lola gave her no chance to explain. She kicked the white girl to the ground, knelt on her back, grabbed her wrist, and pulled the amber-colored perfume bottle out of her pocket: "What's this, then? Speak!"
It was as if the white girl had been slapped. Her face turned red with shame, but she still stubbornly insisted, "I bought this myself! Besides, I'm not the only one who uses perfume—everyone does, even Kate has a bottle… Why are you only accusing me? Let me go, or I'll tell the manager!"
She shouldn't have mentioned other people. The moment she brought up Kate, the Black girl rolled her eyes and said, "We can't afford Penhaligon's perfume."
Lola spat in disgust: "Go ahead, tell the manager, you damn thief."
The white girl had never encountered someone like Lola before—beautiful yet vulgar, charming yet violent, innocent yet shameless. If it had been a regular-looking Latina girl cursing her, she would have run to the manager for justice. But since it was Lola, she wasn't sure if the manager would still take her side.
How could fate favor a girl so much, not only giving her beauty but allowing her to live so brazenly and freely?
With this thought, the white girl grew even more jealous of Lola. She had indeed stolen Lola's perfume, because Lola was just too lucky, lucky enough to provoke envy. Not only had she easily landed the job as a front-of-house waitress, but within a few days of starting, she was already granted a vacation—something the white girl had never received. Even with her advantage in skin color, she had spent two months doing kitchen work before slowly transitioning to the front, and she had been working as a waitress for nearly a year without ever getting a break. How could this honey-skinned girl receive so many privileges?
What infuriated her most was that, despite making frequent mistakes at work, Lola wasn't reprimanded by the manager. Instead, he treated her to a children's meal. The white girl's eyes nearly bled with envy when she saw it. Everyone working here came from humble backgrounds, often unable to afford food. She herself frequently came to work without eating, yet the manager had never shown any concern for her, let alone treated her to food from the restaurant!
Fine, she could accept the manager's favoritism towards Lola—perhaps Lola had earned those favors through more intimate means. But why would even customers, who had only met her once, favor her as well?
Lola hadn't been working as a waitress for long, yet she had already received generous tips and even a bottle of Penhaligon's perfume. The white girl had passed by the Penhaligon's store before and noticed that the perfume sold for $12—more than what she earned in a month! Lola had simply taken orders and served food, and yet she'd earned $17 in one go. How could she not be jealous, how could she not be envious?
The white girl was so enraged she almost wanted to spit blood, but all she could do was put on a pitiful face and say, "Lola, you have to believe me, this really is my own perfume... I saved up for nearly half a year before I finally gathered the courage to buy it... I didn't steal your perfume, please don't accuse me anymore, okay? If you let me go now, we can still be friends."
Lola sneered, "Who would want to be friends with a thief?" Although she had once been arrested for stealing a motorcycle, she felt completely justified in calling someone else out. "You say you saved up for six months to buy this perfume, right? Then tell me, what are its base notes? If you love it so much, you must know everything about it. Go on, tell me, tell me, tell me—if you can't, then you're nothing but a thief and a bitch!"
The white girl felt dizzy from the barrage of "tell me"s, and besides, she had no idea what the perfume's base notes were—after all, she had no time to study perfume notes between helping her mother with chores after work. In fact, this was the first time she'd ever heard the term "base notes."
When Mr. L gave the perfume to Lola, the white girl had been too consumed with jealousy to hear what he said. Even if she had overheard, she would've forgotten by now. Only someone as obsessed as Lola would remember the words of a stranger so clearly.
Tongue-tied, the white girl couldn't answer. Feeling the judgmental, disdainful, and probing gazes of those around her, her throat grew dry, and her cheeks burned with humiliation. She felt so embarrassed she thought she might faint. Coupled with the fact that Lola was still gripping her wrist tightly, making her bones crack, the white girl finally couldn't take it anymore. She broke down and cried, "I... I can't tell you the base notes. I'm a thief, I stole your perfume... Can you let me go now?"
She thought that confessing, crying, and returning the stolen item would be enough for Lola to forgive her. But Lola never played by the rules. "Let you go? Sure, give me $2, and I'll let it slide. Otherwise, I'll tell the manager."
…
In the end, not only did Lola get her perfume back, but she also got $2 in compensation, making her the undisputed victor.
After this incident, everyone in the locker room had witnessed Lola's wildness and ferocity. They exchanged nervous glances, all silently deciding never to cross this little maniac.
But the little maniac wasn't happy. The thought that today might be the last time she saw Mr. L left her feeling glum.
Leaving behind the bruised and battered white girl, Lola returned home in low spirits, took a bath, and went straight to bed.
That night, she had a dream. In the dream, she had transformed into a mature and beautiful woman, wearing a coral-red backless gown, her nails painted in a deep rose shade, and on her feet were a pair of open-toe Roman sandals encrusted with diamonds. She was elegantly strolling down the street, arm in arm with a faceless man.
Halfway through their walk, two large blisters formed on her feet. The man helped her sit on a bench by the roadside and, kneeling down, gently took her small, delicate feet in his hands. But while massaging her foot, he accidentally popped one of the blisters, causing her to wince in pain. She slapped him on the head and shouted," What the fuck, are you Popeye on spinach? Why the hell are you so damn strong?!"
The man paused for a moment, then lifted his head to reveal the gentle yet distant face of Mr. L.
Lola was stunned.
She widened her eyes, frantically grabbing at his clothes in a panic to apologize, but Mr. L coldly pulled her hand away, stood up, and walked off.
Ignoring the blisters on her feet, she hurried after him, tugging at his sleeve. But once again, he pulled her hand away, his voice icy as he said, "We're not right for each other. You're too vulgar."
As soon as he spoke, the dream collapsed.
Lola woke up in a cold sweat, her heart pounding.
Letting out a shaky breath, she clutched her chest, feeling the frantic beating of her heart, and thought to herself, "Looks like I need to cut down on the swearing... Ugh, liking someone is such a hassle!"
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