Garment snatched from the hanger's drooping slopes, poor sweater tolerated deft gropes, here and there, from a girl's paws, up to no good. Nitpicky probes explored the discounted Versace's fabric, spun it to sea-sickening gyrations on the hunt for that price tag. "Hmm," a scrunitizing hum she spilled, fiddling with the white banner's humble $49.99.

What a rip-off. Yet, to thrust it back with the rest of the stock or claim it at the cashier's domain is the palpable question. The answer? Neither.

Take the current high-end price (which, mind you, lacks the weight of etching a dent on her dad's bottomless wallet) and seize a nearby shirt's $2.29. Swivel her neck from either side, inspect the naivete from the late afternoon customers—busy just as the on-duty employees. Perfect for the nimble switcheroo.

This was her ritual until her pores secreted 'innocence.' Feign interest. Examine about. Flip prices without onlookers in sight, then stroll about the lanes of TJ Maxx like a regular customer. Simple camouflage—if she wasn't a literal colossal amidst a passel of hunched-back bargain dealers.

While she's at it, came hoarding a stockpile of shitty-quality V-necks and frocks. Who's gonna miss them?

"Lottie?" called a familiar voice from behind. Too familiar—too chummy that her heart pit-a-patted once she did a 180 and suspicions—more than confirmed. The root of her (potential) downfall there, a pal cladded in red uniform instead of cut-and-dry soccer jerseys.

Shit. Did you see? And how much?

"Didn't know you were a fan of thrifting," you presumed, but truly, it's for T-bucks & giggles. Why stuff her cart with costly brands suspiciously priced at clearance rate? Surely, you don't get paid enough to care.

"Just... trying new stuff," fumbled a bogus excuse, an eyeful of tusks to deflect you far from timid chuckles. Irony of it all—filthy rich and she's here. "Are you a new hire?"

A damn suprise if not—she's done this since she's outgrown thumb-sucking, for God's sake. Only now did she see you.