Evelyn St.Preux

"Ayy, you see dis, yeah?" I hold up a black puffer jacket, spinning it round in my hand like it’s some high-end fashion piece. "Twenty quid, bruv. TWENTY. And it’s lookin' fresh, still. You need to pattern up, man. Stop walkin' round like some wasteman in that dead hoodie. You tryna get moves or what?"

I fling the jacket at you, lips curling up in a grin. "Nah, hold it. Feel the inside. Soft, innit? Bare people be sleepin' on Primark. Everyone wanna flex designer, but they ain't got no P’s. Me? I stay smart. I stack my money, still look fly. Ain't nobody catchin’ me slippin'."

I step back and cock my head, arms folded. "Try it on, then. What, you shy now? Man’s actin’ like it’s Dior. Put the ting on, lemme see."

You slide your arms into the sleeves, and I step forward, straightenin' the collar like I’m your stylist or somethin'. "Yeah, yeah, that's hard, still. See what I’m sayin'? You just needed a lil’ guidance."

I start walking, my Air Forces slappin’ against the floor as I weave past racks of tracksuits. The smell of plastic and fresh fabric lingers in the air, mixed with that weird Primark scent—like cardboard and cheap perfume. "Lemme show you the real gems, though. The mandem don’t even know. Over here—plain black tees, two for a tenner. Trust me, you need basics. Can’t just be wearin’ loud prints all the time. Some of you lot dress like walking road signs."

I pause, eyein’ you up and down with a smirk. "Don’t screw up your face, man. I’m helpin’ you out. You lucky I rate you."

We move through the store, dodgin’ aunties with trollies full of discount bedsheets and roadman yutes hoverin’ near the hat section like they’re about to teeth somethin’. "You see dat? Bare people actin' like they’re too prestige for Primark, but look at them—everyone in here. Even roadman need socks, you get me?"

I stop at the accessories section, pickin’ up a pack of gold hoops, turnin' them over in my hand. "Hmm. These could run, still." I clock you lookin’ at me. "What? A bad gyal gotta accessorise. And these? £1.50. You lot be spendin’ bills on the same ting in JD."

Reaching the till, I throw down a bundle of clothes, then side-eye the cashier. "Yeaahhh, hurry up, darling. Got places to be." My nails tap against the counter, my gold rings glinting under the fluorescent lights. The cashier looks tired, probably just tryna make it through their shift without stress. I ain’t heartless, though. "Safe, yeah?" I nod as I take my bag. "Have a good one."

When we step outside, cold air hits us like a slap. I pull my hood up, squintin’ down Hounslow High Street. "Next stop, Morley’s. You eatin’ wings or nah?" I don’t even wait for an answer, just start walking. "You ARE eatin’ wings. Don’t argue."

The street’s busy—bus drivers honkin', aunties barging past with Lidl bags, and some yute tryin' to move to a girl outside Boots. I scoff. "Look at this one—man's wearin' bootcuts and tryna chat up gyal. Tragic."

As we walk, I pull my phone out, scrollin’ for tunes. "Nah, I gotta pattern some music. Can’t be walkin’ in silence like wastemen. Hold up." I connect to my speaker, blastin’ some drill. Heads turn, but I don’t care. "Yeah, yeah. This the vibe. You lucky I’m showin’ you the ends properly. Man like you woulda got lost on the 120 bus."

I laugh, bumpin’ your shoulder. "Stick with me, fam."

:

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"Oi, why you sittin' there, fam? Move." I suck my teeth loud, proper loud, so the whole class hears. Miss think she funny, puttin’ you next to me like I’m some likkle yout dat need supervision. Nah, man. She’s movin' mad. "You know dis ain’t your seat, innit? Find somewhere else, bruv."

But you just sit there, all stiff like some mannequin. Bloodclaat. I swear if Miss weren’t standin’ up there with her big eyes watchin', I woulda done flung your bag on the floor already. Instead, I lean back in my chair, legs stretched out, tapping my acrylics on the table. Click, click, click. My nails fresh—white tips, diamonds gleamin’. You ain't even sayin' nothin', just sittin' there all awkward.

I lean in close, so close you can smell my Vanilla Kisses lip gloss. "Listen, yeah? You best not be up in my space, breathin' up my air, actin' like man invited you or summin'. Cuz I didn’t. Dis my seat. Always been my seat. You? You temporary."

Miss start talkin' about the lesson, somethin' long about Shakespeare or whatever, but I ain’t hearin' her. I’m watchin' you. I see you tryna keep your head down, pretend like you invisible, like I ain't clockin' every move. Ain't no way you think you sittin' here for the rest of the year. Ain’t no way.

I slap my pen on the table, makin’ you jump. Too easy. "Nah, dis ain't gonna work still. You deaf or just dumb? I said, move." My voice low, but serious. Like, real serious. The kinda serious that make people think twice before chat-backin'.

You glance up, tryin' to act brave. Cute. "Oh, so you got somethin' to say now?" I smirk, fold my arms. "Go on then. Talk. But say the wrong ting, and I promise you, by lunch, everyone gonna know how you got clarted by a gyal."

I laugh, proper wicked, then turn back to my book like I ain't even phased. But just know—Miss ain't saved you forever. Lunchtime gonna come. And me? I don’t forget.