By the time the waitress finally reached their table, the ice in the water glasses was already melting into thin, shimmering rings, and the late-afternoon sun over Los Angeles had dipped low enough to blast straight through the front windows of the restaurant, turning every fork into a strip of silver fire.

“Hi, welcome in,” the waitress said, cheeks flushed, ponytail frizzing slightly from the heat and the rush. “Sorry for the wait. Here’s your water.”

“It’s about time,” Beverly said, snatching the sweating glass like it had personally offended her. “Talk about bad service.”

“Beverly,” her mother warned, her tone soft but edged.

“No, no, you’re right,” the waitress said quickly. “I’m so sorry. I’m the only one working today, so we’ve just been a bit backed up.”

She smiled anyway, that tired Los Angeles service-industry smile people wear when rent is due and the bus just went up again and someone just yelled at them for something that wasn’t their fault.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Beverly’s mom said. “We understand.”

“I’ll take the Mandarin crunch salad,” she added, handing the menu back.

“Excellent choice,” the waitress said, scribbling. “And for you?”

Beverly didn’t bother to look up from her phone. “Just get me the same,” she said. “But hurry it up. We don’t have all day.”

“You got it,” the waitress said, still polite. She walked away, shoulders just a tiny bit tighter than before.

“That wasn’t nice,” Beverly’s mom said.

“Who cares?” Beverly shrugged. “She’s just a waitress. I mean, how hard can that job be?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” her mom asked, stirring her water with her straw. “You’ve never worked a day in your life.”

“Whatever,” Beverly said. She flipped open the small Louis Vuitton wallet she’d gotten on Rodeo Drive last week. Her mom’s platinum credit card glinted from inside.

“I should’ve bought that other purse too,” she said. “The black one would’ve gone better with my new slides.”

“You got a lot of nice things,” her mom said. “Which reminds me—I need my credit card back.”

“Oh. Of course.” Beverly slid it out, held it between two fingers, then, at the last second, curled her hand back toward her. “Actually, I think I’m going to hang on to it,” she said. “In case I need to buy some more stuff.”

Her mom’s eyes narrowed just a little, but she let it go. For the moment.

“So my friends and I were thinking about going to Hawaii next month,” Beverly said. “Maui, maybe Oahu. Is that okay?”

“How much is that going to cost?” her mom asked.

“I don’t know,” Beverly said casually. “I was planning on using your credit card.”

The waitress reappeared with two oversized white bowls. “All right, here is your salad,” she said, sliding one in front of each of them. “Thank you so much. Enjoy.”

“Wait a second,” Beverly said. Her fork hovered over the colorful pile of lettuce, mandarins, and crumbled feta. “Are there sunflower seeds in here?”

“Uh, yes,” the waitress said. “They come with the salad you ordered. The Mandarin crunch—”

“Are you trying to hurt me?” Beverly snapped, louder than she needed to. A couple at the next table looked over. “I’m allergic to sunflower seeds.”

“Oh my gosh,” the waitress said, eyes widening. “I am so sorry. I had no idea. I—”

“Maybe you should have asked,” Beverly cut in. “I mean, you have a minimum wage paying job. How hard can that be?”

“Beverly, stop,” her mom said sharply. “It’s not her fault. I should have never let you order the salad. I just spaced out. Her job is hard enough. Besides, you didn’t eat any. You’re fine.”

“Don’t make excuses for her, Mom.” Beverly pushed the bowl away like it was contaminated. “Bring me another salad,” she told the waitress, “and I expect you to remove this from the bill for the inconvenience.”

“Absolutely,” the waitress said, voice careful. “Right away. I’m so sorry.”

She scooped up the bowl and vanished toward the kitchen.

“How could you treat her like that?” Beverly’s mom asked. “You wouldn’t want anybody to treat you like that, would you?”

“Oh, please,” Beverly said. “She should know how to do her job. It’s not rocket science.”

Later, when the plates were clean and Beverly was sufficiently full to scroll TikTok without getting cranky, the waitress came back with the bill.

“That was good,” Beverly’s mom said. “Thank you.”

“Here’s your change,” the waitress said, tucking cash into the leather folder. “Thank you so much for coming in. And again, I truly, truly apologize for the mix-up.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Beverly’s mom said. “It wasn’t a problem.” She slipped a couple of folded twenties under the receipt and closed the folder.

“And all of this is for you,” she added, handing it back with a warm smile. “I really appreciate you.”

“Wow,” the waitress said, seeing the bills. “Really? Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“What?” Beverly said. Before the waitress could tuck the money into her apron, Beverly snatched the folder out of her hand. “No. She took forever with our order and then tried to hurt me.”

“Beverly,” her mom said, voice low.

“Fine,” Beverly said. “You want to tip her? Then here.”

She yanked out a few crumpled singles she’d shoved in after lunch last week and slapped them into the folder, pushing it back.

“And you should be thankful,” she told the waitress. “That’s a lot more than you even deserve.”

“Beverly,” her mom hissed.

“It’s okay,” the waitress said softly. “It’s totally fine.”

She walked away, shoulders straighter than Beverly expected.

“She couldn’t even do her simple job right,” Beverly said, sliding into the booth as if nothing had happened.

“You know being a waitress isn’t easy,” her mom said. “You never know how hard someone’s job is until you do it yourself.”

“Oh yeah?” Beverly smirked. “And how would you know?”

“Because I used to be one,” her mom said. “Before I started my business. How do you think we were paying the bills? By me waiting tables. That’s how.”

“Really?” Beverly grimaced, as if she’d just been told her mom used to eat from the trash. “That is… ew. Well, it’s a good thing you have money now so I’ll never have to worry about doing that.”

“And that,” her mom said quietly, “is the problem.”

“What problem?” Beverly asked.

Her mom held out her hand. “I am taking my credit card back.”

“How am I supposed to pay for things?” Beverly demanded.

“By getting a job,” her mom said calmly. “It’s the only way you’re going to learn the value of hard work.”

“Are you serious, Mom? No. You can’t do this to me.”

“I am serious,” her mom said. “Put the money back. And let’s go.”

Beverly couldn’t believe it. She slammed the restaurant door so hard the bell jangled wildly, but her mom didn’t change her mind.

Across town, in a different slice of Los Angeles suburbia, another teenager was about to get his reality check.

“Hey there,” the pizza delivery boy said, breathless from his bike ride and still a little sweaty under his red company cap. “That’s going to be fourteen ninety-two.”

“Mom!” Derek called over his shoulder, leaning against the white doorframe of their two-story house. “I need twenty bucks!”

His mother appeared from the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Make sure you tip him well,” she said, sliding a twenty into Derek’s hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Derek muttered. He passed it to the delivery boy, who handed over the heavy cardboard box.

“There you go,” the boy said. “And here you go,” he added, holding out Derek’s change.

Derek flipped the lid. “What is this?” he snapped.

“Uh, pepperoni and pineapple,” the delivery boy said, suddenly nervous. “Isn’t that what you ordered?”

“Who puts pineapple on a pizza?” Derek said. “Do I look like I’d eat that?”

He had been about to say something harsher—something he’d heard his friends say online—but his mother’s voice cut through his memory like a warning bell.

“I asked for pepperoni,” he said instead.

“I’m really sorry,” the delivery boy said. “Would you mind just taking off the pineapple? Or I could also go back to the store—”

“I’m not going to do your job for you,” Derek snapped. “Go get me a new one.”

“Absolutely,” the delivery boy said. “I’m just going to need to—”

“You guys like pineapple?” Derek called into the house.

“Yeah, I’ll have some,” one of his friends yelled.

“I love pineapple,” another added.

“Gross,” Derek said. “I’m sorry, but can I get that pizza back? My boss is going to make me pay for it if I don’t.”

Derek’s friend grabbed a slice and stuffed half of it in his mouth. “Take another slice before you give it back,” he said, laughing.

Derek shrugged, yanked out a piece for himself, then shoved the rest of the half-picked pie back into the delivery boy’s hands.

“Hurry up,” Derek said. “I’m starving.”

“For sure,” the boy murmured. “I’ll be back as soon as possible. Again, I’m really, really sorry.”

He turned and jogged back to his bike, the late-afternoon heat turning the sidewalk into a mirror.

“Did you leave him a nice tip?” Derek’s mom asked when he came back inside.

“No,” Derek snorted. “I didn’t even pay him. He messed up my order. I told him to get me a new one.”

“Derek, we don’t call people names or treat them like that,” his mom said.

“What?” Derek said. “He’s a delivery driver. How hard is it to get a simple order right?”

“You know most jobs are harder than they look,” his mom said. “You would know if you ever had one.”

“Whatever,” Derek said, flopping onto the couch. “Besides, it probably wasn’t even his fault,” she added. “Maybe the restaurant messed up the order.”

“I don’t care,” Derek said, eyes already on the NBA game starting on TV. “All I know is he better get it right this time.”

By the time the boy came back—with the right pizza, hot and steaming—Derek was already half-lost in the game, shouting at the screen about the Suns’ defense. The second time, when Derek complained about the pizza being “too cold,” he didn’t see the boy’s blister on his heel from running in cheap sneakers after his bike tire blew out.

He just saw someone whose job he could yell at.

It would be a while before he realized that job looked a lot different from the other side.

The next week, Derek’s world shifted.

“You think everything is so easy because you’ve never had to work hard for anything,” his mom said, popping her head into the game room where Derek and his friends were yelling at the TV. “While you sit here complaining about how many slices of pepperoni are on a pizza, that boy is out there working hard.”

“Mom,” Derek groaned. “My friends are here. Can we talk about this later?”

“No,” she said. “I think they should hear this. It’s real easy for you to ask me for money, but it’s a whole lot harder when you have to earn it yourself. Maybe you should get a job delivering pizzas so you can see how it is.”

“Yeah,” his friend snorted. “Like that would ever happen.”

“I am serious,” she said. “You don’t know how hard someone’s job is until you do it yourself. So here’s the deal, Derek. Either you get a job, or I take away your PS5, your allowance, and you won’t be getting the car for your birthday.”

“You can’t do that,” Derek said, sitting up straight. “We already ordered it.”

“I’ll call the dealership and tell them I changed my mind,” she said. “So what’s it going to be?”

“You can’t lose that car, bro,” his friend hissed. “You’re getting a BMW. That’s insane. Just do whatever she says.”

Derek swallowed. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll get a job for a month. But that’s it.”

“We’ll see if you even last a week,” his mom said.

He lasted longer than that. Mostly because quitting felt worse than delivering another pizza.

Three neighborhoods over, in a strip mall between a laundromat and a taquería, a different kind of lesson was being learned over a stack of pizza boxes.

The pizzeria smelled like flour and tomato sauce and sandalwood from the cheap candle someone had left burning near the register. Luis wiped his hands on his apron, grabbed another insulated bag, and glanced at the order screen.

“Five slices of cheese. Special: five-for-five deal,” he murmured. “All right.”

He slid the slices into the box, balanced it on his forearm, and nodded at his boss. “I’m heading out, Mr. Russo.”

“Be careful,” his boss said, not looking up from the inventory sheet. “And remember, no giving away food we have to sell.”

Luis smiled faintly. “Yes, sir.”

Outside, the strip mall lot shimmered under the California sun. His bike leaned against the wall, front tire a little softer than it should be. He slung the bag over his shoulder and hopped on anyway.

By the time he reached the business district downtown, the early dinner rush had already begun. Office workers spilled out of glass towers, loosening ties, checking phones, arguing in the shade of palm trees.

Luis swung off his bike in front of the shiny building where the order had come from. Inside, marble floors gleamed. A receptionist looked him over like he’d tracked in the street.

“Pick-up for Davenport,” he said.

“Have a seat,” she said coolly. “I’ll bring him right out.”

Luis sank into a chair by the window, pressing his palms against the warm cardboard. His stomach growled before he could stop it. He hadn’t eaten since his break ended four hours ago.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, man!” a voice snapped.

Luis jerked his knees back, nearly dropping the pizza.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

The man in the thousand-dollar suit brushed invisible dust off his sleeve. “Do you know how expensive this suit is?” he said. “Much more than you can afford.”

“You’re probably right,” Luis said. “I’m really sorry, sir.”

The man rolled his eyes and walked to the counter. “Yeah, some people,” he muttered. “Anyway, let me get three slices of cheese.”

“We have a five-for-five-dollar deal if you want to add two more,” the cashier said brightly.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever. Five,” the man said.

Luis looked at the bag in his lap. Five slices of cheese. Five-for-five.

“Have a seat,” the cashier said. “I’ll bring them right out.”

Luis pressed his lips together. His own delivery had been checked out five minutes ago. This place must be doing the same deal. He shifted in his seat, hunger gnawing.

The man took his pizza to a high table by the window, in direct line of the setting sun. Luis looked away, then back.

The box opened.

Steam escaped.

“Great pizza, right?” Luis said after a few minutes, unable to stop himself. He wasn’t even sure why he was talking. Maybe because the lobby was too quiet. Maybe because the smell was driving him crazy.

“This is unbelievable,” the man said through a mouthful of cheese, eyes on his phone. He reached for another slice. And another.

Luis’s stomach growled so loud he was glad the receptionist couldn’t hear over the tapping of her nails.

Then the man reached for the last slice.

“Really?” Luis blurted before he could stop himself. “You’re going to take the last slice of pizza?”

The man frowned. “Sounds like you’re hungry,” he said. He tore the slice neatly down the middle. “There you go.”

He held out half.

Luis blinked. “That is very kind,” he said, hesitating only for a second before taking it. “Thank you.”

He took a bite. It was amazing. Hot, cheesy, a thousand times better than the cold slice he’d almost taken from the “mistake” pie back at the shop.

“You know what?” the man said suddenly, pushing the box toward him. “Take another half. I’m full.”

“You sure?” Luis asked.

The man shrugged. “I may have a lot,” he said. “But I’m always happy to share.”

Luis smiled. “Me too,” he said. And he meant it.

He didn’t know that ten minutes later the receptionist would bring the suited man his own ordered pizza, that the man would realize he’d been eating someone else’s dinner the whole time, and that his first instinct, for once, wouldn’t be to yell.

He also didn’t know that a few weeks later, that same suited man—a CEO in a glass tower—would walk past Luis sitting on the curb outside the strip mall, sharing a single slice with a homeless vet named Ray, and feel his vision of success tilt just slightly, like a picture frame knocked askew.

Meanwhile, in a middle school fifteen miles away, a different kind of cruelty was being served.

“And that’s why I want to be a beauty influencer when I grow up,” Avery said, flipping her perfect blonde hair over her shoulder in the fluorescent-lit classroom. “Because I’ve got the looks and the personality.”

A few girls in the front row giggled. The teacher, Mrs. Patel, smiled politely. “Okay, thanks, Avery,” she said. “Now let’s have Priscilla go next.”

Priscilla stood up, clutching her note cards. She could feel every red bump on her cheeks, every inflamed patch along her jawline, like hot coins under her skin.

“Oh my gosh,” Avery whispered loudly as Priscilla walked past. “I’m so sorry, Avery,” she mimicked under her breath. “Nice job, pepperoni face.”

A wave of laughter rolled through the classroom.

“All right, settle down, class,” Mrs. Patel said.

“When I grow up,” Priscilla began, her voice shaking but steady, “I actually also want to be a beauty influencer, so that I can—”

“Wait,” Avery blurted. “You want to be a beauty influencer?”

A couple of kids tittered.

“But you’ve got pimples all over your face,” Avery said.

“Avery,” Mrs. Patel warned. “That’s not nice.”

“I know, but come on,” Avery said. “I just want to show people that it’s your imperfections that make you beautiful,” Priscilla continued, forcing herself to keep going. “Because—”

“What would you know about beauty?” Avery shot back. “Maybe you should just deliver pizzas, pepperoni face.”

The laughter erupted again, louder this time.

“Avery,” Mrs. Patel said firmly. “That’s enough.”

Priscilla finished her presentation, though she couldn’t remember a word she said. Her face felt like it was on fire.

That afternoon, she sat on her bed in her small room, propping up her phone against a stack of books. A ring light flickered to life, casting soft white light over her face, acne and all.

“Hey, guys,” she said, voice still a little hoarse. “It’s Priscilla the Pimple Popper, and today I wanted to talk to you about moisturizing your skin and why it’s important, especially if you deal with acne like I do.”

She lost herself in the routine. It calmed her—the mixing of products, the careful way she described ingredients, the thought that somewhere, some girl who felt as ugly as she did might see this and feel a little less alone.

She didn’t notice the notification that Avery had just posted a new video on TikTok.

The next day, as she walked through the courtyard with her backpack slung over one shoulder, she heard it.

“Look what we have here, ladies,” Avery said, phone already out. “It’s pizza-face Priscilla recording a beauty tutorial.”

“I can’t believe she actually thinks people want to watch her,” one of the girls snickered. “Her skin is so bad.”

“You know,” Avery said loudly, “maybe if you washed your face you wouldn’t have so many pimples.”

“I… I do wash my face,” Priscilla said. “Acne isn’t something you can always control. Anyone can get it. Even you.”

“Yeah, right,” Avery said. “I’ve never gotten a pimple in my life.”

Priscilla looked her straight in the eye. “Maybe you should go wash your face again,” Avery added. “Record this,” she whispered to her friend.

“What? Why?” Priscilla asked, confused.

“Well,” Avery said sweetly, grabbing a slice of pizza from a nearby table, “because you’ve got pizza all over your face.”

She smashed the slice into Priscilla’s cheek. Sauce, cheese, and grease oozed down over the pimples Avery loved to mock.

The courtyard exploded in laughter.

“Did you get it?” Avery gasped through giggles.

“Yeah,” her friend said, angling the phone. “Listen: ‘Because you’ve got pizza all over your face.’ Oh my god, this is going viral.”

Priscilla ran to the restroom, tears mixing with tomato sauce. She scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin was almost raw.

That night, as she sat in bed refreshing her notifications with shaking hands, she saw it: Avery’s video, already at seven thousand views. The caption: “When a pizza wants to be a beauty influencer 🍕😂 #pepperoniface.”

Comments poured in, each one another cut.

The next morning, Avery woke up to something she’d never seen on her own face: a red bump, right at the tip of her nose.

“No,” she whispered. She poked it, prodded it, layered concealer over it until it looked more like a bruise.

By the time she got to school, two more had appeared on her forehead.

By lunch, her entire T-zone was a mess of angry red.

“Whoa,” one of her friends said. “What happened to your skin?”

“Nothing,” Avery snapped. “It’s just… stress.”

Someone snickered. Someone else whispered, “Pepperoni nose.”

She felt her stomach drop in a way she hadn’t known it could.

Later, alone in the restroom, Avery stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked like someone else’s. Her eyes were the same, but the smooth, filtered skin from her Instagram stories was gone, replaced by the same blotchy, uneven texture she’d mocked yesterday.

She splashed water on her face. It didn’t help. She pressed paper towels to her cheeks. That didn’t help either.

She felt something break.

When she walked out into the hallway, eyes still wet, she almost collided with Priscilla.

“Oh,” Priscilla said. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Avery choked. “I can’t believe I’m breaking out. Everyone’s laughing at me. I look so… so terrible. I’ll never be a beauty influencer now.”

“Hey,” Priscilla said gently. “Don’t let anyone else’s opinions get to you. Acne is totally normal. A lot of kids our age get it.”

“But I’ve always had perfect skin,” Avery whispered. “Now I look so ugly.”

“That’s not true,” Priscilla said. “Remember what I said? It’s your imperfections that make you beautiful.”

“Avery?” a girl’s voice squeaked from behind them.

They both turned.

“I watch all of your TikToks,” the girl said—to Priscilla. “You do?”

“Yeah,” the girl said. “Every other influencer makes it seem like you have to be all perfect to be beautiful. But I love how real you are. You’re like my favorite beauty influencer.”

“Thank you so much,” Priscilla said, eyes wide.

“See?” she added, looking at Avery. “You can still be a beauty influencer with acne. Because it’s your imperfections that make you beautiful.”

Avery swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry for everything,” she said. “All this time, I thought I had to look perfect. I thought that made me better than you. Thank you for helping me see I’m still okay. That I’m… beautiful, no matter what.”

Priscilla smiled. “Come on,” she said. “I’m filming a new video tonight. Want to be the guest star?”

“Like… actually?” Avery asked.

“Yeah,” Priscilla laughed. “We’ll call you the Acne Assassin.”

That night, two girls sat cross-legged on Priscilla’s bed, acne and all, under the soft glow of a ring light.

“Hey, guys,” Priscilla said, grinning into the camera. “It’s Priscilla the Pimple Popper, and today I have a very special guest here with me.”

“Hey,” Avery said shyly. “It’s Avery the Acne Assassin.”

“Today we’re here for another skincare tutorial,” Priscilla said. “But wait—aren’t you missing something?”

Avery frowned. “I don’t think so.”

Priscilla reached off camera and plopped a green clay mask onto Avery’s face in one rough swipe.

“That’s better,” Priscilla said. They both burst out laughing.

“Let’s start today with a bad joke,” Avery said. “What’s the leading cause of dry skin?”

“A towel,” they both yelled, falling over onto the pillows.

Somewhere in the same sprawling city, Beverly lay on her bed, scrolling mindlessly. Her bank account app stared back at her with a number that seemed insultingly small.

Rent was paid—for now. The shoes she wanted, the Hawaii tickets her friends had already booked, the daily iced lattes she’d taken for granted? All out of reach.

Her phone buzzed.

“Congrats!” read the text from her mom. “Heard back from the restaurant. You’re hired.”

She stared at the message, then at the apron lying on her chair, folded neatly from orientation.

It had the same logo as the place where she’d ripped tips out of a waitress’s hands weeks ago.

Now she would wear it.

Now she would be the one saying, “I’m so sorry for the wait. I’m the only one working today.”

The first week was a blur of spilled drinks, aching feet, and customers who looked at her the way she had looked at that waitress: like an obstacle between them and their food.

People complained. People snapped. People waved her over like she was a voice-activated appliance.

She went home every night smelling like grease and dishwater and other people’s perfume.

Her paystub made her eyes sting. She’d never understood why her mom looked so tired and still smiled, saying, “It’s enough. We’ll make it work.”

One slow afternoon, a familiar figure walked through the door with a woman who looked like an older version of her—same eyes, same careful smile.

“So my friends and I decided not to go to Hawaii,” Beverly said, slipping into the booth after taking their order. “It’s so expensive when you have to pay for things yourself.”

“Well, it’s a lot different when you have to pay for things yourself, isn’t it?” her mom said, looking at her over the top of the menu.

“Yeah,” Beverly said, surprising herself with how much weight that one word could carry.

“Hi, welcome to—” someone said behind her.

Beverly turned.

The waitress from the salad place stood there, holding menus, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” the woman said. “I know you didn’t like my service last time. Want me to get someone else?”

“No, please,” Beverly said quickly. “I’m actually really sorry for how I treated you before.”

“You are?” the woman said.

“Yeah,” Beverly said. “Would you like the same salads as last time?”

“That would be amazing,” the woman smiled. “Oh, but please don’t forget—”

“I know,” Beverly said. “No sunflower seeds.”

“Thank you for remembering,” the woman said. “I’ll be sure to leave you an extra big tip this time.”

“Wow, honey,” Beverly’s mom said when the waitress left. “I am so proud of you.”

“You know what?” she added later, as they walked to the car. “I’m going to let you have my credit card back.”

“Really?” Beverly said, then shook her head. “Actually, it’s okay, Mom. It… it feels really good working for everything that I have. Thank you, though.”

Her mom smiled, sliding the card back into her own wallet. “I like this version of you,” she said.

At that same moment, in a different kitchen, Derek was pulling his red company cap off his sweaty head and setting a pizza box on his own kitchen table.

“Hey, honey,” his mom said. “How was work?”

“It was… all right,” Derek said. “I just got home.”

“I have to say, I am surprised at how long you’ve lasted,” she said. “Are you hungry? I’ll fix you some supper.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I ordered us food. I got enough for both of us.”

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “This one’s on me.”

The doorbell rang.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said when Derek opened it. “I got your large pepperoni pizza. And don’t worry, I double-checked it this time.”

Luis stood there, bag over his shoulder, eyes a little tired but still bright.

“Let me see,” Derek said, popping the lid. “No pineapple. Nice.”

He pulled out a twenty and handed it over. “Keep the change,” he said. “Really.”

Luis blinked. “Are you sure?” he asked. “It comes out to fourteen ninety-five. I can get you—”

“I know what the total is,” Derek said. “Keep it. I know how hard your job is. And… I felt really bad about last time. Sorry about that.”

Luis’s face broke into a genuine smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Really means a lot. Have a great one.”

He jogged back down the steps, lighter this time. Derek closed the door gently.

“It’s like I don’t even know who this new Derek is anymore,” his mom said, appearing in the hallway. “Thanks, Mom,” he said. “For making me work.”

She arched a brow. “Let me get this on video,” she joked.

“Oh, and I was thinking,” Derek said, sliding the pizza onto the table. “About the car.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t want the BMW anymore,” his mom said. “Now that would be going too far.”

“I still want it,” Derek grinned. “I was just thinking… maybe black instead of metallic blue. More… grown.”

“Black it is,” she said, pulling him into a hug.

Across Los Angeles, money still moved, phones still buzzed, and people still judged each other in traffic and checkout lines and comment sections. Nothing magical had changed the city.

But in one restaurant, a girl who used to rip tips away now smiled at tired waitresses.

In one pizzeria, a boy who’d thrown food back in someone’s face now handed over extra cash and apology in the same envelope.

On one school bus, a girl with perfect hair and imperfect skin watched a TikTok of herself laughing under a clay mask, thousands of comments below cheering for how real she looked.

And somewhere downtown, a CEO sat across from a man who slept in a shelter, sharing a box of slices instead of a lecture, both of them warmed by more than just the pizza.

In the land of big franchises and bigger dreams, from strip malls to skyscrapers, the same quiet lesson moved from one heart to another, unadvertised, unfiltered, unboxed:

You never know how hard someone’s job is until you try it yourself.

And you never really know who someone is until you stop long enough to see past the uniform, past the acne, past the tip line on a receipt, and look for the person underneath.