I say, “A few times,” which is a lie because I’ve never even been in the mall before. Most of the stores there are so far out of my price range that I never saw the point. I’m not sure why I lied about it—hopefully I’m not turning into Bethanie, pretending to be something I’m not. It’s scary that Langdon might have that effect on me.
Right away, I see I was accurate about the place. Besides the fact that I can’t even afford to pay attention in a store like this, much less a pair of shoes, the minute we get three feet inside, all employee eyes are on us, and not because we look that good. There’s another girl in the store, about our age, who someone ought to be following around instead of me, because that huge Louis Vuitton dog carrier she’s sporting is a lot more full than it was when I noticed her out in the mall a few minutes ago.
While Bethanie is ooh-aahing over something ridiculously overpriced, I watch the girl with the growing bag. She’s so confident she doesn’t even watch the store, doesn’t notice me checking out that bag. This is the perfect place to steal—they won’t risk ruining a four hundred-dollar blouse with a hole from a security sensor. I bet she didn’t pay for a thing she’s wearing, including the dog carrier. Hello? Is no one wondering where the dog is or why it’s so quiet?
I guess not, because here comes a saleslady running up to us right now.
“Hi, ladies. How can I help you today?”
“We’re just looking,” I say. “Maybe that girl over there needs your help.”
The saleslady ignores me and again asks what kind of help we need. My conscience is clear—I tried to do the right thing. Now I hope the shoplifter robs the place blind. Bethanie acts like she didn’t just hear me say we don’t need any help. “I’m looking for some jeans.”
“I can help you find your size.”
“We can find them ourselves. Thanks though.” Apparently my tone isn’t dismissive enough, because the saleslady doesn’t leave us alone until she’s helped Bethanie find several pairs of jeans and tops, counted them all, and placed them in the fitting room. But she’s still keeping an eye on us from her cash wrap. Louis Vuitton girl is heading for the entrance unnoticed, dog carrier bulging.
“What is your problem?” Bethanie whispers from inside a dressing room.
“I can’t stand when they follow us around like that. Even in these uniforms with the Langdon crest all over them, they figure we’re stealing.”
“Shhh. You’re embarrassing me.”
“No one’s out here but me. That saleslady can’t hear us, but I wish she could.”
“She wasn’t following us. It’s called good customer service. Maybe you aren’t used to it.”
“Good service? Are you serious?”
“Look, Chanti, maybe where you shop, service isn’t part of the experience the way it is here. No one needs to steal around here.”
“I’m guessing that girl with the dog carrier just ripped off a few thousand’s worth in under three minutes, and not because she needed to. Number-one lesson in solving a crime is understanding the motive. Need is not always the motive.”
“Who are you? Nancy Drew, girl detective?”
Soon as she opens the dressing room door, here comes the saleslady to see what all we’ve stolen so far. Bethanie comes out wearing jeans worth two Tastee Treets paychecks—a size too small and a couple of inches too low—almost requiring a bikini wax. The silk and lace tank she’s wearing looks more like underwear. I don’t think this is the style change Queen of the Preps was suggesting.
“What do you think?”
“It’s a little skanky,” I say, at the same time the saleslady says, “It’s a little expensive.”
Bethanie yanks off the tags, hands them to the saleslady, and says, “Excellent. Ring it up, then.”
But I can tell she’s really saying to both of us, Screw you.
Chapter 11
Bethanie was ticked off with me after I called her outfit skanky, but she still hooked me up with business casual, a khaki pencil skirt and a black blouse, both in cotton. Both from Target. Asking Lana for money after being used to making my own is starting to get old, and every time Bethanie treats me to something, I feel this twinge of guilt because I keep wondering how she can afford it. I’ve been waiting for her to tell me she’s got a trust fund, or her parents are in the import-export business, but so far she has told me as little about herself as possible. Not that I don’t keep asking. But soon I won’t need to mooch off Bethanie and/or plead my case to Lana because here I am at my first day on the job, which means I’ll soon have a paycheck again.
It’s a warm morning so the air-conditioned lobby of Mitchell’s is a relief after the walk from the bus stop. I check out my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the receptionist’s desk and see that my new outfit still looks crisp, and I hang around in the lobby a couple of minutes trying to cool off so I don’t look a sweaty mess when Marco sees me. That makes me a couple of minutes late because he and Malcolm are already in Paulette’s office when I get there.
“Our team is complete,” Paulette says brightly. I think she’s hoping her enthusiasm will rub off on Malcolm.
“I’m still with them?” he asks Paulette.
She gives him an exasperated look and ignores his question.
“Before we separate, I want to go over your schedule. If all goes well today and tomorrow with your training, I have a few small jobs to assign you for next weekend.”
“How are things going with that new guy?” Malcolm asks, fiddling with the drawstring on the mini-blinds. The Play-Doh is gone. I guess he needs something to keep his hands busy.
“Things are going great. He’s not so new anymore. You were gone six months, you know.”
Gone where? The state asylum? A drug-induced coma? I really do need to figure out the deal with this guy because there’s no way I’m getting into a truck with him behind the wheel, even with Marco there. I mean, it might be slightly romantic to die beside your beloved as you plunge to a fiery death into a canyon off Highway 40 because your driver snapped, but I’d kind of like to enjoy the being-alive part first. At least a first date. Which won’t happen until he dumps his bracelet-weaving girlfriend for me. So I’m not quite ready for the death scene yet.
“Chanti, did you remember to bring your license?” Paulette asks as she looks through a folder.
“Oh no, I completely forgot about it,” I say, which is true. I also forgot to make up some story of why I won’t have it tomorrow either, but fortunately for me, Paulette gets distracted.
“This is odd,” Paulette says. “Marco, there’s a note in your file that says we need to speak to HR before we start the training. Something about your I-9 form.”
“Really? What’s the problem?” Marco looks scared, and I try to remember which of the many forms I had to fill out was the I-9.
“Oh, I’m sure there’s no problem. It says on your application that you were born in the United States.”
“Yes, I was.” Marco says this a little too defiantly.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just go take care of it now.”
Paulette and Marco leave me alone with Malcolm, which is both scary and fortuitous.
“So, you really liked your old team, huh?”
“I don’t know. It’s my job. I don’t come here to like people.”
“Marco and I will work really hard, I promise. We aren’t like the other kids at Langdon; we’ve had other jobs,” I say, thinking this might be the reason for his reluctance to work with us. Maybe he’s met Justin and Lissa and thinks all Langdonites are like them. That would frighten me, too.
“I knew my old team. They knew me. It was okay. None of this figuring each other out.”
“I don’t much like meeting new people either.”
“Hey, I don’t need some kid trying to analyze me, okay?”
Uh-oh. Hot button. I’m thinking the asylum was a good guess.
“My bad. Just trying to make conversation.”
Jail. Hadn’t thought of that.
I keep quiet for a full minute (I know because I was staring at the wall clock the whole time), hoping Paulette and Marco return soon. They aren’t back when the minute hand strikes twelve, and I can’t help myself.
“So you went on a break, huh? That’s cool. I could use a break myself.”
“From what—homework? Didn’t school just start?”
“Yeah, but summer break is just a couple of months. But six months—that’s a real break. What was it—a sabbatical or something?”
“A what?”
“Like a long vacation from work.”
“You need to stay out of other people’s business, kid.” His tone says shut the hell up, and I do.
I’m more than relieved when Paulette and Marco return. Marco looks relaxed again when he offers an explanation. “I just forgot to sign the form, that’s all.”
I’m trying not to think about Marco alone in a truck with a madman when Paulette and I arrive at the house of our first client of the day, which is in Cherry Creek and not far from Langdon Prep. I’m guessing this is where a lot of Mitchell Moving and Storage’s customers live, since it’s his neighborhood and he specializes in moving and storing the stuff of people who have more money than they know what to do with. If that describes your financial situation and you live in Denver, odds are good you live in Cherry Creek.
As we walk up the steps of a house that could easily fit three of my houses inside of it, Paulette warns me, “Now let me do all the talking and you just observe.”
That’s like telling the sun to shine. This I can do.
The front door is huge, big enough that Shaquille O’Neal could walk through the doorway and still have a foot of headroom to spare. On either side of the door is a tall potted bush that someone has shaped into three uniform balls stacked on top of each other. Rich people must have nothing but time. Well, time and money.
“This is Chantal, my assistant,” Paulette says, making introductions. “She’ll be your service representative on the day of the move.”
“Nice to meet you, Chantal. That’s such a lovely name.”
I almost tell her to call me Chanti, but I get the impression Paulette used my full name for a reason. Chantal fits this scene.
“So what will we be moving for you?”
“My daughter’s away at college and needs some furniture. We bought her a condo rather than paying for a dorm. Better investment than dorm fees, you know.”
“Very smart,” Paulette says, agreeing as if she knows from experience, which seems unlikely on an office manager’s salary. I’m really hoping my job won’t include pretending I have some idea what it’s like to be rich. Paulette may be able to pull it off, but I would fail miserably.
We spend the next hour walking through the house, Mrs. Stone pointing out what will be moved, Paulette laughing at more rich-people inside jokes, and me writing it all down on an inventory form. It should have only taken twenty minutes tops, but Mrs. Stone has to tell us where she got everything, even the stuff that isn’t being moved, like the mother-of-pearl backgammon board she got on a little junket to Madagascar. Who says junket? And I have no idea where Madagascar is.
I’m starting to dislike her daughter. Not only will she get a free condo, she’ll have an almost-new plasma TV and a leather sectional that feels like butter (Paulette gave me an evil look that said Get off that sofa now! when I tried it out). And that’s only from the first floor of Mrs. Stone’s house.
After we left Mrs. Stone, there were four more houses and I swear each one was bigger than the last one, with more expensive stuff than the one before it. When we pull into the parking lot of Mitchell Moving and Storage and I see Marco leaning against his ancient Grand Prix with at least three different colors of paint, I have a moment of culture shock, like someone has blasted me back into the real world and now I have to figure out how to make do with hand-me-down cars and weekly bus passes.
“Hey, you’re still here,” I say to Marco after telling Paulette I’d see her tomorrow. “I thought you guys only had a couple of small moves.”
“We did, but I thought I’d wait for you, see if you wanted a ride home.”
He waited, probably hours, just to give me a ride home. Someone call an ambulance because I am about to die from happy. I try to stay calm, sound nonchalant.
“A ride would be great.”
“I was thinking if you want, we could get something to eat and discuss our French project.”
Did I say I love my French class? I love my teacher even more. She had the brilliant idea of doing skits, and had us pair up into teams. Marco and I are a team, and the best part about it is he asked me. The minute the teacher said pairs, I started thinking up how I’d ask Marco but still play it cool like I didn’t really care if he’s my partner or not, but while I was busy coming up with a scheme, he just asked. One day I’ll learn the direct route is sometimes best, and stop analyzing everything to death. But not today, because I spend the whole ride to the restaurant thinking of what I should do next and end up not saying a word. Not a single word.
When we pull into the Sonic parking lot, I try to decipher his choice of restaurant. Did he pick Sonic because we could have the food brought out to the car and have more privacy? That would mean he wants private time with me, which is great. But if I eat in the car I know I’ll make a mess, and then he’ll think . . .
“I hope you like Sonic—they have good slushes,” Marco says as he gets out of the car, resolving all my questions. I really do need to stop overanalyzing everything. “You’re pretty quiet. Did training go okay?”
“Oh, it went fine, but I can’t believe how rich rich people are.”
“I know.We moved a room that I’m sure if you totaled up the contents, it cost more than everything in my house.”
“How was it working with Malcolm?”
“He’s a little strange, but not serial-killer strange, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“Well, you seem a little freaked out by him. And he told me you were grilling him about his time off the job.”
I wouldn’t call that grilling. Believe me, Malcolm would know if I was grilling him. I’ve had a great teacher, and if he didn’t weird me out so much, I’d know everything I want to know about his extended vacation. But he did weird me out, so I ask Marco what he knows.
“He didn’t tell me, exactly. My take on it is he doesn’t have anything against us, it’s just that he’s not good with people, and he’d been working with his old team for a while and had gotten used to them. Now he has to get used to us.”
“So it’s not like he came at them with a hatchet and they refused to work with him ever again.”
He smiles at this. “I’m pretty sure not.”
The place is empty because it’s that limbo time between lunch and dinner when everyone uses the drive-through, something I learned working at Tastee Treets. It’s almost as private as if we’d stayed in the car. After we order and take our food to the table, I get my French notebook from my bag. Now that we don’t have Weird Malcolm to talk about, I’m once again at a loss for words. So I focus on squeezing mustard on my hotdog while I steal quick looks at Marco. God. He’s so cute. I try to fake like I’m completely at ease, but it’s all I can do to keep down my hotdog while my stomach turns flips.
“Do you not like hotdogs? You’ve only had one bite, and I’m almost done with mine.”
I should have ordered something else. How do you eat a hotdog and not make a mess? I can’t pull it off, though I’m dying to finish it before it gets cold. But it isn’t worth risking mustard all over my shirt on our first not-a-date-but-could-be-a-date.
“I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought,” I say as I inhale our basket of fries. If you leave off the ketchup, fries aren’t at all dangerous.
Awkward silence ensues. We coul
d always work on the French skit, but I’d rather find out more about him, beyond what I can get from just watching him. I remember that moment in Paulette’s office when she asked about his I-9 form, and his reaction when she asked if he was born in the States. Maybe I can start from there. He can tell me about his family, where they’re from.
“That was strange, Paulette asking if you were born here.”
“Why was it strange?”
Immediately I sense him going on guard, and wish I had never brought it up, but now I had to come up with an answer.
“She didn’t ask me if I was born here. I don’t know, it seemed kind of like she was suggesting something.”
“Like what? Like I’m an illegal?”
“No, not like that. Well, maybe like that. Kind of like she was judging. I mean, you aren’t, right? Not that it matters.” And it doesn’t. I’m just trying to make conversation and as usual, when it comes to boys, I’m only making a mess.
“I’m Mexican-American. I was born here. But I could be from anywhere—Puerto Rico, Spain—every brown person in this state isn’t Mexican, and every Mexican in this state isn’t illegal. Maybe you’re the one judging. You should know better.”
This is going wrong on so many levels.
“You know what? Let’s forget about Paulette and work,” I say, trying to sound light and airy, as though the last minute didn’t happen. “We’re supposed to be working on the French skit, right?”
“We should just go. I have to meet Malcolm early tomorrow.”
Before I can try to make things right, he’s already taking our trays to the trash can and heading for the door. I’d try to fix it, but I know I’ll probably make it worse. Other than giving him directions, I don’t say a word as he drives me home. And when I get out of the car in front of my house and tell him I’ll see him tomorrow, he says, “I guess.”
Without understanding how it even happened, I have completely ruined our first not-a-date-but-could-be-a-date.
My Own Worst Frenemy Page 8