The Ex Games

by Jennifer Echols

  Just when I thought my boss would take notice of what was going on, an inquisitive customer whisked him away on a calligraphy ink hunt. It was up to me to handle the situation. I still had too much of that new-employee uneasiness to call out my coworkers, so I addressed the customers instead.

  “Registers two and three are also open,” I informed the back of the coiling line.

  My announcement totally backfired. A cutie had been heading to my line, but just as I said this, he queued up behind the two customers who had also just switched to register 2. Dang. Curious, I stole a quick glance at him. He struck me as a cross between a teenage Lenny Kravitz and a modern-day Jean-Michel Basquiat. (Yes, working here has taught me a thing or two about famous dead hipster artists.) Dressed in a plaid button-down and khakis, he looked retro and current at the same time.

  In the two weeks that I’d been an Art Attack employee, I’d come to recognize the look of a person with creative swagger. And Kravitz Cakes’s air of creativity was more timeless than most hot-for-the-moment, trendy customers who pass through. Something about him made me want to act supergirlie, like twirl my hair around my finger or tilt back my head while laughing. I think it’s called “flirting.”

  I wanted to meet this guy. For one, he was taller than me—and possibly a full two inches taller at that. A lot of guys my age seem ten times more likely to catch mono than a growth spurt, so it’s nice to come across a tall boy. Second—and this was huge—the mere fact that a guy caught my attention meant I must have been getting over unslick Rick.

  I started ringing up customers at double speed. I couldn’t move faster if my name was Taylor Swift. Forget the checkout counter small talk I’d normally have. I just wanted the cutie to switch back to my lane when he realized it was the quicker option.

  Funny how total strangers operate on the same timetable without even realizing it. There were solid blocks of time when not a soul walked into Art Attack. Then suddenly, as if a sightseeing tour bus had pulled up and parked outside the door, folks swarmed in all around the same time.

  My coworker at register 2 and I both had two customers waiting in line. The cutie was at the end of her line. As she rang up stuff, I stole a glance over my shoulder to her lane like a paranoid marathon runner. She had two more items to ring up—a roll of satin ribbons and a box of fancy transparent paper, apparently for a bride-to-be into DIY wedding invitations.

  Yes, I thought. Those items take mad long to ring up because the UPC has to be typed in.

  The two high-pitched beeps I heard in the next heartbeat meant that my coworker had somehow successfully managed to scan the wrinkled sticker codes on both packages. In a panic, I scanned my remaining three items and totaled the purchase. In a rare retail move (and without once removing his dark shades), my customer handed me glorious exact change.

  The cutie looked over with anticipation when he noticed my now shorter lane. He took a step in my direction when, out of nowhere, a trio of loud Jersey types beat him to the punch. Only one of them was purchasing anything, but the obnoxious group made my lane look extra crowded.

  “I know,” one of the women heaved out in a raspy smoker’s voice. “I would just die-yah if they had it—I’m tawkin’ flat out die-yah.”

  Then, like a killer block at the net to save the game, my boss walked up and pulled through.

  “We have that size of canvas panels you asked for in stock,” he told the trio. “It’ll be out in a few minutes if you want to wait for it.”

  The raspy-voiced woman was so excited, she did almost die-yah. Her painful attempt to squeal with delight threw her into a coughing fit. Once she recovered, the excited group christened the store manager a “dawll” as he led them down a side aisle.

  This time His Royal Hotness acted fast and moved to my lane just as I handed my outgoing customer his receipt. Yes! If daydreams could come true, I would jump over the Sharpie-marked counter into his waiting arms.

  For all my effort to come face-to-face with him, I didn’t think of anything clever to say to Mr. Crushtastic. I barely managed to greet him. He had such a quiet intensity that it felt like anything I said would’ve sounded silly. For one, he was as focused as I get when I’m on the court. Dude carefully examined each photo matting tool as he placed them on the counter. I recognized that need to concentrate on the details to get the job done right. I’m the same way when it comes to volleyball. And from what I could tell, this guy was heavy into his photography game.

  The safest thing for me to do was ring him up in silence. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious and wished I hadn’t worn my faded powder-blue jersey. It made my deep brown skin look totally washed out. Plus my Teyana Taylor thick, curly hair was wrestled into a messy ponytail as proof that I hadn’t consulted the mirror enough while I styled it.

  Fly Guy expected me to announce the grand total, but when I said nothing, he squinted at the glowing digital numbers on the register’s screen. Real smooth, London. I wanted to throw the lamp-shade lane sign over my head and pretend I was a fixture. But for some reason, he was the one who looked embarrassed enough for the both of us. Could I be making him nervous? I wondered.

  “Oh no,” he said to himself, barely loud enough for me to hear. His stone-serious face softened into a grimace. “I’m short two bucks,” he told me apologetically as he dug into his jeans pockets twice. “Uh … I could come back and pay you in two minutes, or I can just put something back and pick it up later …,” he rambled.

  “No, it’s okay,” I heard myself say. “It’s no biggie. I’ll just use a promotional code and that should cover it.” I made up what I was saying as I went along. Meanwhile, my internal conversation went something like: Why did I just decline his offers to swing by later? I just closed off my chance to see him again!

  “Thank you.” He paused, looking at me as if for the first time. My stomach flip-flopped. The paper shopping bag I’d packed crinkled as he bashfully picked it up. Apparently our sudden stillness (and the sound of the bag) signaled to the waiting customer that it was time to ring up his manga artist brush-pen set and drawing pad. He slapped them onto the counter.

  Nudged out, my crush turned away and walked out of the store.

  Like a game-ending buzzer to a losing team, the door chime announcing his exit put me in a slight funk.

  “Earth to London.” Pam waved her hands in front of my face. “Gurl, if you don’t hurry up …”

  I guess I had zoned out after the unidentified-fly-object-of-my-affection sighting.

  When I finally snapped out of it, I moved from behind the counter to follow Pam. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect—I needed to step out for a break.

  “I’ll tell you the highlight of my morning,” I answered, hoping my singsong voice piqued her curiosity. “This cu-TAY in chief got in my line when I was on register.”

  “Really, London?” Pam was touched, like I’d just handed her a bouquet of flowers. She couldn’t hide her excitement over my interest in someone other than unslick Rick. There was something about Rick that she hadn’t liked from the get-go. Pam has a sixth sense for these things and she picked up on Rick’s superficial stench almost immediately. He cared too much about appearances for Pam’s taste. That’s an ironic opinion coming from a fashion gearu like herself, but it’s more about her disgust over his obsession with status.

  Pam’s theory is that Rick only hangs with people he’s expected to hang out with. (This is unacceptable to a girl who learned at a tender age to ignore the stares her mixed-race family sometimes got when out in public.) Case in point: Last year, when Rick was a newbie freshman volleyballer, he started dating me, a fellow newbie volley-baller. As soon as Rick was crowned Peak Performance’s Top Athlete, he upgraded me for a star v-ball girlfriend. And ever since the Incident, Pam really can’t stand even talking about him.

  I for one am grateful Pam doesn’t care about status. She befriended me in my unpopular middle school days. And now that I’ve been branded the “jilted girlfriend,”
she’s just as supportive.

  “You should’ve seen your gurl acting all crazy, speeding through customers so Fly Guy could slide over to my faster line,” I confessed. “I still don’t know what got into me. It was like I had to meet him.”

  “What’s his name?” she asked the minute we claimed an unoccupied bistro table outside our favorite sandwich shop.

  I couldn’t conjure a juicy response if I’d wanted to. My involuntary facial expressions—primarily acted out by my dark, thick eyebrows—always snitch my true feelings. My eyebrows twitched and rose, then in the next millisecond, lowered. This reflex babbled to Pam that this was the end of my crush story. Nothing else to say.

  “Well, at least you now know there’s crush life after Rick,” she said before I could answer. “I’ll go in and grab our lunch.”

  “Let me know if you need help carrying it out,” I offered.

  It had been only two weeks, but this was getting to be our Saturday afternoon ritual. And what made this ritual extra nice was finding a sweet lunch spot where we could people watch. For November it was a relatively warm day. Sitting in the sun would help us stay warm after we downed our cold soft drinks.

  It was a great day for people watching. Lots of modely types were walking the Ave for some reason. The skater dudes hanging out near Starbucks were happy about that. Their jumps got riskier and more helter-skelter every time a group of girls walked by.

  “It’s mad busy out here,” I commented as Pam and I ate. “I wonder what’s going on today.”

  Sometimes, if the new bookstore was hosting an author signing, or if a performance at the arts center around the corner was poppin’ off, there would be more foot traffic than usual. Pam shrugged and spotted someone interesting.

  “He stays forever framed out,” she said of the guy walking by in white-rimmed shades. For the many times we’d run into him, we’d never seen his eyes—rain or shine. “Lookin’ like Kanye West in that ole ‘Stronger’ video,” Pam continued.

  “I’m sayin’,” I agreed.

  “Ooooh, come with me to Cynthea Bey’s store,” Pam pleaded, as if in response to something she told herself in her mind. She checked the time on her cell phone. “I wanna see what she came up with for the winter season.”

  Cynthea Bey had opened Chic Boutique—a cool warehouse space showcasing local and popular designer labels—a little over two months ago. Pam, the Cynthea groupie, had visited almost every week. I think she was stalking so she could one day cross paths with the supermodel. Despite her unlucky timing, Pam continued to have hope.

  “We’ve got twenty-five minutes before I have to be back,” I warned Pam. She’s an overscheduling freak if you don’t rein her in.

  She hadn’t even swallowed all of her food, but she stood up and threw away the rest of her sandwich and baby carrots. If I wasn’t such a fast eater and hadn’t already been done with my turkey baguette, there’s no way I would have been leaving with her.

  By the time we turned the corner toward Chic Boutique, the sight of a long line snaking from the store to the sidewalk twisted our faces into WTF grimaces.

  “Are they giving away free clothes or something? What’s with that crazy long line?” I asked out loud, but more to myself than to Pam. The last thing I felt like doing was dealing with a bunch of maniacal girls all vying for the same size-four jeans.

  Pam and I stood staring in a paralyzed pause, reading the large pink storefront sign’s swirly letters: CASTING CALL TODAY: 15 JERSEY GIRLS WILL BE SELECTED TO COMPETE FOR THE CHANCE TO BECOME THE CHIC BOUTIQUE MODEL IN OUR IN-STORE PRINT ADS!

  It was clear that Cynthea Bey was out to prove that New Jersey could bleed style like New York. Good for her, I thought.

  “I’ve seen enough.” I tried to snap Pam out of her daze. I could tell she was excited. Nothing this huge had happened in Teawood since the year before when Jay-Z and Beyoncé were spotted buying iced coffees at the corner café. “Let’s get out of here. I’m starting to catch a Rachel Zoe–clone contact high.” Pam didn’t respond. “Quick, before I break out in an ‘ohmygod’ attack—or worse, break out in song.” Still no response. “My humps. My humps. My lovely lady lumps.”

  Pam finally blinked; then she laughed at my rendition. “I’m sorry, this must be torture for you. I’ll come back when this all blows over.”

  That’s when I saw him. The hottie customer from Art Attack was just a few yards from me. He was talking to girls in the outdoor casting line. Even though most guys would love to have been in his position, it didn’t seem like he was trying to hit on anyone. Instead, he looked professional—snapping digital shots of each contestant, then attaching printed photos onto forms he collected from every girl.

  “That’s him, that’s him!” I whisper-screamed. Pam knew right away what and whom I was talking about. She followed the direction of my gaze to the object of my obsess—, er, affection.

  He was as tall and calm as an oak tree. I wondered if that made me a pesky squirrel foraging for an acorn of his attention. It was nice to see him looking more relaxed than he had looked in Art Attack, where he’d gotten all bashful about coming up short. His former pocket-digging hands were now carrying a clipboard and a tiny camera. He pulled one of those cool portable photo printers from his back pocket.

  The official-looking lanyard hanging around his neck confirmed that he wasn’t loitering here to check out the girls. It also nicely topped off his intrepid reporter look. The only thing missing was a newsboy cap.

  “What’s he doing?” Pam asked.

  Loverboy was holding his finger in the air, counting the heads of every girl in line outside. As he counted his way down and got closer to Pam and me, I was able to make out what was written in all caps on his lanyard: BRENT ST. JOHN, WWW.FACEMAG.COM, PHOTOGRAPHY INTERN.

  That was when he reached us. He was mumbling numbers under his breath as he pointed at me and then finally Pam. “Twenty, twenty-one” I heard him say before he turned around and headed back to the first girl he had counted at the entrance of Chic Boutique. It seemed that there were also people standing inside the store who were being grouped in a separate head count.

  “He thinks we’re in line for this casting,” I complained to Pam. How did this happen? I blamed it on the mesmerizing fuchsia storefront sign. We’d gotten caught up when we stood there frozen to read it. Now our absentmindedness had made Fly Guy confused.

  “This is a sign.” A sudden gust of autumn wind blew Pam’s flyaway strands into the sides of her mouth as she spoke excitedly. “You have to give him your number or something. Who knows if you’ll ever meet him again? Much less twice in one day!”

  He was about ten girls away from where we stood at the end of the line. I had to think fast. I had messed up the first time he and I were face-to-face. There had to be some way to strike up a conversation with him.

  My inner scheming led me to the stack of applications jammed into a plastic brochure holder standing outside the door.

  I grabbed one.

  Pam knew where I was headed with this so she dug deep into her purse and furnished a pen. In the next hot minute, I was filling out the application as fast as I could.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  seat belt

  fakie

  1440

  invert

  comp

  lemon grab

  goofy

  jib

  biff

  shred

  betty

  sick

  steeze

  About the Author

  LOL at this sneak peek of Perfect Shot By Debbie Rigaud

 

 

 
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