by Liz Czukas
“Sammi’s trying to avoid Coupon Lady,” Tyson says.
“Oh.” Kris leans back as understanding dawns. He focuses on Sammi. “By stealing cookies?” Before she can answer, he shakes his head. “Never mind. Nobody’s taking the cookies. I need somebody to go for carts.”
Sammi’s hand shoots in the air. “I volunteer as tribute!”
I laugh. Loud. Loud enough to startle a few customers and make me slap my hand over my mouth.
Kris cocks an eyebrow at me, but responds to Sammi. “You know it started snowing out there?”
“Don’t care.”
“More like sleeting.”
“Don’t care.” Sammi unties her apron and thrusts it at Kris. “I’ll be back.”
My hands, which are still blindly passing groceries over the scanner, bump into the plastic divider at the end of the order. I look up into the annoyed face of a customer.
“Hi there! Did you find everything you were looking for today?”
“Yeah.” She sticks out her hand, a credit card tweezed between two fingers.
Red-faced, I hit the total button, already trying to jam the card through the reader.
“Chloe.” Kris calls from the end of the lane. “Break time.”
“Now?” This is earlier than I expected, but at least I won’t get Coupon Lady.
“Yeah. Now.” He keys the mic on his walkie-talkie. “Gabe, I need you on lane six. ASAP.” There’s a crackly response from Gabe, and Kris points at me. “When he gets here, take your ten minutes, okay?” He’s gone before I can even respond.
“I’ve never seen Kris this stressed out,” I say.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him work this hard,” Tyson says with a grin.
While I wait for Gabe, I start on the next customer. It’s one of our regulars, though when I greet her she doesn’t seem to recognize me. Very self-esteem building, this job.
Gabe squeezes past the cart at Zaina’s register and invades my tiny square of personal space. “Greetings,” he announces. “Now get out.”
“Real nice, Gabe.” I frown at him, flicking my eyes toward my customer. This regular is not exactly renowned for her forgiving nature.
Gabe turns on the charm like a switch. “Mrs. Hudson, I didn’t see you there!” he says. “Happy holidays!”
Mrs. Hudson smiles for the first time since I laid eyes on her. “Gabe!” she says. “I didn’t know you were on today.”
Gabe sighs and shakes his head. “Sadly, I’m just the backup this morning, but as luck would have it, I’m here to relieve Chloe right this very instant.”
“That is lucky,” she says. Mrs. Hudson has to be in her mid-to-late forties. I’ve never seen her in anything but high-end workout clothes, and her purchases are as predictable as her yoga pants: fresh fruit, Vitamin Water, this organic brand of cereal that looks from the picture like it might actually be made from wood chips and seeds, and fat-free yogurt.
Even on Christmas Eve. Ho ho ho!
Overhead, the PA fades out “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and transitions into “Holly Jolly Christmas.” I cringe. This one might have to go on my least-favorites list.
“Go ’head, Chloe,” Gabe says, nudging me with his shoulder.
“Let me just—” I start to protest. We’re supposed to always finish with the current customer and log out of the register when we go on break.
“I’ll log you out. Just go.”
I give him a look.
“Seriously, I got this. Take your break. I’ve got a bunch of other people to relieve after you. Go.”
Holding my hands up in resignation, I squeeze past the cart to my right, trying my hardest not to dislodge the little boy standing on the end with his arms hanging over the basket. The cart bumps into the sidewall, though, and he sticks his tongue out at me. It’s hard not to do the same back at him, but instead, I smile. Little does he know it’s my “go jump in a lake” smile.
Still I don’t leave. I’m watching Gabe to make sure he logs me out when he finishes with Mrs. Hudson.
Kris walks by with his walkie-talkie in hand. “Chloe, you can leave the floor when you’re on break. That’s kind of the point.” He winks at me. “Tyson, I need you to go out and do carts.”
“But Sammi just went.”
“Apparently, it’s bad out there. Can you please go help her?”
“What about—?” Tyson points at the long line of people still waiting for Gabe to check them out.
“Gabe’s going to have to check and bag,” Kris says, already moving on to his next thing. I feel bad for him. This is definitely not his kind of day.
Tyson waits until Kris is out of earshot, then looks at me. “You and I both know that Gabe cannot check and bag.”
This is true.
THINGS GABE ROSSI IS GOOD AT
1. Being charming.
2. Flirting with the middle-aged yoga moms.
3. Playing basketball—according to him.
4. Getting the credit-card scanner to work even when no one else can seem to make it read.
THINGS GABE ROSSI IS NOT GOOD AT
1. Getting to work on time.
2. Bagging groceries.
3. Working the register and bagging groceries at the same time.
4. Not flirting with middle-aged yoga moms.
“Maybe carts can wait until I get back from my break,” I suggest. “I can check and bag while you go out.”
“Maybe.” Tyson steps back to squint toward the front of the store, where the carts are stored. Or, where they would be stored, if there were any. “It doesn’t look good.”
“I’ll bag for you.” I’m already reaching for the next item to come down the conveyor. Incidentally, Mrs. Hudson’s Vitamin Water.
“Kris might get mad if you stay on the floor.”
“Then I’ll go get carts,” I decide.
Tyson looks at me from the corner of his eye. “No offense, but, you?”
“Hey, I could do it!” I strike a body-builder pose, realizing too late it’s going to make me look even geekier than usual.
Tyson chuckles, tipping his head down to look at me over the rims of his glasses.
“It would be more impressive if I didn’t have this thermal on.” I pluck at the sleeve of the gray thermal shirt I put on under my red holiday GoodFoods T-shirt. It’s too cold to spend the day in short sleeves.
“It would be more impressive if there was anything under that thermal,” Tyson teases, squeezing my nonexistent bicep.
I bite my lip, startled by the contact. Please don’t blush, please don’t blush, I beg my body.
Tyson pulls his hand back and drums it against his leg. “You should go before Kris comes back.”
“I’m getting carts,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“No. I’ll do it.” Just because I’ve never gotten carts before doesn’t mean I can’t do it, right? How hard can it be?
I code my way into the Break Room and get my coat and gloves from my locker, knocking my lunch bag to the floor in the process. I’m supposed to have a snack during my break, but I’m determined to help Tyson. So I reach blindly into the bag and come out with a stick of string cheese. Good old Mom. I can get it down with two bites. It should hold me for a while.
My apron sticks out from beneath my jacket when I zip it up, making me feel stupid for not taking it off. None of the people who regularly go out for carts have their aprons poking out beneath their jackets. Oh well.
Outside, the weather hits me like a brick wall. Kris wasn’t kidding. There is something falling from the sky, but it can’t seem to decide if it’s rain or snow. My shoes squelch in the dark-gray slop splattered all over the blacktop.
I spot Sammi working at one of the cart corrals. She has the little red machine that powers all the carts in a long train back to the building. I dart around a few cars cruising for spots and call out to her.
“I’m here to help!”
“You?” she asks. “Why did Kris send you?”
“He didn’t. I’m supposed to be on break. But it’s crazy in there. No one else can come.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go on break?”
“I don’t mind.” I really don’t. I always feel singularly useless on my required breaks. They never come at a time when I could actually use one. I’d rather just work straight through and get the day over with.
Sammi braces her foot against a particularly stubborn pair of carts and wrestles one free. “Was Tyson supposed to come out?”
My ears get hot, and a trickle of melting sleet drizzles down my neck. I hope the cold covers up my involuntary blushing. “Yeah, but he’s gotta bag for Gabe.”
Sammi snorts. “No kidding. Gabe needs all the help he can get.”
“So, what should I do?”
She arches one dark eyebrow until it nearly disappears under her platinum swoop of bangs, now matted to her forehead with precipitation. “I usually go with: get the carts.”
“Okay.” No need to get nasty, I think. I should say it, but I’ve never been one for confrontation. Even less so since we moved and I lost Eva. Although not making waves hasn’t been all that effective as a friend-making strategy, if I think about it.
Leaving Sammi at the crowded cart corral, I decide to try the next one down the same parking row. It’s farther out, and has fewer carts in it. Probably a good place to start for my first time.
There are huge, sloppy puddles of slush around the corral, and icy water oozes through the eyelets at the bottom of my Converse All-Stars. But that’s barely noticeable compared to how badly my nose is running. This is not a glamorous job, and I’m not sorry I’ve never done it before.
I get a short train of carts going. It’s not bad at first, but once there are four of them linked, the weight becomes a serious force to be reckoned with. By the time I’ve gathered all seven, I can’t move them.
“Sammi!” I shout. There’s no way I’ll get these back to her on my own. “Sammi!”
She doesn’t hear me.
I don’t want to walk away from my effort, especially since the linked carts are partially blocking the neighboring car.
“Sammi!” I try again.
No response.
All right. I have to figure this out. Stepping back a few feet, I gather myself with a quick breath, then take a running start. My hands hit the plastic handle of the last cart, jarring my arms up through my elbows, but the train moves! I let out a triumphant “Ha!” and drive my feet into the pavement, leaning into the inertia of the carts with everything I’ve got.
Now that they’re in motion, it’s a little easier. I get them past two cars before the trouble starts.
I’ve been staring at the ground, head bent into the effort, and when I look up, I see that the lead cart is no longer directly in front of me. It’s taken a distinct right turn, like a drunk leading a conga line. In fact, it’s headed straight for a parked car, with the weight of the six carts behind it joining in the effort.
“No!” I shout, pulling up to an abrupt stop. All I succeed in doing, though, is loosening the last cart from the line. I try to run ahead and grab the leader, but I’m too late.
With a sickening crunch, the carts ram into the bumper of a silver Toyota.
My hands fly up to my mouth. Footsteps come toward me and suddenly Sammi is there, yanking on the carts.
“What did you do?” she hisses.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t—”
“Jesus, Chloe! Look at this!”
The corner of the bumper is cracked, as though a giant child has picked it up and casually tapped it on the ground.
“Oh my God!” Tears sting the back of my eyes.
“Come on! Get it together.” Sammi gives the train of carts another huge tug and suddenly they’re back on a straight path. She looks around the lot quickly. “Go to the back. Push!”
“What?”
“Push!” she shouts.
“But—”
“Damn, Chloe, would you just frigging push?!”
I scurry back, still sniffling, and once again hurl myself at the carts to get them rolling. Sammi pulls on the lead cart until we have all seven past the train she already constructed. Together we muscle the carts into line, getting them connected to the front of the red Mule.
She has me hold the last one in place while she stretches out a long bungee cord to lash them all together.
“Now we go inside,” she says.
“What about the car?”
“Look.” Her gloved finger extends to the large white sign presiding over the cart corral. Under the friendly, green letters that spell out Please return your carts here! are smaller, more businesslike black letters that read, GoodFoods Market is not responsible for damage caused to vehicles by shopping carts.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sammi says.
“But it’s my fault. I am responsible.”
She rolls her eyes and flips the switch on the Mule’s remote to start the long train moving toward the store’s entrance. I hurry to keep up as she walks alongside the front of the train, occasionally pushing or pulling on one of the carts to redirect the line.
“Shouldn’t I at least tell Kris?” I ask.
“No, you definitely shouldn’t,” she responds. “There are big signs all over the parking lot that say we’re not responsible for anything that happens out here.”
“That just means if other people damage their cars, we can’t do anything about it.”
“You weren’t even supposed to be here. So, guess who’s going to get blamed?” She glares at me and jerks her thumb toward her chest. “Me. I was on cart duty. And you’ll probably get your precious little boyfriend, Tyson, in trouble, too. Is that what you want?”
“No!” I shake my head hard enough to make my glasses slide down my nose. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Whatever. Do yourself a favor and forget about it.” She guides the carts through the small opening at the front of the store. The onslaught of wintery rain/snow lessens now that we’re near the building.
I swipe at my forehead to stop more water from drizzling behind my glasses. “What if whoever owns the car reports the damage?”
“Then Kris’ll tell them the same thing he tells everybody: ‘we are not responsible for any damage to cars in the parking lot.’”
“What about the security cameras?”
Sammi shrugs. “There are two, and they only cover about a third of the lot. There’s a big blind spot where we were. Nobody saw anything. You’ll be fine. Just keep your mouth shut.” She pulls the Mule free of the cart conga line and starts steering it toward the entrance.
My stomach rolls. “I don’t know about this.”
She cocks her head at me. “If you’re going to freak out, they’re definitely going to know you did it. Are you going to freak out?”
I consider the question. It certainly feels like I could freak out. In fact, I might already be freaking out. I’m afraid to speak, so I just nod.
Sighing, Sammi says, “Stay here.” She guides the Mule back into the store and a few seconds later she’s back, grabbing me by the elbow and heading out into the sloppy parking lot once more.
“What are we doing?” I ask. We’re in the aisle where the damaged car is parked. I wonder if we’re going to take down the license number, or maybe leave a note. The idea both terrifies and relieves me.
“We’re going for cigarettes.”
“What?”
She digs in her coat pocket and comes up with a small orange box. “I’m almost out. I need smokes; you need a break.”
“But I’m already on break. . . .”
“Not that kind of break. Come on.”
I don’t even realize where we’re headed until we’re almost at the small line of bare shrubs between the parking lot and the sidewalk.
“We’re not supposed to leave on break,” I say.
“Good thing we’re not on break, then,”
Sammi says, and steps between two of the knee-high bushes. She’s still holding my elbow, so I don’t have much of a choice but to follow her.
“Where are we going?”
“Just across the street.” She pauses at the curb to let a herd of cars rush by. The tires kick up slush, spattering our jeans from the knees down, but it hardly matters given how soaked we already are.
There’s a break in the traffic, and Sammi darts into the road. I don’t realize she’s let go of my arm until I find myself running after her. I have no idea why I’m going along on this errand. Sammi and I aren’t exactly friends.
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED ABOUT SAMMI (FROM A SERIOUS DISTANCE)
1. She must get her hair cut all the time, because she wears a kind of pixie cut with a long sweep of bangs, and her hair never gets long enough to cover her ears.
2. She laughs a lot, but always in these sharp hehs that remind me of a car that won’t start.
3. The only person I see her talk to regularly at work is Gabe, which is weird because I can’t figure out what they could possibly have in common.
4. The first time I met her, I thought she was a boy until she started talking.
5. She scares me a little. It has nothing to do with mistaking her for a boy. There’s just something about her. Like maybe she can’t stand me.
Yet here we are, jogging across the tarmac of a gas station to the convenience store. Sammi pushes the door open and we walk inside. She takes a deep breath and exhales with a grin. “Don’t you love the smell of overcooked hot dogs in the morning?”
I look at her, trying to decide if she’s joking. I think she is. “I prefer congealed nacho-cheese scent, myself.”
She lets out one of those trademark heh! laughs and heads for the front of the store. The clerk finishes with his current customer, then whirls around to silence an alarm coming from a display behind him. The gesture looks practiced and unconcerned. I squint at the display, and realize it’s the control panel for the gas pumps. I hope that wasn’t the bad kind of alarm.
“Any gas?” he asks Sammi when she leans on the counter.
“Nope. American Spirit, organic mellow,” she says. “It’s the orange pack.”
“I know which pack it is,” he snaps, reaching up to the hidden rack of cigarettes over the glass partition.