by Liz Czukas
My body tenses, waiting for him to card her. I don’t think Sammi is eighteen yet, though that’s just another factoid I could add to a long list of things I don’t know about her.
Sammi digs a small collection of wadded bills out of her pocket. The clerk gives us the eye as he straightens out the bills, but the money’s all there and he never asks for ID.
“You need anything?” she asks me, tipping her head toward the counter.
“I don’t smoke,” I say.
One of her dark eyebrows lifts. “They do sell other things, you know.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Done freaking out?”
“Um . . .” This is a good question. At the moment, I’m so distracted by leaving work without notice and standing around all awkward while Sammi buys cigarettes illegally, that I’ve kind of forgotten about the cart incident. Which I suppose was her point.
Suddenly, Sammi’s already-pale face goes a shade whiter and her permasmirk drops. “Oh shit!” she whispers, looking over my shoulder.
“What?”
Without explaining, she grabs a fistful of my coat and drags me away from the counter. I stumble behind her past the rolling hot-dog cooker, the congealing vat of nacho cheese, and the soda machine. She hauls me all the way to the end of the first aisle and around the corner, then drops to a crouch between a display of motor oil and the cold-drink cases. I nearly fall on top of her, and gasp when my knee smacks the ground.
“Sammi! What the hell?”
“Shh!” She gives me a stern look and whips her hand up to make the shushing gesture. “Kris is here,” she says in a voice so quiet, it’s barely more than a breath with shape.
My eyes nearly fall out of my head. Does he know about the car in the parking lot? Oh God, I’m going to be arrested on Christmas Eve!
Sammi’s got her head tilted up and I follow her gaze to find one of those huge convex mirrors that shows the clerk a warped view of the entire store. Near the register, I can make out a person with dark hair, like Kris, but I can’t be sure that it’s him with the fun-house effect of the mirror. At the bottom of the curve, there are two humanish blobs. The only clue as to who we are is Sammi’s platinum-blond hair. It’s like a beacon of light against the dark display of car products behind us. My own hair—normally a standout being red—is so darkened by the slushy rain that it looks more brown in the reflection. Sammi must be thinking the same thing, because she gropes at her coat until she gets the hood up and over her hair.
“What’s he doing here?” I whisper.
“How should I know?”
I watch his every move, certain he’s going to march straight down the aisle to grab us and drag us back to work. Or possibly to jail. It’s so hot in the store, and the smell of overcooked microwave burrito is intense back here. Sweat prickles in my armpits, and I want to unzip my coat, but I don’t dare move.
Sammi’s mouth is moving. I realize she’s murmuring, “Don’t look at me, don’t look at me,” which is oddly something of a relief. I would have pictured her being cool and calm. But she’s as nervous as I am.
Of course, at that moment, the alarm on my watch goes off. It’s my snack reminder. The tiny electronic beeps sound like the wailing alarm in a prison-escape movie to my ears. I expect searchlights to scan the convenience store for us.
I scramble with my coat sleeve to get my wrist free and squeeze all the buttons on the watch at once, trying to shut it off.
“Jesus Christ, Chloe,” Sammi hisses.
“I’m sorry!”
We both check the mirror to see Kris on the move. I suck in a breath and prepare myself for capture. But he just heads for the door, setting off a soft bong, bong chime somewhere in the store as he goes out into the wet weather once more.
Relief makes me crumple over, hands on my knees.
“Oh my God, that was close.” I sigh.
Sammi barks out a couple short laughs. “Oh, man.”
“What are you doing back there, girlies?” the clerk shouts, craning to see us in the mirror. “No shoplifting! I’ll call the police!”
“I already bought something, remember?” Sammi says, standing up and waggling her pack of American Spirits in the air. “I’m a paying customer!”
“You buy something else, or you go,” he declares.
“Jeez, what a dick,” she mutters.
“Go now,” the clerk says, pointing at the door.
She opens her mouth, but I cut her off.
“We’re going.” This time it’s my turn to take Sammi by the elbow and lead the way outside.
My nerves can’t take any more of this. I have to get back to GoodFoods and find out if the owner of the car I hit is going to send me to jail for the rest of my life. Or call my mother.
I’m not sure which would be worse.
Chapter 4
TOP TEN THINGS MY MOTHER CAN NEVER EVER FIND OUT ABOUT
10. That it was me who broke the crystal champagne flutes.
9. That David used to let me drive before I had my license.
8. That I wasn’t sick on the day of tryouts for the marching band—I just didn’t want to be in the band again.
7. That Eva’s mom used to buy us tickets to R-rated movies when I said we were going to PG-13 ones.
6. That I really hate her sugar-free cookies.
5. That Eva hasn’t called me in two months, so I don’t think we’re friends anymore.
4. That sometimes when I tell her I’m meeting some people from school, I just go to a coffee shop and read my book for a few hours so she doesn’t think I’m a friendless loser.
3. That our old neighbors’ nephew once offered me five dollars if I’d show him my boobs, and I might have done it if his mom hadn’t come into the backyard then.
2. That I got pulled over for speeding and claimed my insulin pump was running low to get out of the ticket.
1. That I crashed a bunch of carts into a parked car at work and didn’t tell anyone.
Before we even reach the road, I notice the news van. It’s from one of the local stations, and it’s parked in the fire lane at the front of the store.
My first thought, of course, is that the customer whose car I hit called Action12 to come down here and kick some butt. On further reflection, it seems unlikely that would be anyone’s first step.
“What do you think that’s about?” Sammi asks.
“Not sure.” But in my head I’m already composing a list.
POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS FOR THE LOCAL NEWS AT GOODFOODS
1. One of those lame stories about the retail rush before Christmas.
2. A lottery winner bought their ticket at this store.
3. We’ve been reported to Action12 for some kind of health violation.
4. There’s been a major recall on something, like chicken, beef, or baby formula.
5. The president of the United States dropped by for some eggnog.
I admit some are likelier than others.
I lead Sammi back down the aisle where I hit the car, and to my immense relief, the car’s gone.
Gone!
It would still be here if the owner had gone back in to report the damage, right? Am I seriously in the clear?
“Look.” I nudge Sammi. “The car’s not here anymore.”
“Told you it was no big deal.”
“I still feel bad about it.”
“Obviously they don’t,” she says.
“I guess.”
“No point in freaking out, anyway. It’s not like you wrote down the license-plate number. You can’t do anything about it now.”
She’s right. But I do remember the numbers and the first two letters. I think.
Inside the store, Sammi and I take a moment to shake the excess water from our coats and blot our faces before stepping off the black industrial mats the store puts down in the winter.
“Thanks, Sammi,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just as long as you’re not going to ge
t me in trouble.”
Hopefully, that translates to You’re welcome.
We pass through the second set of doors and right away it’s clear where the news crew is. There is a crowd gathered near Customer Service, with a boom mic extended over everyone’s heads. There’s also a big camera with a bright light attached to the top.
“What the hell?” Sammi wonders.
“I don’t know.”
The entrance to the Break Room is right behind the Customer Service desk, so we have to approach the mob. Nothing like the possibility of being on camera to make you self-conscious. I pat the top of my head, thinking I’ll smooth my wind-frazzled hair, but it’s so wet there’s no point. Great. With any luck they’ll want to interview me and I’ll be captured for all eternity looking like I just got pulled out of a river.
As I’m reaching for the door, Kris opens it and we all jump back in surprise. He catches the door before it closes again.
“What happened to you?” he asks me.
“I went outside for a few minutes.” That’s true, anyway.
“What’s all that about?” Sammi asks, jerking her thumb in the direction of Customer Service.
“It’s that charity thing, I think.” He rubs his temple distractedly.
Oh yeah. You’d think I could have put that together considering the fluorescent-green Christmas Eve memos tacked up all over the Break Room.
“Are we supposed to do anything?” I ask.
“Smile, smile, smile!” he says with a big, cheesy one of his own.
Sammi grits her teeth. “Smiling’s my favorite!”
Kris laughs, a much more typical expression of easy humor sliding over his face for a second. “Well, then today’s your lucky day!”
Sammi rolls her eyes again and I follow her into the Break Room, already working my coat off. I have to get my register back from Gabe before he does something irreparable to my totals.
Sammi doesn’t say anything to me as she stashes her coat in her locker and heads back to the floor. Just when I thought I might have broken the ice.
At least I learned one thing about her—she smokes some weird brand of cigarettes I’ve never heard of. That’s one down, two to go for my first goal for the day. And so far, I haven’t written down any lists. I’m doing pretty well.
Back out in the store, the district manager, Mr. Solomon, is in front of the cameras with some people I don’t recognize. They’re talking and laughing in that fake way people do when they’re humoring someone.
By my calculation, about thirty percent of adulthood is pretending to like people you actually couldn’t care less about.
“Hey!” Tyson says as I move up the lane to take my place at register six. “You all right?”
“Carts are in.” Never mind the state of the cars in the parking lot.
His face lights up. “Thank you! You’re a lifesaver.”
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.” And don’t thank me. I could have gotten all of us in trouble.
Gabe relinquishes my register and moves over one to give Zaina her break. I try to smile at her, but she’s watching the crowd near Customer Service.
A woman wearing a fleece vest and cargo pants with a headset and a clipboard is moving along the ends of the registers. When she reaches Zaina’s lane, she marches up to the register with her hand already stuck out for shaking.
“Hi! I’m Connie. I’m a producer for WACJ. We’re going to put a few employees in the shot for when Gene opens the box. We’d like you to be one of those people.”
“Me?” Zaina looks confused.
“Uh-huh!” Connie puts her hand on Zaina’s back and gives her a little shove toward the crowd.
Of course they’d pick her. Who wouldn’t want the beautiful girl in the picture? I push my glasses up my nose and feel the squelching in my wet shoes as I shift my feet. I am so not going to get picked.
“You too, okay?” Connie says in her syrupy voice to Tyson.
“Me?” he echoes Zaina’s response.
“Uh-huh!” she chirps again.
Tyson looks at me. “You okay to bag for yourself?”
I nod. “You bet. Go ahead.” Which, if he were psychic, he would know meant, Kiss me.
I get through two customers before the commotion at the Customer Service desk pulls my attention again. It’s pulled everyone’s attention, I realize, looking down the row of registers. Now that some people have moved out of the way for the camera, I can see exactly what the producer was up to. She “randomly” picked Zaina, who is Middle Eastern (maybe); Tyson, who is black; Agnes, who is older than dirt; a stocker named Miguel, who is Mexican; an older checker named Tasha, who is also black; and a woman from Bakery, who is one of those all-American types with blond hair and blue eyes. I feel like I’m looking at a college brochure: Look how diverse our student population is! Look, here are some brown people lounging in the quad together! It’s embarrassing.
I wonder how the “randomly” chosen feel about this. Is that the sort of thing I can ask Tyson? It’s so hard to tell what’s a good conversation starter and what’s my inability to stop babbling.
The producer also seems to be keeping the more colorfully dressed customers out of the shot. It’s Christmas Eve, so of course there are people in Santa hats, ugly Christmas sweaters—some ironic, some definitely not ironic—and light-up jewelry, but they’re really nothing compared to what people normally wear.
People seem to think they’re invisible in the grocery store. Like it’s just an oversized extension of their houses. I’m not sure why. I mean, they have to get in the car and drive here, don’t they? They should be fully aware they’re going out in public. But based on months of observation, it seems clear to me that the vast majority of people really have no clue.
TOP TEN WEIRDEST CLOTHING ITEMS SEEN ON GOODFOODS CUSTOMERS
10. Pajamas. And not just pajama pants and a T-shirt. I’m talking nightgowns, slippers, and/or robes.
9. Boxer shorts. This one seems to be perpetrated only by high-school girls, but I’ve definitely seen it.
8. Offensive T-shirts. I’m all for freedom of speech, so I’m not talking about shirts that might be controversial. I’m talking about plain disgusting things, like Show me your boobs. That’s not even an opinion. It’s just gross.
7. Costumes. This is probably my favorite on the list. Mostly occurs at Halloween, but can happen anytime. It’s not just kids, either. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a grown man dressed as a nun buying a case of beer.
6. Inappropriate hats. Not offensive hats, but hats that don’t seem to “go” with the rest of a person’s outfit. For example, a man in a tracksuit and a cowboy hat.
5. Hip-waders. Meaning the rubber overalls that fishermen wear to stand in a river. I can’t imagine what that guy thought he was going to encounter in the store that would require hip-waders, but there he was. Ironically, he bought frozen fish sticks.
4. Workout clothes. I get that it’s pretty much acceptable to wear your gym gear out in the world, but most of the time, people cover up a little bit. I sold a bottle of water and a pack of gum to a woman in a sports bra and tiny bike shorts a few months ago. It was about thirty-five degrees outside.
3. A hospital gown. Actually, this was one of the most understandable incidents, because the guy had been in a car accident and was stopping at the store on the way home from the hospital to get his prescription filled at the store pharmacy. He told me his shirt got ruined and this was all they had for him to wear. At least he had pants on.
2. Obvious undergarments. I thought the trend of letting your thong show out the top of your pants was over until I started working at GoodFoods. The worst offender was an obviously male patron—he had a beard, an Adam’s apple, and a deep baritone voice—wearing a bra. I saw it right though his T-shirt. It was dark, maybe purple or navy blue, and I could even see the little bow in the middle. There is no reasonable explanation.
1. No underwear. I haven’t been subje
cted to this awfulness since it got cold out, but over the summer there was more than one incident where women came in wearing a short dress—short enough to be a shirt, really—and managed to give me a flash of their—ahem—assets while unloading their carts. Were these swimsuit cover-ups and they just didn’t want to leave wet butt prints on the upholstery in their cars? I hoped so, but then why stop and do a week’s worth of grocery shopping?
People are truly weird.
Connie, the industrious producer, has managed to usher the man in the Birkenstocks, black socks, and bare legs poking out of his parka to the side, along with a woman wearing a lacy bustier and a fur-trimmed miniskirt.
Mr. Solomon begins his speech. “We are so proud to once again be partnering with Full Hearts Full Plates to bring holiday meals to local families in need. Last year, GoodFoods raised over thirty thousand dollars for Full Hearts Full Plates, and I can tell you we are already on track to blow that number out of the water!” There is a smattering of applause, which the chosen employees join a little late. Their expressions range from rapturous (Agnes) to nervous (Zaina).
Mr. Solomon continues. “The generosity of our customers is unparalleled. It’s due to all of you”—he extends his arms to indicate all of the customers queued up at the registers—“that we are able to help those in need in our community.
“And now, without further ado, let’s get this year’s total added up!” He turns slightly, drawing my eye to the big wooden box that’s been sitting on the Customer Service counter since the day after Halloween.
It’s meticulously wrapped in pale-blue wrapping paper decorated with glittering white snowflakes. Even the inside of the slit in the top is covered. When Mr. Solomon spins it around, I notice that the panel in the back that opens the box is wrapped separately. This kind of attention to detail has Agnes written all over it.
Mr. Solomon produces a key and opens the padlock holding the panel shut. He chuckles softly. “I feel like Santa Claus!”
Personally, I don’t see how, but there is polite laughter from other people.