Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless

by Liz Czukas

  “My dad wants us to marry boys from other Lebanese families, but Layla likes to date American boys. And she—” Zaina stops and looks up at the boys for a moment, her chin tipping down at the same time. “She asked me to get her a pregnancy test while I was at work.”

  Micah gasps, and I find myself suppressing a laugh. It’s his reaction, not Zaina’s confession, that gets me. But I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her, so I snatch the bag of turkey off the table and shovel another pinch into my mouth even though I’m not hungry.

  “It took me all day just to work up the courage to go into that section of the store.” Her voice is so thick with tears, it’s hard to hear her. “I put it in my apron pocket and went back to work. I thought I could just wait until the end of my shift and then I’d scan it and pay for it. But I couldn’t make myself do it. It was too embarrassing.” She brings one slim hand up to her mouth. It’s shaking. “So I took it. I put it in my coat pocket and I tried to walk out of the store with it at the end of my shift.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Kris saw me do it.” Fresh tears run along the tracks already on her cheeks.

  “Did you get in trouble?” Micah asks.

  She shakes her head. “No. He asked me to empty my pockets, so I did, but when he saw what I had, he just . . . smiled at me. He told me he’d let it go, and I was so humiliated I took it and left.

  “Ever since then, he looks at me differently.” She wraps her arms around herself, eyes closed. “I know what he must think of me. The things he says . . .”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” Zaina whispers.

  “Z,” Tyson says softly. “It’s okay.” He covers her hand, still clenched on her shoulder, with his own. It’s only for a moment, but my chest feels tight, watching him.

  “Hey.” Sammi pulls our attention to her side of the table. She has her arms crossed and one ankle hooked on the opposite knee. The picture of disinterest, but her blue eyes are focused directly on Zaina.

  Zaina looks over slowly, cautiously.

  “Screw that,” Sammi says.

  “What?”

  “Screw feeling bad about it. You did what you had to do. It’s not your fault Kris is a big perv.” She rolls her eyes. “Men are pigs.”

  “Hey!” Gabe protests, but it’s weak.

  “I should have paid for it,” Zaina says. “I had the money, but it was too humiliating.”

  “Forget about it, okay?” Sammi says. “Put five bucks in your drawer next time you work. Then you don’t owe that bastard a thing. You can kick him in the nuts with a clear conscience.”

  “Oh, it was more than five,” Zaina says in all seriousness. “I took one of the digital ones. Did you know they cost twenty dollars?”

  Sammi tosses back her head, laughing. A real, full-on belly laugh, complete with shaking shoulders. It’s infectious, and soon we’re all cracking up.

  Everyone except Zaina. She’s smiling, though. It’s impossible not to. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” she says.

  “Oh, man.” Sammi wipes her eyes. “I don’t know why, but it makes me so happy that you went for the expensive kind.”

  Zaina blushes. “I wanted to make sure it worked.”

  That makes Sammi laugh even harder. “So, was she?”

  Zaina looks confused.

  “Your sister. Was she pregnant?”

  “No.” Relief floods her face. “I don’t know what she would have done. What my father would have done.”

  “Why haven’t you said anything before?” I ask. “About Kris, I mean.”

  “You all seem to like him so much.” She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  To be honest, I’m not sure how I would have reacted before today. It’s still hard to imagine Kris being all sleazy like that, but if I really think about it, I have seen him standing very close to her. Practically breathing down her shirt. I always assumed she liked the attention.

  I feel awful. There’s not much I can say to make it better, but I might as well give her a show of solidarity. I blurt out my own confession. “I crashed a bunch of carts into a car today.”

  “You did what?” Tyson demands.

  I expect Sammi to hush me, but she just says, “You definitely did.”

  I tell them the story. How I’d wanted to help, and ended up putting us all at risk. And how I’d been all cagey in Solomon’s office because I felt so guilty about it.

  “No wonder he’s so suspicious of us,” Gabe says.

  “I’m sure that’s not the only reason,” Tyson says. I expect him to give me a soothing pat on the hand like he did for Zaina, but none comes.

  “So that makes three criminals among us,” Sammi declares. “A thief”—she points to Zaina—“a vandal”—she points to me—“and a terrible cashier.” Her finger moves to Micah, which makes everyone laugh.

  “Might as well add me to the list,” Gabe says. “I kind of assaulted the bell ringer today.”

  Sammi turns to him with interest. “You what?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he says. “I was in Produce, which I hate, when Kris told me to go get carts. And I hate, hate, hate getting carts. I mean, I took the test to be a cashier mainly so I could avoid getting carts.”

  “Is there anything you don’t hate about working?” Tyson asks.

  Gabe ignores him and continues. “But I had to go because Sammi got hurt. So, actually, this is all your fault, Samantha.”

  “Bite me, Gabriel.”

  “Anyway, I get outside, and the guy is all ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.” He makes little circles with his head like the sound is making him dizzy. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m about ready to kill myself every time I hear that sound after the last two months. And it’s all nasty outside and nobody’s even stopping long enough to look at the idiot with the bell, much less put anything in his bucket. But there he is, wedged into the corner next to a garbage can. He’s not even close to the red bucket, but he’s still clanging away with the damn bell.”

  He moves his hand like he’s holding the bell. “Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. So I’m like, ‘Really, dude? Why don’t you just pack it in?’ He tells me his shift isn’t over, and I go, ‘Nobody’s gonna stop in weather like this.’ And he’s all, ‘I have a job to do.’”

  It’s amusing to watch Gabe tell the story since he turns his head back and forth to play each part.

  “So I get a bunch of carts, and it’s frigging disgusting out there, and everyone’s rushing so the carts are all a big tangled mess because nobody’s pushing them in all the way, and I can’t even use the Mule because it’s so slushy out there. . . .” He fades off into an annoyed huff.

  “Anyway, the whole time this guy is just going to town with the damn bell. Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching. It’s like I have a drill in my brain. I’m giving him dirty looks every time I go past, and this one time, he gives the bell a little extra ting-a-ling, so I know he’s being a dick to me on purpose. Then he starts doing it every time.

  “Four times, I pass this guy and he’s shaking his bell right at me like an asshole. And I hate doing carts, and I hate it even worse when it’s raining outside. The guy had to be stopped.”

  Everyone is leaning forward, waiting to hear what happens next.

  “So on my last trip in, I grab his bell and chuck it into the parking lot. And he’s all, ‘What the hell is your problem?’ and I’m like, ‘You are my problem!’ And he goes, ‘I ought to report you!’ but he’s out in the slush looking for his bell, so I’m just like, ‘It was an accident!’ all nice like that, and I push the carts in and then I’m gone.” He makes a speeding-off gesture with one hand.

  Sammi is doubled over with laughter by this time. “Oh. My. God. That is my favorite story of all time.”

  “I was pissed,” Gabe says defensively.

  “I wish I could see that on video!” she ho
wls.

  “That might be Top Ten All-Time material,” Tyson agrees.

  “You think?” I ask. “That would be a record, if we had two All-Time additions in one day.”

  “Three,” Gabe says. “Unless you’re somehow not counting the fact that we’ve been locked up in work detention for hours.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s pretty weird, too,” I agree.

  “Not to mention being accused of stealing,” Tyson adds.

  “It’s been a weird day.”

  “I cannot believe we are still sitting here,” Sammi says.

  “My parents must be going crazy,” Micah says. “I know they’re waiting to start Christmas Eve stuff until I get home.”

  “Mine, too,” I say. “I can’t wait to see my brother, too.”

  “Mine probably started without me,” Sammi says.

  “My parents are going to a cocktail party at the neighbor’s house tonight,” Gabe says. “They’re probably happy I’m not home so they don’t have to feel guilty about leaving me behind.”

  “Don’t you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

  “One of each. Both older. A lot older,” Gabe says. “My sister is spending Christmas with her husband’s family in Colorado this year, and my brother would rather be out with his friends anyway.”

  “So you’re going to be alone tonight?” Micah asks.

  “Probably.”

  “You can come to my house if you’d like,” Micah offers. “My parents always invite over people with nowhere to go on Christmas.”

  Gabe studies him for a second. “You know, I just bet they do.”

  “So, do you want to come?” Micah asks.

  “No. But thanks. It’s a nice offer.” Gabe shrugs, and brings his foot up to his seat so he can worry at the hole in his sneakers with one fingertip.

  No one says anything for a while, and I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.

  “I still don’t think we should have to be fingerprinted,” Sammi says.

  “I don’t really care at this point if it means we can get out of here,” Gabe says.

  “I think my fingerprints are already on file,” Micah says. “My parents had it done at a safety fair when I was younger.”

  “Do you think they’ll still look the same?” I wonder, turning over my hands to look at the whorls on my own fingertips.

  “Mine are on file, too,” Sammi says suddenly.

  I admit it. My thoughts go straight to all kinds of delinquency. I imagine Sammi with a can of spray paint in her hand, or behind the wheel of a car at age twelve. She fits easily into any of those pictures in my head.

  “All foster kids get printed,” she says. “It’s part of the deal.”

  “You’re a foster kid?” I ask.

  “No.” She looks down her nose at me. “I got adopted when I was eight.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I pull my lower lip between my teeth. Like I want to show her that my mouth is too busy to speak.

  “That’s cool,” Tyson says. “I’ve heard it’s tough for older kids to get adopted.”

  “I’ve lived with my parents since I was six,” she explains.

  “Do you like them?” Micah asks.

  Sammi shrugs. “They’re all right. They’re parents.”

  The desire to ask about her real parents burns on my tongue, but for once I’m able to keep quiet.

  “So, you’re kind of a cliché, aren’t you?” Gabe asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the foster kid with the chip on her shoulder.” He grins. “I like it.”

  “Shut up, Mr. Golden-Boy-Who-Can’t-Stand-Up-to-His-Father.”

  Gabe throws back his head, laughing. “Well played.”

  “So, what, that doesn’t bother you?” she says.

  “Nah.” He lifts an imaginary cup in one hand. “A toast to being royally screwed up. Thanks, Dad, I owe you one.”

  “You’re sick,” Sammi says.

  “You like it,” he replies. “Now come on, don’t leave me hanging.” He gestures with his invisible cup.

  Sammi eyes him, but slowly raises a pretend cup of her own and bumps her curved fingers against his. “Clink,” she says.

  “Anyone else?” Gabe asks, looking around the table at us.

  “I’m not screwed up,” Micah says.

  “Oh, yes, you are,” Gabe says. “You don’t even know how to have a normal conversation with other human beings.”

  “I don’t?” Micah looks horrified.

  “Definitely not.” Sammi leans across the table with her imaginary cup still held aloft. “But on you, it works.”

  Micah’s expression is decidedly kicked-puppylike, but he lifts his hand, mimicking her position. “All right.”

  “You too,” she says to Zaina.

  “Why me?”

  “Anyone who is too embarrassed to buy a pregnancy test on her own register is definitely screwed up,” Sammi says.

  Zaina flushes, but raises her hand.

  “Both of you.” Gabe looks at me and Tyson. “Hands.”

  “What did we do?” I ask.

  “You”—he points at me with his noncup hand—“had a mental breakdown over putting a ding in someone’s car because you can’t figure out how to flirt like a normal human being. And you”—he points at Tyson—“you’re so normal, you’re obviously sick in the head.”

  My heart pounds in my ears. He didn’t say Tyson’s name, but you’d have to be an idiot not to know what he’s talking about. My head is going to burst into flames. But I all I manage to whisper is, “Shut up, Gabe.”

  “Oh, please,” Sammi says, insisting with her fake cup, “get in this thing already.”

  “What the hell,” Tyson mutters, and lifts his own hand.

  “Woo-hoo!” Gabe hollers.

  “Come on, Chloe.” It’s Zaina who prods me, to my surprise. “Don’t be the only one.”

  I can’t move. It doesn’t matter what the others are doing. It doesn’t even matter what I might want to do. My body has a plan of its own, and that plan is to play possum.

  Tyson turns, facing me, though his hand is still lifted to the center with the others’. “You too,” he says.

  I slowly raise my eyes to his, feeling like my nerves might rattle themselves clear of my skin any second.

  He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows. This is so embarrassing.

  But he smiles softly, and reaches for my arm with his free hand. When he catches my wrist, my paralysis is finally broken, and I let him bring my hand up to the group.

  Gabe cheers again, echoed this time by Sammi and then Micah and even Zaina.

  “Clink,” Tyson says. A chorus of clinks moves through the group and then I let my body sag back into my chair. I still can’t bear to look at Tyson. Yet every nanosecond, his presence seems to grow bigger. He is somehow getting larger and larger, and putting off more heat the longer I sit with my pulse pounding in my ears.

  I don’t know if it’s been a few seconds or an hour of this agony when the main door opens and Kris comes in, followed by Mr. Solomon, and two police officers in uniform, their radios squawking.

  I’ve never been so happy to see authority figures in my life.

  Chapter 20

  TRUTHS ABOUT PEOPLE AND COPS

  1. Even downright nasty people can suddenly become slavering dogs when there is an officer of the law present.

  2. You can suddenly remember every detail of driver’s ed when you see a squad car in your rearview mirror.

  3. Most people speak at least one octave higher than usual when talking to a cop.

  4. Every single thing you’ve ever done wrong comes screaming back to you the minute a cop makes eye contact with you.

  The officers, Reyes and Harper, put me on edge, even though I know I didn’t steal the money. My mind insists on replaying the accident in the parking lot, convinced that they’ll somehow know about it.

  Incidentally, we got a call from one of your customers earlier
today. Someone completely destroyed her car in your parking lot. As long as we were already coming, we figured we’d arrest the guilty party. And it just so happens we know it was you, Chloe Novak! You have the right to remain silent. . . .

  Mr. Solomon thanks the officers for coming out on Christmas Eve and goes on about how hard it must be to be on duty on the holiday. Sammi snorts softly at that one, and for once I have to agree with her assessment. Awfully nice of him to be so concerned about the cops when he’s been holding six teenagers hostage.

  Officer Reyes, a smallish woman with little enamel earrings shaped like Christmas presents, seems to be in charge of the pair. She does most of the talking anyway, while Harper, a big, young guy whose shoes are weirdly shiny for the middle of winter, scribbles things in a notebook.

  They want to hear the details of what happened, and they are particularly interested in the fact that Mr. Solomon can’t be exactly sure how much money was stolen. Reyes seems downright annoyed by that, actually.

  Thinking about it again, the facts do seem more than a little vague.

  Fact: The charity box had been sitting on the Customer Service desk, locked, since the day after Halloween.

  Fact: The other boxes at the other GoodFoods stores had a lot more money than our box did.

  Fact: Zaina could testify to putting in a twenty-dollar bill each time she worked, but there was no proof other than the video of her putting money in today.

  Fact: Inside the box today, there was only one twenty-dollar bill.

  Fact: The security tapes of the store, which delete automatically after forty-eight hours, showed at least twenty people at the Customer Service desk making movements that suggested they’d put money in, including Zaina.

  Fact: The lock was undamaged and only Mr. Solomon had the key.

  That’s literally all we know. Everything else is guesswork.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Reyes says. “You think people put money into the box, but you can’t be sure due to the angle of the camera.”

  “But I did,” Zaina says. “Every time.”

  “And you say it was always a twenty-dollar bill.”