by Donna Cooner
Voices of all the possible shattered expectations whisper through my brain.
Oh. My. God. Can you imagine her thinking she’s all that?
Who put a fat, ugly cow in that nightgown?
What a loser!
I don’t want to be an outside shell only—pudgy and pale. To know me, you have to peel back my skin and look inside.
“What are your first impressions of this epic poem?” Mrs. Drager asks, bringing me back to the classroom. She tucks a strand of streaked blonde hair behind her ear, then stands up purposefully.
Nobody says a word, but Mrs. Drager is stubborn about providing wait time. She leaves the question hanging out there for several uncomfortable beats of silence. She paces back and forth in front of the desks like a warden surveying death row inmates.
I turn my head to look over at Asha. She’s leaning forward over her desk, fingers dug into her long black hair, frowning down at her open book like it contains Egyptian hieroglyphics instead of Old English.
Could my best friend actually be blackmailing me? For fun? The doubt makes me feel guilty, but I can’t push it away.
It’s time to try to say something again. I wasn’t brave enough in the nail salon.
I write a note in my notebook to Asha: It’s not funny. I put a big sad face in the margin and slide it over to her.
Asha looks puzzled. She writes back, What?
I’m wrong about her. I must be.
“Asha?” Mrs. Drager calls.
We’re caught. I quickly cover up our notes with black scribbles.
Asha has that deer-in-the-headlights look everyone gets when they get called on in class and haven’t finished the reading assignment.
“Ummmm … there is a monster named Grendel.”
“And?” Mrs. Drager freezes like she’s spotted a rare specimen in the wild and doesn’t want to frighten it away.
I look down at my desk. So does everyone else. I pick another chunk of black off my thumbnail and try to act nonchalant. Cool. Like, Yeah, I totally know everything about Beowulf.
“Skye?” Mrs. Drager asks. “Can you add to what Asha has said?”
My head shoots up. Not really. I slide my hands under my desk. “Beowulf cuts off the monster Grendel’s arm and kills his mother.”
Mrs. Drager says, “Beowulf actually wrenches Grendel’s arm off. What does that mean?”
I wrinkle up my nose. “Beowulf pulled his arm off?”
There’s a collective ewwwww from the class and Mrs. Drager sighs. She’s clearly frustrated with our lack of enthusiasm for the discussion, but suddenly sees Emma’s hand waving. Our teacher’s face explodes with relief.
“Ms. Middleburg, I’m sure you can contribute something meaningful to this conversation. What can you tell us about Beowulf?” Mrs. Drager asks.
Emma brightens. “Did you know there is a 3-D movie of Beowulf?” she asks. “Angelina Jolie is the monster’s mother.”
Everyone perks up at the idea that they could watch the movie instead of read this complicated book, but Mrs. Drager doesn’t seem impressed at all.
“There are actually quite a few differences between the movie Beowulf and the original poem,” she says. “For example, in the poem, Grendel’s mother is never described as being covered in gold. And she definitely doesn’t look like Angelina Jolie.”
The mood in the room bottoms out. I can almost hear the groans of disappointment. Evidently, watching the movie is not going to be a good substitute for the test. But then Mrs. Drager takes it even further.
“Emma, perhaps you can make a presentation to the class on the differences between the two next week.”
Emma’s face drops. Now she can’t just watch the movie; she has to read the poem, too.
Touché, Mrs. Drager.
When the bell finally rings, Emma, Asha, and I leave the classroom together, like we always do. Emma is complaining about her new assignment and Asha is complaining about Nate. Suddenly, I feel silly about the note I wrote Asha. Maybe there’s no reason to be so paranoid. Nothing has changed between me and my friends. I just need to rock my interview at the job fair, and then everything will be okay.
Two days later, I sit behind the wheel of my parked blue Honda Civic, fingers tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. My shift at Kmart starts in five minutes and I will not go inside a second too soon.
I am using this valuable time to practice for my interview with Senator Watson’s office. It’s tomorrow. So I am sitting here alone, essentially talking to myself. I stare out the windshield in front of me as Kmart’s automatic doors swish open and shut for customers coming and going.
“For me, this internship is all about learning,” I say to the dashboard. “Interning with Senator Watson will give me the opportunity to work with a diverse group of people and help make our country better.”
I say the last part all deep-voiced and dramatic, like I’m reciting a speech in front of hundreds. The silence in the car is not encouraging.
Even though I’ve tried to predict every possible question my interviewer might ask, my hands still get sweaty and my breathing gets faster each time I imagine the interview happening.
I know what will help me calm down. I take out my phone and update my to-do list.
TO DO:
MAKE EYE CONTACT
LEAD CONVERSATIONS WITH A COMPLIMENT
SMILE MORE
There. I feel better already.
I glance at the clock. My five minutes are almost up. No more delays. Soon, I’ll have to enter the store and face that continual flow of needy strangers. They all come here because they want something. Or at least they think they do. Then they go on about their day at hospitals, and schools, and office buildings. And someone, somewhere out there, is happy at the end of the day when they return home and realize they remembered to buy toilet paper.
I get out of the car, reaching back inside for the hated blue smock lying across the passenger seat. It will be an agonizing transformation, buttoning it up over my T-shirt and jeans, but it’s a necessary evil I can’t avoid. I decide I’ll put the smock on inside, where I can take off my coat. It’s still cold out.
The weekend snow is mostly gone, leaving behind dirt-streaked mounds of ice in corners of the parking lot and muddy patches on the grassy medians. My parking space in the employee section is right next to one of those huge piles of dirty ice, and my foot slides down the slick patch. I grab on to the side of my car to catch my balance and mumble a curse under my breath.
“I guess breaking your ankle is one way to get out of this job.” Ryan steps out of a red Jeep in front of my car. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say, and I make a face at him.
Let’s hope he didn’t see me talking to myself in the car like a crazy person.
“I saw you on the list of kids who have interviews at the job fair tomorrow. Congratulations.” Ryan raises his hand, and I slap it. “With Senator Watson’s office?”
I nod, feeling a fresh wave of nerves.
“You know you’re going to do great, right?” Ryan says with an encouraging smile.
“Yeah. I got this,” I say. Even though I don’t know if that’s true, I’m not letting anyone else know it.
Fake it till you make it.
Ryan grins. “You’ll probably be some big-time political powerhouse in Washington, DC, one day, and I’m going to be cheering you on to keep raising minimum wage for me.”
I can’t help but smile back. He’s being sweet. “I’m sure you’ll be working for way more than minimum wage by the time I make it big in DC,” I say. I look directly at him. For the first time I notice how his eyes are so dark brown, his pupils are only a slight shade darker. Suddenly, it feels like I’m staring at him and I glance away quickly. Awkward. This eye contact thing is harder than it sounds. But now I’m curious about Ryan’s plans for the future. It’s strange we’ve never talked about it.
“What are your plans after graduation
?” I ask him as we walk toward the store entrance together, dodging the icy spots and parked cars.
“I’m hoping to go to vet school at CSU, but I’ll probably start with an undergrad degree in biomedical sciences,” Ryan says.
“Impressive.” I remember his photographs on ChitChat. So he’s artistic and brainy. Quite the combination.
Ryan starts to say something else but then my cell phone pings. I look down at the screen. It’s an alert, telling me that I have a private message on ChitChat.
And it’s from the TellTaleHeart account.
I freeze. My heart stops.
I thought this was over. But it isn’t.
Ryan glances at me with a frown. “You okay?” he asks.
I manage to nod. “Go ahead without me,” I say, my eyes glued to the phone screen. “I’ll be right there.”
“See you inside,” he says, but his voice sounds faint.
“Excuse me.” The woman pushing the shopping cart behind me is cranky that I stopped in front of her to look at my phone. I apologize. Then I look back at the screen, trembling, and open the private message.
TELLTALE♥: GOOD JOB. I LIKE THE NAILS. YOU FOLLOW DIRECTIONS WELL.
I reply quickly. YOU’LL DELETE THE SCREENSHOT?
TELLTALE♥: NOT SO FAST. WE’RE JUST STARTING TO HAVE FUN NOW.
No. No. No.
Before I can even respond, another message pops onto my screen.
TELLTALE♥: CHECK OUT MY ACCOUNT.
I don’t want to, but I click over to the TellTaleHeart’s ChitChit page.
It’s no longer blank. In fact, there’s a photo of someone’s bare feet. My feet.
It’s a tiny cropped corner of the screenshot.
And the caption under it reads: #staytunedformore.
So they’re not bluffing. They’re really going to post the screenshot.
I go back to our private conversation and type furiously.
ME: WHAT DO YOU WANT?
TELLTALE♥: LATER …
Later.
There is no time to reason with this invisible person now. If I clock in seven minutes late, I’ll be written up. I race inside the store and jog down the center aisle lined with potted plants, floral bedspreads, and blow-up Easter bunnies. I unbutton my coat and fling it off, and start putting on my smock. The blackmailer will have to wait.
* * *
Someone’s phone is ringing in the toy aisle and I quickly slide my own phone back into my pocket. I’ve been sneaking peeks at it all shift, but so far there’ve been no more messages.
The ringtone jangles on and on with some upbeat country-western song about trucks. Or tractors. Or trains.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other and scan the store for Mrs. Garcia. She’s the manager on duty this evening, and she’s stricter than Mr. King.
All I see is a kid kicking the end counter full of Maybelline makeup. She’s probably about seven and is wearing a Superman sweatshirt. I don’t think she’s mad at the makeup. It’s more like a very methodical task that she takes extremely seriously. Kick. Kick. Kick. A tube of lipstick rolls onto the floor and off toward the greeting card aisle. I glance around for an adult to tell her to stop, but there is no one in sight who looks promising.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
It’s been three minutes since I last looked at my phone.
Suddenly, Mrs. Garcia appears at the service desk with her usual scowl. I’ve tried to cozy up to her on several occasions—complimenting the newly red tips on her black hair or her super-comfy-looking white sneakers or, that one time, her cool new hummingbird tattoo—but she never cracks. Today, she’s even grimmer than usual, chewing ferociously. Gum took the place of smoking last year, one habit replacing the other almost seamlessly.
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
“If I see you with your phone out one more time, I’m writing you up,” she tells me.
Oops.
“Sorry. It’s just, there are no customers …” My voice trails off. I know it’s a lame excuse. And Mrs. Garcia doesn’t look like she’s buying my apologies.
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
“Soon there won’t be any customers.” I should have seen it before, but now that I’m looking in her eyes I can tell Mrs. Garcia doesn’t just look grumpy. She’s worried.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The store is closing. Probably by the end of the month.” She blinks rapidly, looking around to see if anyone is standing close enough to hear.
Oh my God. She’s crying?
“Let’s just keep this between us for now,” she tells me in a low voice. “There’s no need to get everyone upset yet.”
I nod and she turns and leaves without another word.
I stand there, stricken. What am I going to do if the store closes?
I look around in a daze. What about Harmony and Ryan? And Millie Johnson, who works back in the paint section. She’s like fiftysomething and has been here forever. But she’s too young to retire.
I’ve been so selfish worrying about myself. A lot of the employees in this store depend on this job a lot more than I do.
“Do you have any stickers?” The little girl from the makeup aisle is peering at me over the countertop. Evidently, she’s through with her assault on mascara and has moved on to other very important matters.
I look around for a parent, but still see no one. “No.”
She frowns at me, brown eyes disappointed. “You should,” she says, then turns to walk off toward the greeting card aisle.
I feel a twinge of guilt. I am the ultimate people pleaser, even when the people are very little. Then I check the clock. My shift is almost done. But tonight I’m locking up, so I’ll be here for a while longer.
I sigh and make the closing announcement, watching as all the remaining customers slowly head to check out. The little girl in the Superman sweatshirt is being shepherded over to Harmony’s register by an exhausted-looking mom. And the culprit with the annoying ringtone—a man in a cowboy hat—is purchasing a toy fire truck, probably for some grandkid.
When all the customers are gone, I watch as my fellow employees clock out for the night. Harmony is the last to leave. Afterward, I check the bathrooms for hideaway shoppers—none—and walk toward the front of the partially darkened store.
Now that I’m all alone, I can’t keep the thoughts at bay. My mind bounces from one worrisome thing to the next.
The interview. The store closing. The screenshot.
A voice suddenly booms over the intercom, causing me to jump out of my skin.
“Attention, Kmart shoppers. Look up and look around for the bubbling blue beacon of bargain.”
I’m not alone after all. It takes me a second to recognize the voice as Ryan’s. I didn’t know he was still here, but he often stays after closing to restock shelves.
I look around. Sure enough, the rotating blue light is flashing over in the toy aisle. It’s a weird sight at this hour, made even brighter because most of the overhead lights are already turned off.
I follow the beacon straight to Ryan. He has a huge smile on his face and our biggest-selling drone in his hands.
“Help me test it out.” His grin is now the size of a basketball.
“Are you crazy?” My smile is just as big. I’m relieved that my anxiety-filled train of thought has been derailed. Even if only for a minute.
“Probably.” He winks at me. “Look, it’s already out of the box,” he says. “Besides, if we know how it works we can answer customers’ questions, right?”
I blink uncertainly at him. “I guess so.”
Playing with the toys after hours is definitely against the rules. Mrs. Garcia would not be happy. Even Mr. King wouldn’t look the other way. I shouldn’t be going along with Ryan’s little scheme, but it’s a way better option than obsessing over all my problems.
For once, I’m willing to take a risk on doing something unexpected.
Ryan carefully sets the drone on the floor. Then
he punches a button on the remote control and the drone lights up. He looks at me with a mischievous smile and holds the remote out between us. I can’t resist. I put my hand over his and we push the left button together. The drone lifts off the floor, straight up over the bicycles.
I scream, “Oh my God!” Then I cover my mouth, giggling at how loud I yelled. “Oops.”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan says. “We’re the only ones still here.”
The drone hovers over our heads, waiting for our command.
“Hang on,” I say. “I think someone needs to go along on this maiden voyage and report back.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows in a question, but he brings the drone back to a bouncing touchdown right at our feet. “Got to work on my landings,” he says.
I pick up a Barbie doll off the shelf. Some kids must have torn her out of the package and she’s missing her tiny high-heeled pumps, but I figure she’s good to go.
I carefully prop her up on top of the drone.
“Company?” Ryan picks up a slightly battered Tickle Me Elmo from another shelf. “Everybody needs a friend who makes you laugh.”
“Perfect,” I say, still grinning that goofy smile. I can’t seem to get rid of it.
On a mission now, I run over to the hardware department and grab a bungee cord. All the customers who annoy us by taking items out of their wrapping are my best friends now. I hurry back to the toy aisle, where Ryan and I use the bungee cord to strap the passengers onto the drone.
“Time for takeoff,” I say, giving Barbie’s head a pat.
“Where to, Captain?” Ryan asks me.
“Since Barbie’s shoeless, I’m thinking somewhere tropical,” I say.
“Potted plants it is,” Ryan says. “Shall we check in on the gerbils on our way?”
“Absolutely.”
Ryan holds up his phone. “While you were over in Hardware, I downloaded the drone’s app. Now we can see what the camera is seeing.”