Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless (3 page)

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
heh
s 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.

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.