Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless (5 page)

“Cut!” she says, stepping in front of the camera.

Suddenly everyone is crowding toward Mr. Solomon and the randomly selected employees,
who look completely confused and helpless.

“What’s going on?” I wonder to Gabe, still standing at Zaina’s register.

Gabe laughs. “Guess our customers aren’t as generous as he thought.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” he says. “What would we do about it?”

Mr. Solomon’s voice booms over the murmurs of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank
you for your attention. We’re going to add up our total now and then we’ll be ready
to present the check to Full Hearts Full Plates.” It’s a normal-enough-sounding statement,
but there is something off with his tone of voice.

“This is hilarious,” Sammi says. She’s back at the bagging station at the end of Gabe’s
register, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Tyson emerges from the crowd and shrugs when he sees me looking.

“What’s happening?” Sammi asks him as he takes up his station at the end of my lane.

“Don’t know,” he says. “I guess there was supposed to be a lot more money in there.”

Sammi cackles. “How much was there?”

“It looked like maybe twenty or thirty bucks.”

“How much was he expecting?” I wonder.

“More than that, I guess.”

“Our customers are total tightwads.” Sammi grins that catlike smile again.

Zaina drifts by to take her register back. “There is money missing,” she says.

“Is that what they said?” Tyson asks.

“No. But I know there is money missing.” She pauses between Sammi and Tyson. “My mother
gives me money to put in the box each time I work. It’s not there.”

Chapter 5

PROGRESS ON TODAY’S TO-DO LIST

1.
Talk to at least three of my coworkers long enough to learn something new about them.
CHECK. So far I’ve learned that Sammi smokes American Spirit, Zaina donates money
every time she works, and Tyson calls his aunts his
aunties
(which is completely swoon-worthy, obviously).

2.
Try not to let my mouth take over my brain during those conversations.
CHECK(ish). At least I haven’t totally humiliated myself.

3.
Actually remember to turn off my ringer when I get to work.
FAIL, but I’m totally doing it right now, and no one called me so it didn’t ring
in my pocket—ha!

4.
Make no more than three lists during the day.
CHECK. (But only if I don’t count the ones I’ve made in my head.)

5.
Pick up the Christmas ham Mom ordered from the butcher department.
FAIL. I absolutely have to remember this or my mother will disown me.

6.
Give Tyson a ride home.
FAIL! I haven’t even offered yet! I am so weak!

I used to hate the song “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” I don’t know why exactly,
but it was the sort of song that made me sigh when I heard it in a store or on the
radio in the car. And at Christmas, you hear it a lot. Now I kind of love it.

Why the change of heart? It’s all because Tyson finds it irresistible. I don’t know
if he’s aware that he does it, but it’s the song most likely to make him get into
a full groove. He does a fair amount of swaying and nodding with the beat, humming
under his breath for a lot of songs. But “All I Want for Christmas Is You” comes on,
and he’s just a few degrees short of putting on a show at the end of lane six.

He’s dancing right now, and it’s killing me that I have to keep my back turned to
him to finish totaling up my customer’s order. When I finally turn to see him again,
he’s got one of our little-old-lady regular customers by the hand, and he’s dancing
her in a circle while she laughs and pink spots rise in her cheeks.

I have never wanted to be a little old lady so much in my life.

From two lanes over, one of the other baggers pitches a wad of paper at the back of
his head. Tyson ignores the assault and leads the regular under his arm in a slow
turn. Her wrinkled face is beaming when she turns back and pats him on the chest.

“You
are
a charmer,” she says.

I sigh and resist the urge to prop both elbows on the conveyor belt to watch him without
my pesky job interrupting. He
is
a charmer. But not in the same way that Gabe is. It’s like Tyson isn’t even aware
of it. He can’t help himself.

“Where did you learn to dance?” I ask.

“Who learns to dance?” He shrugs. “I just dance.”

“Do you only dance with little old ladies, or do you give girls your own age a chance?”
I can hardly believe it when the words come out of my mouth. I thought it would sound
kind of funny, but instead I sound like I am blatantly flirting.

Great.

And now I’m blushing.

“I can dance with
anybody
,” he says.

My heart stutters in my chest, and my mouth goes too dry to say anything.

A customer saves me from potential humiliation by asking, “Young lady, are you open?”

“Yes!” I nearly shout. “Come on down! How are you today? Did you find everything you
were looking for? Thank you for choosing GoodFoods!” I’m still talking too loud. And
out of order. God. What is wrong with me?

Behind me, Tyson chuckles, and goes back to singing softly along with Mariah Carey.

I concentrate on my job for a few customers. Better not risk more embarrassing behavior
too soon. And now I’m afraid to make the usual chitchat, because I’m convinced I’ll
be all loud and unintelligible.

If I had a free second, I’d write a list to get my brain back in order. For now, I’m
stuck thinking of one in my head.

WHAT I KNOW FOR SURE ABOUT THE MISSING MONEY

1. Zaina’s mom gives her money to put into the box every time she works.

2. She told us it’s always a twenty-dollar bill.

3. From their angle, Zaina and Tyson agree there was only one twenty-dollar bill in
the handful that Mr. Solomon pulled out.

4. It’s possible that there were a few more bills in the bottom of the box, but definitely
not enough to make up for the number Zaina must have put in.

5. The lock didn’t appear to be broken when Mr. Solomon used the key, but no one saw
it up close.

6. Mr. Solomon and the box disappeared into the Count Out room right after he made
his announcement.

On paper—or in my head, in this case—it’s a bit of a mystery. Not exactly something
you’d alert the FBI over, but at least it’s something to keep my brain occupied.

I’m in the middle of changing my register tape when Sammi rushes by in lane five.
Zaina’s gone on lunch so her register is closed, and it’s the only open path from
the main store to the front area. Sammi’s got a weird look on her face and I can’t
help following her with my eyes as she runs to the ladies’ room.

Jogging a few steps behind her is Gabe. He stops near me when he sees her disappear
into the bathroom.

“Shit,” he breathes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Sammi cut herself back in Dairy.”

“I think I might have a bandage in my drawer.” There are often a few under the tills
in the registers because we tend to get a lot of paper cuts opening bags and dealing
with the register tape.

“It’s pretty bad.” Gabe makes a face. “Shit.” The word is barely audible.

“What happened?” Tyson asks.

“I don’t know.” He shoves his brown hair back with one hand. “We were stocking dip,
and she had the box cutter. I tried to help, but it’s bad.”

“She wouldn’t let you?” I guess.

“I wasn’t thinking, I just—” He shakes his head as if coming out of trance. “Forget
it. She’s gone now.” One hand on his hip, he makes a helpless gesture toward the ladies’
room.

“Do you want me to check on her?” I ask.

He thinks about it. “Someone should.”

“Okay.”

I let him take over my register again and head for the bathroom. Once I reach the
door, I hesitate. Sammi and I may have bonded a little over the cart incident this
morning, but I’m not sure I’m the person she’ll want to see right now.

I push the door open slightly. “Sammi?”

“Who is it?” she asks.

“Chloe. Novak.” Why did I say that?

“What do you want?”

“Gabe said you cut yourself.” I push the door open farther and step in. “Do you need
help?”

Even as I’m asking, I can see that she does. She’s at one of the sinks with her left
thumb clenched in her opposite hand. There’s blood oozing between her fingers.

“What happened?”

“Stupid box cutter!” she hisses.

“Is it bad?” I approach the sink, reaching hesitantly for her hand. “Gabe said it
was pretty bad.”

Fat drops of blood have painted the sink.

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

I yank a few paper towels from the dispenser and hold them out. “Here. Let me help
you.”

“I don’t need help,” she says through her teeth, but her face is pale and scrunched
up with pain.

I pull the paper towels back, unsure of myself. Should I believe her and leave? Let
her deal with this herself? I can’t do that.

“We should see how bad it is. What if you need stitches?”

Sucking air through her teeth, she finally loosens her grip, revealing sodden gauze.
I guess Gabe tried to staunch the blood. It’s not working, though. Bright red blood
wells to the surface of a cut that looks about an inch and a half long. It’s impossible
to tell how deep, but it’s bleeding a lot more than a simple paper cut.

I give her the paper towels. “Put pressure on it, okay?”

“Holy balls, it hurts!” she finally manages. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “God,
I can’t believe how stupid I am.”

“Hey,” I say, smiling slightly, “at least you didn’t smash a bunch of carts into a
car today.”

She laughs once, but there’s no humor in it.

“I think you might need stitches,” I say as a rivulet of blood escapes from her grip
and winds around to her wrist.

“It’ll be fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.”

“I just need to tape it up or something.” She winces.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit.” It’s in the Break Room, behind a cabinet door with a
huge red cross on it. I grab it, glad nobody’s there to ask me what it’s for. I have
a feeling Sammi wouldn’t appreciate me spreading the news about her injury. The only
people sounds I hear are coming from the Count Out room. The deep rumble is probably
Mr. Solomon, but I’m not sticking around to find out. I hurry back to the bathroom
with my tackle box of medical supplies.

“Tape!” I announce, as I push the door open. “All kinds of good stuff in here.”

“Thanks,” Sammi says without looking at me.

I open the box and sort through all the likely compartments until I find some packets
of gauze, some tape, and some butterfly bandages. I’ve seen them used before on flatter
areas, like my brother’s forehead, but maybe they’ll work.

It takes a little creativity, but eventually Sammi and I have her thumb pretty well
bandaged. I still think she needs stitches, but she’s adamant about not mentioning
this to Kris, which we’d have to do if she went to the ER. Unfortunately, to get enough
gauze and tape on to stop it from oozing, her thumb is kind of buried in a miniature
cast.

“You all right like that?” I ask.

She wiggles her thumb. It only moves from the base. “Guess I have to be.”

“You should tell Gabe you’re okay,” I say. “He looked pretty worried.”

She looks down. “Yeah, maybe.”

I squint at her. “What happened?”

“I told you. Box cutter.”

“No, with Gabe. He seemed really upset.”

“Whatever. He shouldn’t have—” She clamps her lips shut and looks away from me. “He’ll
get over it.”

I busy myself with cleaning up the scraps left from all the first-aid stuff. “You’ll
probably have a scar,” I say instead of anything I want to say.

Our eyes meet again for a moment, and I could swear she looks relieved. “I hope it’s
a good one.” She laughs. “I’ll definitely need a better story to go with it than being
clumsy with a box cutter. Something kick-ass, like a shark bite.”

“You know what they say. Chicks dig scars.”

Sammi looks at me in the mirror again and smirks. “Sometimes you’re kind of funny.”

I have no clue how to take that.

A woman comes into the bathroom with a plastic GoodFoods bag in one hand. She doesn’t
acknowledge us as she walks past the sinks and disappears into a stall.

I finish cleaning up the debris and try to neaten up the supplies before I close the
first-aid kit. Sammi uses her unbandaged hand to splash a little water on her face
and rake her bangs back into some kind of order.

From inside the stall where the customer went, we hear the sound of the plastic bag
rustling. Emergency tampon run, I think. Then, I hear the distinct sound of a hard
plastic container being popped open. There is nothing quite like the sound a deli
container makes. I’d know it blindfolded after working in this place.

A few seconds later, there’s the squeak and
poof!
of a person opening a bag of chips. I turn to look at the stall now. What is going
on in there?

I have my answer when I hear the first crunch.

Someone is eating in the bathroom. In a stall. Is she sitting on the toilet?

I look back at the mirror, meeting Sammi’s eyes. She presses her lips into a tight
line and gives me a look that says she’s going to die of pent-up laughter. I’m not
ready to laugh, exactly. I think I’ve been struck dumb.

Oh my God!
Sammi mouths.

Should we go?
I mouth back.

Hell no!
She shakes her head.
I have to see this weirdo.

And frankly, I kind of do, too. I mean, I’m all for politeness and letting people
go about their business, but this is too weird for words.

It takes a few minutes, during which we can hardly stand to make eye contact for fear
of bursting into laughter, but soon enough we hear the woman packing up the deli box
and rolling the bag of chips. After that, a new sound, the metallic crack of a bottled
drink cap. Then, the toilet flushes and the woman comes out.

She’s older, in her forties maybe. She’s wearing heels, dress pants, and a shiny blouse
of some kind, and her hair looks glossy and smooth like a shampoo commercial. Not
exactly what I would picture for someone who eats a meal in a public bathroom stall.

I watch as she walks to the sink area and washes her hands, then takes a moment to
fix her already-perfect hair. Her eyes find mine in the mirror a few times, but I
get the impression she’s pretending we’re not here. Sammi, on the other hand, seems
to be doing her best to make sure Toilet Eater is completely aware of us.

When she finishes primping, she opens the plastic bag and pulls out the deli container
I heard. It’s from the prepared-foods section, a seven-layer fiesta dip thing. Basically,
four kinds of fat in multicolored layers with tomatoes, green onions, and olives on
top. Half of it is gone. She pitches the uneaten portion into the garbage, along with
the remains of a bag of tortilla chips. Next out of the bag is a small, flat bottle
of peppermint schnapps. It’s also partially gone.

She looks at us in the mirror one more time. “Don’t judge me. I’m having dinner with
my in-laws,” she says, like that explains everything. Then she unscrews the cap, takes
a healthy swig, and grimaces in the mirror while she swallows.