Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless (7 page)

Chapter 8

THE FIVE PEOPLE YOU MEET IN THE BREAK ROOM DURING LUNCH

1. The Phone-Obsessed. Can be observed standing in the corner, talking loudly on phone,
seemingly oblivious to the fact that the rest of us can hear everything they’re saying
about their sister’s “worthless, broke-ass husband.”

2. The Oversharer. Similar to the Phone-Obsessed, this luncher will take any opportunity
to share every detail of their personal lives with anyone who will listen, often sharing
things that everyone in the room wishes they could bleach out of their brains.

3. The Big Eater. There is no time for talking as far as this luncher is concerned.
He packs his lunch in a full-size grocery bag or small cooler and puts down more food
than most people eat in a week, all within fifteen minutes.

4. The Dieter. Always picking at a large salad or heating up a Lean Cuisine in the
microwave with a dejected expression. Often goes in search of something more filling
and satisfying after the pitiful lunch she packed for herself. (See also: the Afternoon
Candy Breaker.)

5. The Reader. Never seen without a book or magazine, the Reader gives off a strong
don’t-talk-to-me vibe that only The Oversharer is ignorant to.

There aren’t many people left in the Break Room when I go in for my lunch, so I haul
everything out of my locker to find the paperback book I left here for company. When
I first started, I pictured myself having relaxing lunches with my coworkers. We’d
laugh; we’d trade stories; we’d be friends. But it turns out everyone eats on a staggered
schedule so the store can still run efficiently, and most of the time the people I
do eat with are not exactly friend material. So, I started bringing a book to leave
at work. At least there’s always something to read.

I’m really working my way through my mom’s paperback mystery collection, so I guess
that’s something. Something antisocial and vaguely depressing, maybe, but it’s something.

Don’t get me wrong: I love reading. I always have. A good number of my lists are devoted
to my favorite books, characters, and authors. But when reading yet another Sherlock
Holmes mystery is all you have to look forward to at lunch, it’s time to reevaluate
your social life.

Nevertheless, Sherlock does his usual work of sucking me in, so I’m totally absorbed
in my reading, and I don’t realize at first that I can hear someone talking on the
phone in the Manager’s Office. I’m not even that close to the door, but whoever is
talking is agitated. My ears perk up instinctively. Usually, this kind of eavesdropping
would be duller than multiplication tables, but with the missing money on my mind
I can’t help tilting my head for a better listen.

I realize I might be able to hear even more if I were closer to the door. I bookmark
my page and abandon the ubiquitous turkey sandwich my mom made me to slink closer
and do some careful listening. There are a couple other people in the room, though,
so I have to be casual. First step, find a plausible cover, which I do in the form
of the large bulletin board mounted next to the office door. It’s got all manner of
boring crap posted, but the important thing is that there are enough pieces of paper
up there to give me legitimate browsing time.

I can’t get every word without pressing my ear to the door, but I can at least tell
that I’m listening to one side of a phone call. I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating.
“. . . security tapes show . . . certain as I can . . . sure the police . . . another
employee suggested . . . yes, six of them . . . minors . . . might be working together
. . .”

My heart thumps against my chest.
Minors?
Does he think we had something to do with the money?

The voice behind the door rises to a higher pitch as he ends his call, and suddenly
the office door opens. I jump back, letting out a little involuntary shriek.

“Oh, I’m sorry, young lady!” It’s Mr. Solomon, the district manager. He looks at me
with renewed interest. “It’s Chloe, right?”

“Yes.” My voice fails, so I clear my throat and try again. “Yes.”

“You know, it’s a funny thing. I need to speak with you, and here you are!” He seems
pleased with this happy coincidence.

I am not.

“I’m on my lunch break,” I manage to say, one hand wavering vaguely toward the table
where I left my food.

He smiles. “Perfect timing, then.”

No. No, Solomon, this is not perfect timing. “Okay,” I croak, and follow him into
the Manager’s Office.

I haven’t been in here since the end of my orientation. It’s a small, windowless room
with a big metal desk and half a dozen corkboards on the walls. There are various
binders lined up on a low bookshelf. I remember having to find some of those binders
during my orientation scavenger hunt: the Emergency Preparedness Binder, the Hazmat
Binder, and the Vacation Request Binder.

Solomon sits in the rolling chair behind the desk. It squeaks beneath him, sounding
alarmingly like a guinea pig, and I can’t help picturing a little furry creature trapped
inside the cushion. He gestures for me to take the blue plastic chair at the desk’s
side. I do, and find myself looking at a series of posters about hand washing, ergonomics,
and preventing back injuries. They all feature a little black figure like the one
on a men’s-room door.

That guy gets around. And he doesn’t know much about safety.

Solomon folds his hands on the desk and leans toward me slightly. I fight the instinct
to pull back. “Chloe, thank you for coming in,” he says.

“You’re welcome.” Like I had a choice in the matter.

“I want to start by thanking you in advance for your cooperation. Mr. Lincoln tells
me you’re a model employee.”

It takes me a minute to realize he means Kris. I’m also thrown by the conversational
way Solomon is talking to me, considering he most likely suspects me of stealing.

“Do you like working here?” he asks.

“Yes. Very much,” I whisper. Okay, that last part might be a bit of an exaggeration,
but I don’t think he’s looking for honesty on the subject. Who really likes their
job that much?

Maybe Agnes.

“You know how we value our customers here, don’t you, Chloe?” he asks.

I wish he would stop saying my name so much. “Yes,” I agree.

“And you know they put their trust in us as an organization. People have a lot of
choices when it comes to food shopping. They come to GoodFoods Market because they
like what we have to offer. Isn’t that right?”

“And the deli is awesome,” I blurt out.
What?
I want to cover my hot face with my hands. What is wrong with me?

Solomon just smiles and leans even closer, like we’re sharing a secret. “It is good,
isn’t it?”

I nod, but only a little.

Solomon continues, “Our customers put their trust in us. They trust us to maintain
standards of cleanliness in our food-prep areas. They trust us to keep the floors
free from spills, and parking lots free of ice that could put them in danger. They
trust us to give them the best possible prices—”

My mom would definitely have something to say about that. She thinks this place is
overpriced.

Solomon is still talking. “And they trust the company. They trust in our mission.”

“Okay,” I say.

“As I’m sure you know, that trust has been violated. In a terrible, saddening way.”

I hate the way he’s drawing this out. He’s making me feel nervous even though I know
exactly what he’s getting at. My palms are starting to sweat, and I rub them on my
thighs.

“Do you know what I’m talking about?” he asks.

I do. But I can’t help thinking of the cart incident, and a little bit of guilt comes
back to nip at me.
Focus, Chloe
. Great, now he’s got me overusing my own name. I sit up as best I can. “I—I—” I stammer.

“Chloe, is there something you’d like to tell me?” he says in a hard tone.

“No.”

Which goes over about as well as a chocolate-broccoli pie.

“No?” His tone of voice says it all. He thinks I’m guilty. And I am, but not of what
he thinks I am.

“You’re sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

Solomon sighs. “Chloe, I have to say I’m a little disappointed. I was expecting honesty
from you.”

I look at my feet, noticing the water stain on my shoes from stepping in one of the
slush puddles earlier. “I am being honest.”

“Okay, then. I’ll just ask you a couple more questions and we’ll be through here.
Did you observe anything unusual today?”

I blink at him. “It’s Christmas Eve, Mr. Solomon. There’s been some weird stuff happening.”

“Such as?”

“Well, at least three different Santas came in for lunch, and we sold out of anchovies,
which is weird because I never even knew we sold anchovies, and it’s not like that’s
one of those foods you really think of when you think of Christmas, but all of a sudden
everyone was buying them today and we ran out. That’s pretty weird, don’t you think?
Is that what you’re asking for?” I could go on. It’s been a weird day, even by GoodFoods
standards.

He shakes his head. “No. Did you see anyone near the donation box?”

“I honestly wasn’t paying attention to it before you came in. But I’ve seen people
put money in if that’s what you mean.”

“Any employees?” he asks.

“Zaina puts some in every time she works.”

Solomon’s face brightens. “Zaina Malak?”

Nodding, I wonder how many Zainas he thinks work at the store.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

This wouldn’t be a bad time to tell him that Micah estimated how much money is missing.
But I just shake my head.

“Thank you, Chloe.”

I leave the room slowly. The door isn’t quite shut behind me when I hear Solomon click
on his walkie-talkie. “Kris, would you send Zaina Malak in here?” he says.

I have to tell the others what I heard.

Chapter 9

FIVE THINGS THAT MIGHT DESCRIBE YOU IF YOU START CREEPING AROUND LISTENING TO OTHER
PEOPLE’S PHONE CALLS AT WORK

1. Bored

2. Nosy

3. Anxious

4. Paranoid

5. Actually being accused of a crime you didn’t commit

Tyson and Gabe are right where I left them, and Zaina is still at her register, too.

“I have to tell you guys something!”

“What’s up?” Tyson asks.

“I was just in the Break Room and I overheard Mr. Solomon on the phone. He thinks
one of us stole the money.”

“What?” Gabe asks.

I know I shouldn’t be talking about this where customers can hear, but Solomon has
Kris coming for Zaina now. I don’t have much choice.

“Why would he think that?” she asks. “I’m the one who gave money.”

“I don’t know. I just know what I heard, and when he found me outside the office he
took me inside to ask me a bunch of questions.”

“Did he actually accuse you of taking it?” Tyson asks.

“No. But I know he thinks we did it!”

“Who, exactly?” Gabe wants to know.

“I heard something about six minors. I think he means the Younglings.”

“I’m not a minor,” Gabe says. He never misses an opportunity to remind us that he’s
already eighteen.

“Does Solomon know that?”

He looks at me like I’m crazy. “How should I know?”

Kris’s voice interrupts us. “What is going on over here?” he demands. “Gabe, there
is a customer right in front of you! Tyson, bag. Chloe, what are you supposed to be
doing?”

“I just got off my lunch break.”

He points to where Gabe is standing. “Then get back to work. Come on, you guys. I
hate it when you make me be a hard-ass.”

“Kris, Mr. Solomon just pulled me into his office to ask me about the missing money.”

He shrugs. “He’s talking to everybody.”

“I think he thinks one of us did it.” I gesture to include the others. “Sammi and
Micah, too.”

Kris cocks his head. “Well, did you?”

“No!”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about. Get. To. Work.”

It’s the harshest he’s ever spoken to me, and reactionary tears prickle the back of
my eyes. Shoot. I blink rapidly and squeeze past a cart to take my place back at the
register.

Kris sighs and adds, “Please,” before he heads off to his next task.

Amazing how one little word can change everything.

“You can go now,” I say softly to Gabe.

He steps out of my way, but pauses just off the black mat beneath my feet. “I’m sure
Kris is right. Solomon’s probably talking to everyone.”

I shake my head. “I’m serious, Gabe. He thinks one of us did it.”

Gabe’s walkie-talkie squawks, then Kris’s voice is a doubled blur as he talks through
the speaker from the end of the lane. “Gabe. Go help the stockers in Frozen Foods.
Now.”

Gabe makes a face. “Well, I’m definitely being punished.”

Then Kris calls up to Zaina. “Turn off your light, and total out, Z. You need to go
see Mr. Solomon in the office.”

Zaina doesn’t respond, or even turn to look at him, but her hand goes up to flip the
switch on her lighted lane number.

I look desperately at Tyson. I need one of them to believe me. He’s watching Zaina,
though, and doesn’t meet my eyes for a second. When he does, all I get is a little
half smile.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “We’re almost done for the day.”

There is something going down here; I’m sure of it. How can I have so many bits of
information and still be so clueless?

Chapter 10

GREAT MOMENTS OF CLUELESSNESS IN HISTORY

1. On July 4, 1776, King George VI of England writes in his diary,
Nothing important happened today.

2. The string quartet continues playing while the
Titanic
sinks.

3. In 1963, President John F. Kennedy declares, “Ich bin ein Berliner” to a roaring
crowd in Berlin, Germany. Translation: “I am a jelly donut.”

4. During a visit to a school, Vice President Dan Quayle corrects a student’s spelling
of potato as
P-O-T-A-T-O-E
.

5. When Pepsi expands to the Chinese market, their slogan “Pepsi brings you back to
life” translates to “Pepsi brings your ancestors back from the grave.”

6. Chloe Novak tries to convince her coworkers they are being accused of a crime,
but no one believes her, erasing all her (possible) progress toward making actual
friends at work.

Zaina doesn’t come back. I don’t worry about it at first, but the longer she’s gone
it’s kind of hard not to. What could be the holdup?

“Where is she?” I ask Tyson when he comes back from cart duty yet again.

“Who?” He uses the back of his arm to blot water from his hairline.

“Zaina. She still hasn’t come back.”

He shrugs. “Maybe they had her do some special job.” Occasionally, we get assigned
to strange one-time duties, like unfolding crepe-paper turkeys for holiday displays,
or taping up giant paper sneakers for some local charity fund drive.

I bite my lip. It’s hard to imagine she’s been asked to do something special when
we know for a fact that Solomon wanted to talk to her in his office. “Do you really
think so?”

“I don’t know what to think.” He licks one fingertip and uses it to get a stubborn
plastic bag to open. “I’ve been too busy to worry about it.”

Blood warms my cheeks. “Right. Sorry.”

He sighs. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“No, you’re right. I’m obsessing.” I try on a smile.

He returns one that puts mine to shame. A brilliant display of perfect white teeth,
accented perfectly by his warm brown skin. My heart flutters.

I decide to go for a change of subject. “So . . . you getting anything good for Christmas?”
I ask.

“Same thing I always get,” he says. “College money.”

“That’s it?” I ask.

He nods. “Pretty much. It’s all I ask for. My granny will give me something, I guess.
She thinks she can knit.”

“Thinks?” I echo.

“She’s not real good.” He grins. “I got a hat last year about this big.” He hovers
his hands about two inches from each side of his head.

“It’s the thought that counts?” I suggest, laughing.

“She told me it’s ‘’Cause your brains are so big.’” His slight accent gets thicker
when he imitates her, and my insides melt.

“Aww. At least she appreciates that you’re smart, right?”

He laughs. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“What’d you do with the hat?”

“My sister’s dog tore it up.” He shakes his head.

Kris returns before I can get any further into this story.

“Chloe. Light off and total up when you finish your customers.”

I look at the long lines at every register. “Really? I’m scheduled until close.”

“We’re taking you off the floor. You too, Tyson.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Just reshuffling things a bit,” he says. “Head to the Break Room when you’re done
here.” He moves on.

I look at Tyson.

“This is . . . different,” he says.

“See? They think we did it,” I say.

“Maybe. Maybe it’s about something totally different.”

“What else could it be?”

He drums his fingers on the end of the conveyor belt. “Um . . .”

“Exactly.” I flick my light off and start moving groceries at breakneck speed. It’s
not like I’m in a rush to be accused of theft, but when I get nervous, I tend to do
everything faster.

Overhead, the PA loops back around to “Feliz Navidad.” Sure. Why not? Can’t hear this
song too many times.

There were three customers in my line when I turned off my light, and it doesn’t take
long to get through them.

With nothing left to bag, Tyson moves up the empty aisle between Zaina’s and my closed
registers. He grips the edges of my little enclosure and lets himself tip backward
until his hands break the fall. Over and over he tugs himself back upright and then
drifts into a controlled drop. I hit the keys to total up my register and wait with
my fingers poised over the printer for the tape to finish spilling, trying not to
watch the muscles in his forearms tense and loosen just a few inches to my right.

“So, you really think we’re in trouble over this?” he asks.

“I don’t know how we could be in trouble if we didn’t do it, but . . . yeah, I think
we’re very possibly in trouble.”

He licks his lips a couple times. “Did you? Take it, I mean?”

I whip my head to look at him. “No!”

“I’m just asking.” He’s in the pulling-up part of his cycle and he ends up looking
down at me from his full height. “You can tell me.”

“I didn’t do it.” I raise my eyes to look at him and have to push my glasses up to
see. “Did you?”

“Nope. I need this job. Why would I risk it?”

“I guess you wouldn’t need it as much if you stole ten thousand dollars.”

He falters and has to scramble to grab the edges again. “Ten thousand?”

“Maybe.”

“Is that why you were asking how big that would be before?”

“Yeah. Why did you think I was asking?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought it might have been about something in one of your
books.”

I tell him quickly about Micah’s math gymnastics.

“But that could be too high, right?”

“Could be. It’s still probably a lot more than we were thinking.”

“Damn,” he says softly.

The register releases my cash drawer and I lift out the till. “All right. I guess
this is it.”

Tyson grins. “Dead men walking?”

“I hope not.”

We fall in step as soon as we’re clear of the checkout lane, and we’re nearly touching
as we approach the Break Room. I chance a look up at him as we slow before the door.

He bumps my shoulder with his. “Hey, no sweat, right? We didn’t do it; we got nothing
to worry about.” He doesn’t look like he’s completely sure about that.

But I say, “Obviously,” because what else can you say?

As I enter the door code, I can’t resist a last-minute prayer.
Oh, please let this be about a Christmas bonus. Or at least a Christmas cookie
. I don’t know which deity might be in charge of Christmas cookies, so I send my wish
out into the general universe.

Inside, Zaina sits at one of the rickety round lunch tables. She has her hands neatly
folded in her lap. There are two other people in the room: Micah, who is reading a
book, and Gabe, who is talking quietly on his phone in the far corner of the room.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

“Kris took my till.” Zaina inclines her head toward the Count Out Room. It’s completely
outside of normal procedures for someone else to count your till. They made a big
deal out of it during cashier training.

The little ball of dread in my stomach inflates a few sizes.

“Where’s Mr. Solomon?” I ask.

“In there. With Sammi.” Zaina nods at the Manager’s Office with wide eyes, which is
really saying something. She has huge, hazel eyes under normal circumstances.

There is a bank of counters along one wall, with a sink and the employee refrigerator.
On top, I notice the black plastic trays that had been covered in Christmas cookies
are all but empty. Just a few crumbs and a couple of rejected broken cookies. There’s
also a less-than-appealing carton of eggnog with congealed dribbles down the sides.
I wonder how long it’s been sitting out.

Tyson browses the trays and chooses one of the broken cookies.

Suddenly the door to the Count Out room opens and Kris appears in the gap. He sees
me and laughs. “You look like someone stole your puppy.”

A wheezy laugh sneaks out of me. “Sorry. I’m just nervous, I guess.”

Kris lifts his hand, fingers wiggling in a “come here” gesture. “No worries. Here,
I’ll count your till.”

I don’t consider myself a complete Goody Two-shoes—take my malicious coverup of the
damaged car, for example—but giving up my till makes me hesitate. A lot. Even though
it’s my boss telling me to do it. My fingers just don’t want to ease up their grip
as I extend the till toward Kris.

He looks at me, and laughs again. Not in a mean way, but I feel my cheeks get hot.
“Chloe, we can let it slide this once, okay? I promise I’m a really good counter.”

That makes me blush harder, and I hand it over quickly. Kris smiles at me and goes
back into the room.

“Did Mr. Solomon talk to all of you?” I ask the others.

Zaina nods, and Gabe puts up one finger to indicate he’s still on the phone. Micah
marks his page with the jacket flap and looks up. “He thinks one of us knows something
about the missing money.” He sounds almost cheerful about it. Then again, Micah sounds
cheerful about nearly everything.

THINGS YOU WILL LEARN ABOUT MICAH YODER WITHIN FIVE MINUTES OF MEETING HIM

1. He is one of those people who seems to know a little bit about everything.

2. He is homeschooled.

3. He is terminally cheerful. Happier than anyone else I know. Sometimes I wonder
if it’s a result of #2.

4. His hair is almost as light as Sammi’s but clearly natural. His eyebrows are nearly
invisible, and his eyelashes are just a shade or two darker.

Gabe shoves his phone into his pocket as he approaches the table where Zaina sits.
He flips one of the chairs around to straddle it and says, “So, which one of you did
it?”

“None of us did it.” Micah looks at all of us. “Did we?”

“I didn’t,” Gabe says. “Kinda wish I did, but I didn’t.”

“I didn’t!” Micah says immediately.

“We know that.” Gabe rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know why he bothered putting you
in here.”

“I could have done it!” Micah protests. “I just didn’t.”

“I didn’t do it,” Zaina says softly.

“Neither did I,” Tyson agrees.

“Me neither,” I say. “So, that just leaves—”

As if on cue, the door to the Manager’s Office opens and Sammi comes out, scowling.

“Sam—” Gabe starts to stand, but she ignores him and drops into the closest chair
without a word. Her seat is about as far as she can get from the rest of us without
leaving the room.

A moment later, Mr. Solomon emerges. “Ah. Good. You’re all here.” Once again he’s
got that conversational, “isn’t this a happy coincidence” tone that doesn’t fit the
situation.

“Hi, Mr. Solomon,” Micah says. No one else speaks.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” he says after an agonizing pause.

Actually, we all know exactly why we’re here. What’s not clear is what he’s still
looking for after he talked to each of us individually.

“As you know, there’s been an incident at the store. I’ve already spoken to each one
of you about this. Unfortunately, no one has been forthcoming with the information
I need to settle this matter.”

Again, no one speaks. What would we even say? We’ve pretty much been accused of stealing
and now covering it up. I’ve watched enough police shows to know this is the time
to keep quiet.

“This is the largest GoodFoods store in the region,” Mr. Solomon finally says. “The
busiest. What do you think I expected to find when I opened up our donation box this
morning? Why do you think
this
was the store we chose to come to last? With a
television crew
, no less?”

It’s pretty obvious he’s not looking for answers at this point, so we stay silent.

“Sixty-seven dollars,” he continues. “We’ve been collecting money since November,
and there are only sixty-seven dollars in this store’s box.”

“That’s not possible,” Zaina says softly.

“Precisely my point. Every other GoodFoods in this region had hundreds if not thousands
of dollars in their boxes. The Fairview store alone had more than seven thousand.

“I checked the security footage. Over the last forty-eight hours, I saw dozens of
customers put their hard-earned money in here. They thought they were helping out
needy families at Christmastime. But a thief has violated that sacred trust. The trust
our customers put in GoodFoods Market.

“I have reason to believe the culprit is among us in this room. It would be easiest
for everyone if that person would step forward now.”

Again, no one speaks. Solomon lets the silence stretch out, eyeballing each one of
us in turn. The way he’s staring makes me feel like a dog that pooped on the rug.

“I didn’t want to do this. I was hoping the guilty party would realize the seriousness
of their actions and come forward out of a sense of duty. If not to me, if not to
the GoodFoods name, then to their coworkers.”

Sammi snorts, but tries to bury it in a cough.

“Whoever did this has put all of your reputations on the line.” His eyes narrow. “Unless,
of course, you were working together.”

Still no one speaks.

“Fine, then. If that’s the way you want it. I’m going to have to contact the police.”
He straightens up. “You will all wait here until they arrive. We’ve excused you from
the floor, and your work will be covered by the rest of the staff. You are not to
leave this room. Do you understand? Perhaps some time to think will help you decide
to give up the guilty party.”

Solomon disappears into the Manager’s Office, leaving us alone under the cold light
of the buzzing fluorescents.

Sammi sighs. “Merry frickin’ Christmas.”