by Nic Stone
Wild.
“Who’s got the ego problem now, huh, Danger?”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite my inner protestations. “Whatever.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Cut it out.”
Gotta say: Zan Macklin’s way down-er-to-earth than I expected. I’m (cautiously) pleasantly surprised—and optimistic.
He’s smiling now. And looking at me. I can see it in my peripheral.
“There actually is a for three,” he says.
“Okay…”
A couple of seconds pass. Then a couple more.
Nothin’.
Another instinctive nonresponse-provoked head turn…He’s full-on blushing now. “Well?” I say.
“Well what?”
“What’s for three?”
“Well, for three, you’re…” He looks at me. “Well. You’re you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re like…aesthetically unique.”
“Unique.” I hate that word.
“Yeah. Different. Singular. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Okay…”
“It’s a compliment. Let’s get down to business, yeah?”
I gulp then. And notice his watch. Which pretty much blasts a big-ass hole in whatever tenuous web of connection I was feeling with good ol’ Zanny Zan. Despite the fact that he’s playing with a fidget spinner my nine-year-old brother would be really into.
God, what the hell was I thinking putting my grubby little hands on the Sultan of Sanitary Supplies? Are my nails even clean?
I totally peek down at them.
“What’d you wanna talk to me about?” he says.
I can’t respond. It’s like the letters all tumble apart when the words reach the tip of my tongue.
“Rico, if you wanted me to take you on a park date, all you had to do was ask—”
“Whoa, that is not what this is about.”
He grins. “So?”
Why is this so hard?
“Okay,” I say. Deep breath. He’s just a dude. With hella money, yes, but also a crater of a former zit giving me stank-eye from the side of his nose. “Remember how when you were coming into the store on Christmas Eve, there was a cute little old lady going out?”
“You mean the night you avoided me?”
“Stop. She was dark-brown-skinned and had white hair, and you held the door open for her. She called you handsome.”
“Wow, Rico. And here I thought you weren’t paying me any attention.”
I glare at him.
Of course he laughs. “I’m just messin’ with you. Sure. I remember her.”
That’s a relief at least. “Well, I need to find her,” I say.
“Why?”
I anticipated this question. I really did. Just failed to come up with a viable response. “I…wanna reconnect with her.”
“Ah-ha.” He clasps his hands in his lap. “So what does this have to do with me?”
“Well, for one, you’re the only other person I know who knows what she looks like.” Besides my boss, but hopefully he won’t ask about that.
“And for two?” He winks.
I turn away. “Well, I heard you’re maybe, ahh…good with computers?”
“Oh?”
“Something about you getting kicked out of private school for hacking the main server and giving the entire eighth-grade football team straight As?”
He lifts his chin, but not before I see the wicked twinkle in his eye. “I know naught of which you speak, Agent Danger.”
“Agent Danger? Seriously?”
He blushes again!
Which makes my face hot. Thankful for my skin’s high melanin content in this moment.
(This is getting ridiculous.)
Clear my throat. “I need to get into the security camera footage from Christmas Eve to see if I can get a license plate for her.”
“She got into a taxi.”
My head whips left. “She did?!”
“Yep.”
“Do you remember the name of the cab company?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t say I do.”
“Okay. So the security footage is my only hope, then—”
“So you want me to hack the security archives at your place of employment?”
I swallow. “Basically.”
“Nope.” And he crosses his arms.
I sigh.
“Not unless you tell me why you need to find her,” he says.
I take a deep breath. Inhale a whiff of his (sorcerous) cologne.
Which probably costs more than our weekly grocery budget.
Now every time I breathe, I wonder how obvious it is to him: the fact that I have so much less than he does. Can he smell the five-dollar (for the big size) Johnson’s baby lotion on my skin or the two-dollar Suave conditioner I left in my curly hair? What would he say if he knew my skirt was held together by a safety pin or that I use the laces in these shoes for a different pair as well?
What kind of assumptions will he make if I tell him about the ticket?
Yeah, I could say what I planned to: I think the lady is holding on to a big winner and doesn’t know it. That she made an impression on me, and I think she deserves to cash that ticket in and enjoy the rest of her time here in this often-unkind world.
But will he believe me?
Also: What happens if he decides he wants the ticket? Even rich people seem likely to jump at the chance to get more money. Hell, if Ponzi schemes and corporate fraud are any indication, rich people seem especially likely….
“Danger? You good over there?”
“Yeah,” I say with a nod.
Because what other option do I have? If he can hack the security footage, I need him.
So I take a deep breath. And swallow. And let the cooler-than-expected breeze blowing up my skirt jolt me back to reality.
Then I look Zan Macklin right in his money-green eyes.
And I tell him about fairy godgranny and the ticket.
While currently smeared in discarded—and rotting—milk/egg mixture (did someone make French toast?) and covered with stringy stuff from the old banana peel I wound up smashed against, I felt it important that you see me.
Our beloved Rico isn’t much of a dreamer—years of forced adulthood and hindered ambition will do that to a girl—but in a fit of sleepless fervor, she scribbled me onto the legal pad where she makes the “monthly budget and bills” lists…then promptly ripped me out, crushed me up tight like I’d insulted her mama, and slammed me into the trash can.
Bit rude, but whatever. Observe:
Things I would do if I had a $47.2-million lump sum
Buy a nice house–4 bedroom/4.5 bath, two stories plus basement, pool preferably in a subdivision with “On the River” in its name and walk-in pantry in the kitchen
Health insurance GOOD health insurance
Probably buy a second, smaller house just for me
Decent car for me
Volvo XC90 for Mama
Buy Jaxy every Lego set there is
Give a crap-ton to charities that help poor kids, especially around Christmas
Jaxy college fund
At 7:33 Saturday morning, Zan-the-Man Macklin shuffles into the Gas ’n’ Go with his shirt misbuttoned and his thick, dark hair sticking straight up on one side.
It’s way more attractive than I was distinctly prepared for.
Gotta shake it off.
“You’re here!” I say, rushing over to grab his forearm and pull him to Mr. Z’s office.
He groans. “This relationship isn’t gonna last if you insist on dragging me along, IQ.”
&nbs
p; I pull the chair out from beneath the desk and shove him down into it. Then I kneel in front of the desk. “IQ?”
“Ice Queeeeeeen.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say as I input the password that unlocks the fancy flat-screen-monitor/actual-computer-part-in-one: getgasandgetitfast1. “I’m as warm as freshly baked bread.”
He snorts and lets his head fall back.
“Okay, so you have exactly”—I look at my Loki watch…and then shove it behind my back when I catch sight of his fancy-spensive one. God—“thirty-eight minutes.” Toss in a friendly and hopefully encouraging pat on the shoulder even though I feel weird touching him.
“Why am I doing this, again?” he says.
“Because you’re a good guy doing a good deed. That money could change an old lady’s final years into something she’s never even dreamed of.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want her life to be changed.” He yawns, and I shake my head, instantly irritated. This guy has no idea what it’s like to constantly be on the brink of not having what you need to survive.
Must be nice.
“Mr. Zoughbi will walk back into the store at precisely eight-fifteen.” I stand, frankly wanting to get the hell away from him. He reeks too much of money right now and it makes me wanna barf and punch him right in the sternum where his buttons are jacked up. Preferably at the same time. “All yours,” I say.
No response.
Peek over the shoulder. He’s knocked out. Mouth open and everything.
“Macklin!”
“Huh?” He shoots up. “What happened?”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his eyes. “Forty-eight minutes—”
“Thirty-eight. Actually no…thirty-six now.”
He cracks his knuckles and whips a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket.
Of course he’s even more attractive in nerd mode. Which does nothing but increase my irritation in this moment. “I’ll be out there restocking candy bars if you need anything. Leaving the office door open.”
“Mm-hmm.” He starts typing away.
I don’t move. He’s managed to pull up a black screen with a bunch of green letters and numbers and symbols scrolling on it. And still typing. I have no idea how long I stand there looking between the screen and his Concentration Face, but he suddenly stops typing.
He pushes his glasses up on his nose (Stop it, Zanny-Zan-the-Man!). “The doorbell just rang,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Customer?”
“Oh my gosh!” I rush out of the office, and he totally snorts. It’ll be a miracle to make it through the next half hour without steam shooting out of all my facial orifices.
Then I see the glistening bald spot of the man standing in front of one of the open cooler doors, and I immediately want to go back into the office and maybe hide under the desk.
It’s Mr. Fifty.
When he starts to turn around, I pretend to busy myself with straightening cigarette cartons.
“Rico!” he says once he reaches the counter.
I look over my shoulder. Let my eyebrows rise. “Wow! You’re up early for a Saturday.”
“Ha! Look who’s talkin’!”
“Employment calls.” I shrug.
“Me too, kid, me too,” he says. “You’re having a decent morning, I hope?”
“Not too shabby. Yourself?”
He looks at his watch. (Which looks like Zan’s. Figures.) “Late. But doesn’t really matter when you’re the boss, right?” A wink.
Blegh, go away!
He pays for his vittles and beverage ($44.17 in change), then smiles. “You have a good one, all right, Rico?”
“Will do, sir. Same to you.”
As soon as the door closes behind Mr. Fifty, Zan speaks. Well, yells really. “Hey, IQ?”
“Stop calling me that!”
He laughs. “I take it you’re alone out there?”
“Yeah…”
“Okay. Just thought you should know the security footage is encrypted.”
Uhhhh…“And in noncomputer dork, that means what exactly?”
“Shut your hole.”
A few seconds go by.
“No, for real,” I say, kneeling to do the candy bars. “What does that mean?”
“Means more work.”
Sugar biscuits. “How much more work?”
“Mmmm…For me? A good half an hour at least.”
Watch check. “You got twenty-two minutes, Macklin!”
“Look, you ingrate, I’m working as fast as I can. Just letting you know I might not be able to crack it within your ridiculous time constraint!”
Inhale. Exhale. “Anything I can help you with?”
“One of those artificially colored and flavored mocha cappuccino things would be nice,” he says.
I go to the machine and make the drink. Take it to him.
He’s holding an active fidget spinner in his left hand—this one’s gold.
“What’s with those?” I nod toward it.
“Sometimes you just need something to do with your hands, you know?” He sets the spinner on the desk—still spinning—and reaches for the coffee. Looks into the cup, then up at me. “You’re a god-awful barista, IQ.”
“What?”
“Where the hell’s the whipped cream?”
“UGH!” Freakin’ rich people! I turn to go back to the machine, but he hooks a finger into my apron string and pulls me back.
“I’m messin’ with you, Rico. Take a chill pill, will ya?”
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” I set the coffee on the desk.
“And you are higher-strung than a superkite. We need to get you some good weed or something.” He takes a sip of the coffee.
“Are you serious?!”
“About which part?” He goes back to typing. “I gotta say, though: I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. Is that weird?”
“Umm…yes.”
“Hmm. Well, you have to admit we’ve got rapport, you and me.”
I find myself silently agreeing in spite of the needling little voice telling me to compare his and my footwear (me: used and abused Keds I got for $2.50 at a flea market; him: what are surely the latest and greatest Nike Air Maxes).
Thankfully, though, before I have a chance to spiral and run away, some parking lot footage pops up on the screen.
“Oh! You’re in!”
“Nope. Your boss has it set up where each month of footage has a different unlock passcode. This is January so I’m looking for some kind of loophole that will let me into the December stuff. Has he been hacked before?”
I shrug. “I guess it’s possible. He got new software just after the store was broken into and trashed by anti-Muslim douchefaces last August.”
Zan nods. “I’m guessing whoever did that got into the computer and messed some stuff up because homeboy’s got this thing locked down.”
The bell on the door chimes again, and I look at my watch. “Down to fifteen minutes.”
“I’m on it. Go tend to your customer.”
Except it’s not a customer.
“Mr. Z!”
Oh God, oh God…crap crap CRAP!
“What are you doing back there, Rico? You leave the store open this way?” He walks toward the office.
My heart hops up between my ears. I’m so dead.
“You’re back early,” I say.
“Yes, yes. Dunkin’ was fresh out of gingerbread cheesecake donuts.” He shakes his head, thankfully distracted for the moment. “For shame.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Zoughbi, Gas ’n’ Go owner!” Dear God, if you’re real, please let Zan be hearing this and take the hint to frickin’ HID
E!
“You’re acting very strangely, young lady. Is everything fine?” He comes closer, and I try my hardest to block the way to the office.
“There was, umm…a minor problem.” Man, I wish I were a better liar.
“Problem?” He looks down at the open boxes of candy bars on the floor. “What sort of problem?”
“Oh, no big deal…candy inventory mix-up.”
“Ah. So you’re ready to finish the restock?” He gestures to the boxes.
“Absolutely, Mr. Z.” I smile and try to pull the office door closed, but then he says, “No, no, leave it. I’m going inside.”
He gets closer. Closer.
I’m. So. Dead.
Though still smiling somehow. If only I could get my damn feet to move.
“Rico?” Mr. Z says when he’s about five feet from me. “Are you—?”
“I’m just about done in here!” Zan says from the office.
My smile falls off.
“There is someone in my office?”
Mr. Z don’t look happy. Matter of fact, the last time I saw a look like the one he’s wearing right now, he was standing outside the store rubbing his beard as he stared at the broken windows and smashed-in front door.
I’m about to get fired. What if he calls the cops?
And there’s Zany Zanny Macklin, who decides it’s a good idea to come lean against the office doorjamb with his hands in his pockets like he owns the place.
Because he surely thinks he owns everything.
I hate him. I really, really hate him.
Mr. Zoughbi is understandably furious. “And who might this be, Rico?”
“Alexander Gustavo Macklin, sir,” Zan says, extending a hand.
Gustavo?
“Rico here was having some trouble matching your physical inventory with what was in the system. Your computer apparently had a VV.”
Mr. Z’s eyes go wide. “A VV?”
“A Voldemort Virus, sir.”
“Oh my…” Mr. Zoughbi is officially shook.
I gulp down a laugh. Even with my subnovice level of tech savvy, I highly doubt Voldemort Virus is an actual thing.
