by Tim Greaton
frosting off the walls the day before. Happy to have escaped her attack, he trudged down the filthy stairway, waded through the trash around the corner, and for the first time opened the door to her so-called store.
Hinges squealed as musty air wafted out like poisonous gas. Holding his fingers to his nose, he flipped on the light switch and a string of florescent bulbs flickered, slowly illuminating torn couches, broken chairs and stained mattresses. Zachary gagged at the mildew odor and forced himself further inside to see scarred bureaus, crooked bookshelves and a nightstand that was missing one leg. More like a furniture graveyard than a retail shop, the entire store’s contents should have been thrown away from what Zachary could see. The only good thing he could say about the place was that the floors were clear of trash and clothes. He continued past dusty chairs, scratched tables and odd cabinets to the nicest item in the store, a tall and shiny cash register that stood on a counter facing the front glass door. The register’s chrome sides sparkled with swirls and ridges, and its few exposed sections of wood shined as though just polished. Zachary guessed the machine to be at least a hundred years old. It took several tries but he soon figured out how to open the cash drawer, where he found a few bills and coins inside.
More or less ready, he turned the rusty “OPEN” sign toward the sidewalk and unlocked all four locks on the front door. He barely had time to get back behind the counter before someone pounded on the door.
A customer already?
Dark glasses studied him through the glass for a few seconds before a tall boy pushed his way inside. Though slim, he had pudgy red cheeks that looked snowball sore. He strode up to the counter and slammed both hands down. Dust settled and glass tinkled throughout the shop.
“So you’re the new kid.”
Along with a white tennis visor and sunglasses, the boy wore a yellow golfing shirt and cream-colored pants. The stain on his visor and a ragged blue patch sewn onto one knee of his light pants were the only things that hinted he might not be as rich as he tried to look.
“I’m, Zachary.”
“Why don’t I just call you, Ack,” the tall kid said.
Though better than “Snot Hair,” the nickname still grated on Zachary. This must have been the trouble-making kid Bret warned him about.
“And you’re Kevin Stemson,” Zachary said.
“The one and only.”
“Sorry, Kevin,” Zachary said, “but I’m only supposed to have customers in here.” The truth was Madame Kloochie hadn’t said any such thing, but he could already tell that the less he saw of this boy the better he would like it.
“Maybe I am a customer,” the taller boy said, crossing to one of the front windowsills. He lifted a dusty vase and juggled it from one hand to the other. “Besides, who’s going to make me leave?”
“You really need to go,” Zachary said bristling at the comment. No wonder Bret hated him. “I mean it.”
“Ooooh,” Kevin said, wiggling his fingers, “the cripple boy is bossing me around.”
With every passing moment, Kevin reminded Zachary more of Billy Timkin. That combined with the frustration of being stuck in a dusty junk shop when he should have been out helping his father sent Zachary’s anger meter right to the top. He gripped the counter with both hands, which made his broken arm ache, and said, “I’m not kidding, Kevin. You have to go.”
“Seen the little thief next door in a bikini?” Kevin asked, pushing on a large oak mirror that hung from one of the store posts. It rocked from side to side.
“Time’s up,” Zachary said. He had no idea who Kevin was talking about, and he had no desire to discuss girls with a jerk who went around calling them names.
“Don’t you want to know about the criminals living next door?” Kevin asked.
“No,” Zachary said.
“Sure you do,” Kevin said. “Both her parents are in jail right now. And big thieves raise little thieves.”
“Thanks for the news,” Zachary said. “Now go home.”
“You going to make me?” Kevin asked.
“Maybe.”
“Sure, Cripple Boy.” Kevin turned and marched toward the side of the store. Zachary followed and wondered if he was about to get into a fight on just his second full day in New Hampshire.
“Might’s well see if she’s outside before I quit this dump.” Kevin stopped at a dirty window and stared out the side of the store. “I knew it. Nice bikini!”
Zachary leaned over Kevin’s shoulder and peered outside. He couldn’t see anyone.
“Ha, ha…made you look.”
“Funny,” Zachary said. “Now get out.”
Just then the neighbor’s door opened, and a girl about his age strode onto the porch. She wore jean shorts and a green tee shirt, and her blazing red hair hung in a long ponytail down to her waist. A large daisy sprouted from one side of her hair. The breath caught in Zachary’s throat. He had no idea how it was possible, but he immediately recognized her as the pretty girl from the photo he’d left under his pillow, the one he had found in his father’s office. But he had been wrong about one thing: she wasn’t just pretty; she was beautiful!
Like an orange beach ball with legs, a little boy raced out of the house behind her. She smiled and chased him onto the back lawn where she grabbed his arms and whirled him around. Zachary was thinking about how much he’d like to see her smile at him like that when Kevin turned and marched back to the front of the store again.
“Time to blow this clambake,” he said to Zachary, who followed close behind. The tall boy pushed the mirror so it rocked against the post again. Zachary stopped it.
“You’ve got some choices to make,” Kevin said, pulling the front door open. Zachary didn’t bother to ask what choices. He couldn’t have cared less what the bully thought he should or shouldn’t choose.
“You need to decide if you’re with the winners or losers on this street,” Kevin finished.
The door closed behind him. Before he even stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street, Zachary’s choice was made.
After making sure the bully was gone, he snuck back to the side window where he could watch the girl next door play with the little boy who he assumed was her little brother. To say Zachary was attracted to her would have been an understatement. Already, the image of Stephanie Travis had faded to the recesses of his mind. All he could see now was long red hair that swept out beautifully as his neighbor chased after the little boy who must have been her brother. At the back of his mind, he couldn’t help wondering what his father had been doing with her picture, but at the moment he was just thankful she was there. He continued to watch and smile for ten more minutes, until she and her little brother went back inside.
It wasn’t long, however, until thoughts of her faded to be replaced by worry for his father. There he was, stuck in Madame Kloochie’s junk pile of a store, while his father’s life was in jeopardy. Why wouldn’t his uncle let him help? he asked himself as he stared at the jumble of dust-covered surfaces from behind the front counter. The only other person who came into the shop that first day was a middle-aged man, who after a two-minute tour seemed to come to the same conclusion that Zachary had reached earlier that morning: everything was junk. He left without buying anything.
Come three o’clock, the stairs creaked and dust shook loose from the ceiling as Madame Kloochie stomped down the stairs and lumbered through to the front of the store.
“From now on, I’ll take the three to five shift,” she said, settling onto the stool behind the counter. Zachary couldn’t take his eyes off from the rickety old stool that by all rights should have collapsed beneath her weight. It seemed happy enough to hold her, however, so he looked up to see her pulling all of the money out of the fancy cash register and stuffing it in her shirt pocket.
“Shouldn’t you leave some for tomorrow?” he asked, more curious than concerned.
“Don’t you worry about that,” she said. “They’ll be seventeen dollars and seventeen cents in the drawer
when you get back here in the morning.
Though it was an odd number, it was the exact amount he had found in the drawer earlier. He shrugged. What was it to him anyway? If she wanted to take money out and put it back in for no reason, that was up to her.
“Can I go upstairs now?” Zachary asked.
“Might’s well,” she said. “You’ve got a living room to clean, anyway.”
“Great,” Zachary muttered as he made his way back through the store to the trash-filled hallway that led upstairs. Suddenly rebellious but not enough to completely quit working, he decided to clean the hallway instead of the living room. After retrieving a fresh box of trash bags, the broom and the dustpan, he started sweeping all the trash down the stairs and had already filled five bags by the time Bret rang the doorbell.
“S-S-Still at it, huh?” Bret said as Zachary kicked enough garbage out of the way to open the door.
“For the next ten years at this rate,” Zachary said.
“I-I would have been here earlier,” Bret said, “b-b-but my parents said I had a f-f-fever and made me stay inside. Th-They just wen t-t-to work.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Zachary said. “I had to sit in the store all morning. What a bunch of crap.”
“Could have told you that,” Bret said, apparently having already seen Madame Kloochie’s inventory.
He glanced around, nodded at the stairs which were already free of debris and offered to help. In a short time they had filled
