by Liz Czukas
“I call Bakery,” Sammi says, crossing over to the less horror-movie-set side of the aisle. At night, the bakery cases are just plain empty. Only a few crumbs on the very bottom shelves indicate that there used to be cakes, cookies, and rolls in there.
We split into small groups and work the area together. Now that the overhead Christmas music is gone, I can hear the hum of the refrigeration units below as I polish the glass in front of the empty platters where deli salads and prepared foods were during the day. I can also hear the steady whir and whoosh of the floor polisher a few aisles away. Somewhere, someone is listening to a portable radio, but it’s too far to make out the song.
Zaina is scrubbing the case beside me. It’s funny how even though I’m being quiet, too, I can’t stop fixating on how long it’s been since she spoke. She hasn’t said a word since we started cleaning. The silence is starting to feel like a giant bubble between us, pushing us apart and drowning out any noise either of us might make.
So, when she speaks, I nearly jump out of my skin, and she apologizes: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s fine. I was lost in thought, I guess. What did you say?”
“I said I hate cleaning windows.” She makes a face.
I can’t help smiling. “I’d rather do windows than floors.”
“I wouldn’t mind the floors if I could ride on that machine.” Her hazel eyes light up.
Laughter bursts out of me at the image of Zaina riding the big industrial floor cleaner. It’s like a miniature Zamboni. She would look ridiculous up there, but I love the idea. “I’ve always wanted to ride one of those scooter carts we have up front,” I confess.
Gabe overhears us. “Which one do you think would win in a race?”
“Forget that, I just want to bring my board in here.” Sammi rocks back into a skateboarding stance. “I could totally grind the cases over in meats.”
“That would be epic,” Gabe agrees.
“I’ve always wanted to ride my bike in the store,” Micah adds. “You know, when it’s empty in the morning? Did you ever want to do that as a kid? Like at Target or Walmart, when they have the big bike section and you can try them out?”
“Totally,” Sammi says. “I used to do laps around the bike section, and my parents would be all, ‘Samantha, stop that! You’re going to hurt someone!’” She scolds herself in the strangled whisper of a parent trying not to draw attention to an out-of-control kid.
“I was a runner,” Gabe says. “My parents used to keep me on one of those leashes.”
“What?” Zaina’s expression is priceless.
“It’s supposed to look like a fuzzy backpack, but it’s a leash.” Gabe mimes trying to make a break for it and getting yanked back on the end of an invisible line.
Tyson laughs. “Somebody ought to leash you now.”
“I remember the first time I went to a hotel,” I say. “When the elevator doors opened, and I saw that long hall”—I can still picture it in my mind and my pulse accelerates—“I just took off.”
“There’s something about big empty spaces,” Gabe agrees, gesturing around us at the wide aisles.
“Let’s have a race,” Sammi says, tossing her wad of paper towels to the ground.
I laugh, but then I see she’s serious. “We can’t do that.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because we’re already in trouble,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “(A) Exactly my point. What else are they going to do to us? And (B) We didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, who says a race is wrong? They probably won’t even notice. We’ll be back before anyone figures it out.”
“I don’t want to lose my job,” Micah says.
“Me neither,” Tyson agrees.
“Fine.” Sammi hunkers down and tightens the laces on her Vans. “You don’t have to race. Gabe, you in?”
He tosses his paper towels over his shoulder. “I’m so in.”
“Anyone else?” Sammi asks. “No?” She goes into a sprinter’s stance and Gabe lines up beside her.
“Me!” Zaina blurts out, and Sammi almost falls out of her pose.
She recovers quickly, though, shooting a grin at Zaina. “Hell yeah! Let’s do this.”
“Me too,” I say. I set my spray bottle and towels on top of the Deli case, then I line up with my toes against the edge of the same floor tile as the others.
“On your marks,” Sammi intones, “get set . . . GO!”
Gabe is off the line before anyone else, and I know in that instant that no one is going to beat him. Still, I run as fast as I can. My Converse make slapping sounds on the hard floor as I rush past the end of the Deli section and take a left through Seafood.
Sammi passes me on my left, making up ground on Gabe, but not getting close enough to overtake him. Zaina is keeping pace with me to my right. We separate as we enter Meats, and the huge refrigerated bunkers block the center of the aisle. Down the wine aisle, I get a glimpse of the big ride-on floor cleaner, but then it’s gone.
Behind me I hear the sound of pounding feet and I glance over my shoulder to see Tyson and Micah bearing down on me with wicked speed. I veer right as the meat bunkers end, and then Zaina and I are approaching the glass dairy cases together while both Micah and Tyson whiz by us.
My lungs burn by the time we pass the yogurt, but I only slow my pace a little. It’s not far until the left turn into Frozen Foods. The others are already out of sight. I can’t remember the last time I ran this hard. I can barely remember the last time I ran. My doctor got me excused from gym for the last three years because my blood sugar would get too low during class. I may have exaggerated a bit to stay out this year, so I haven’t been running in a long, long time.
Zaina passes me in the ice-cream section, but I don’t care. When I round the turn to see all the quiet registers, the others are so far ahead that they’re almost to Floral. From there, they only have to make it through Produce and they’ll be back to the starting point.
Still I run. From up ahead I hear laughter, and then Gabe’s voice. “Bet those cigarettes don’t sound like such a good idea now, huh, Samantha?”
“Fuck . . . you,” Sammi pants.
The others are slowing a bit through Produce. All the display cases are set at angles here, making a straight line through the department impossible. I’ve managed to cut some of their lead by the time I run past the empty case where they put out the fresh-cut fruit every morning. But it’s no contest—I’m going to be dead last. A stitch in my side takes the last of my speed, and I have to walk the final ten yards or so with the heel of my hand bracing my ribs.
“Woo-hoo! She made it!” Gabe cheers when I cross the finish line.
I lean forward and gasp for breath. My heart is pounding. “Who . . . won?”
“Me!” Gabe crows. “Take that, suckers!”
“You had a head start and you barely beat me,” Tyson says.
“Your hesitation cost you, man,” Gabe says.
I try to straighten up, but the world goes gray when I do, so I slump back down to hold myself up on my knees. I’m breathing embarrassingly hard. Without getting up again, I look toward the Produce section. There’s no sign that anyone has followed us. I can’t believe we got away with a race through the store. I laugh a wheezy, out-of-breath laugh.
“Little out of shape there, hey, Red?” Sammi pants at me, whacking me on the back.
“You don’t sound so great yourself,” Tyson says.
“Still came in third,” she says.
On my second attempt to straighten up, I manage it. My chest is still heaving, but at least I’m upright. I check out the others, but they don’t look nearly as bad as me. Not even Zaina, who was almost as slow as I was. Her cheeks are pink, and she’s breathing a little heavier than usual, but that’s it.
At least the boys have the grace to be sweaty. Gabe is hopping from foot to foot like a cartoon rabbit. “That was fun. Let’s go again!” he says with a grin.
Sammi flaps a hand at him. “God, no. I need a cigarette.”
“I need . . . some water,” I gasp.
“Aisle three,” Sammi says.
“Ha-ha,” I pant.
“I’ve got a bottle back in the Break Room,” Micah volunteers. “Do you want me to go get it?”
I nod and go back to hands-on-knees. “Yes . . . please.”
I’m going to need more than water soon; I know it. My fingers are still tingling, even though I’ve caught my breath. For the first time all day, I pray for the police to come quickly.
Chapter 15
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED DURING THIS SHIFT
1. Sammi is not as evil as advertised.
2. Zaina is Lebanese.
3. I cannot be trusted to gather carts from the parking lot.
4. There is a lot more glass in a grocery store than I ever realized.
5. I never want to become a janitor, high-rise window washer, or a manager at GoodFoods Market.
6. My mother actually does have untapped reservoirs of guilt saved up for special occasions like today.
7. It is possible to look forward to being questioned by the police.
“Do you think the cops are really on their way?” Zaina pauses with the door to the eggs propped open in her left hand. Cold air pours out in rolling waves around her knees and feet, and every circle she cleared in the condensation with her paper towels is already fogging over.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m two doors down in front of the skim milk, polishing away at the outside of the glass.
“We’ve been waiting an awfully long time,” she says. “I wonder if they’re actually coming.”
“Do you think he’d lie about calling?” Tyson wonders from the sour-cream-and-cottage-cheese cooler.
“I don’t know what to think,” Zaina says. She’s been much more talkative since the race. “I just can’t believe how long we’ve been waiting.”
It’s true. We’ve already worked our way from Bakery and Deli, through Seafood and Meat to the Dairy section. The only glass left is Frozen Foods. Admittedly, that’s still a pretty major job, but it does make you wonder what’s taking so long.
My stomach growls.
“You think Solomon’s trying to trick us?” Sammi asks.
“I don’t think he would lie.” Micah’s voice is muffled from inside the whole-milk section.
“Who knows.” Tyson sighs.
“Can they even talk to us without our parents here?” I ask. “If they are on their way, I mean.”
“They can talk to me,” Gabe reminds us. “I’m eighteen.”
“Gee, really, Gabe? That’s the first I’m hearing of this,” Sammi says with an eye roll.
Micah emerges from behind his door. “I think they can interview us as witnesses, even if our parents don’t give permission.”
I make a mental note to look up the rules on this kind of stuff. Seems like the sort of knowledge that might come in handy. Not that I’m planning to have a lot of face time with the police, but still.
Bending to polish the lowest corners of the glass doors makes my head swim, but not as badly as straightening up again. I press a palm to the door to steady myself, leaving a print on the glass I’ve just cleaned.
Great.
Out of nowhere, Sammi turns and does a jump shot to sink her used-up paper towels into the open garbage at the end of the janitor’s cart we’re still trailing. “I think I’m going to go,” she says.
“Go where?” Gabe asks.
“Just . . . go.” She swipes her hand into an unseen distance.
“You can’t,” Micah says.
“What are they going to do?” she asks. “Kris is going to chase me down and put me under citizen’s arrest? Yeah, right.”
“Sammi, you can’t just leave,” Tyson says.
She raises both eyebrows at him and takes two steps backward, then turns and heads for the front of the store. “See ya!” she calls over her shoulder.
The rest of us turn into statues, unsure what to do. I can’t even make myself look at anyone else—my eyes are glued to her short form as she saunters down one of the ethnic-food aisles. Then she’s past the prepackaged curries and out of sight. Her shoes are too quiet to make any sound on the floor. Still, I watch, expecting her to come right back, escorted by one of the bosses.
“Do you really think she’s going to leave?” Micah asks.
“Sammi likes to talk tough, but I don’t think she’d actually do anything,” Gabe says, though he sounds uncertain.
No one moves for a long, quiet moment. Finally, I speak up. “I’ll go check on her.” Mostly I need to satisfy the small ball of panic that’s starting to gain speed in my chest. I hate the idea that she might be defying Kris and Mr. Solomon. I’ve always been the kind of kid who could be counted on to watch the class if the teacher had to step out.
“You don’t even know where she went,” Tyson says.
The panic ball doesn’t care about reason. The panic ball needs to be soothed. “I’ll check the Break Room.”
Unexpectedly, Zaina steps forward. “I’ll come with you.”
“Um . . . okay.” I head for the aisle we last saw her. When I’ve got a clear view of it, it’s obvious she’s not just hiding out of sight to scare us.
Zaina walks beside me, but she doesn’t say anything until we get to the front of the store. “Do you think she really left?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” She would have had to be moving pretty fast to get her coat and already be out of the door without us seeing a trace of her. I bite my lip. I thought we’d have spotted her by now.
“Break Room,” Zaina reminds me.
I follow her, but before we reach it, the door opens and Kris comes out.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” The lie springs to my lips without thought.
“Me too.” Zaina’s voice is barely a whisper.
“Then why are you coming in here?” he asks.
My nerves crackle, but I tell him another lie. “Girl stuff.”
He looks away. Girl stuff is kryptonite to the male of the species. “All right, but make it quick,” he says.
We go into the Break Room for a moment, because we don’t have a choice.
Inside, Zaina whispers, “How long do we have to stand here?”
I shrug and my stomach growls again. For the first time, it occurs to me that someone must have thrown away the rest of my lunch when I went into the office to talk with Mr. Solomon. It had been gone when I came out. So was my book, for that matter.
My money’s on Agnes, the cleaning machine. But what would she have done with my book? I scan the room, noticing the cookie trays and the nasty eggnog carton are gone, too. There’s nothing to eat in here; I don’t know why I’m rechecking.
“Okay, let’s go.” Zaina interrupts my thoughts.
Kris is sitting cross-legged on one of the bagging conveyors when we come out. Just sitting on it, like he’s waiting to be bagged and taken home for someone’s dinner. He straightens up when he sees us, seeming to come out of a trance, but he doesn’t say anything.
Now, of course, we’re stuck going to the bathroom. He’s watching our every move. So much for my great cover story.
We walk quickly to the ladies’ room, though I scan as much of the store as I can see for any trace of Sammi. Nothing. When Zaina opens the door, the motion-sensor lights are already on, still blue in their warm-up phase, making the bathroom look like it’s underwater. The room is shockingly cold. I knew they turned the heat down in the store after closing, but it feels like I’ve taken a wrong turn into one of the freezer cases. I shiver involuntarily.
“Who’s there?” Sammi’s voice echoes from one of the stalls.
“It’s me. Chloe. And Zaina’s with me.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Thought you were leaving,” I challenge.
“No,” s
he drawls. “I said I had to go. To the bathroom.”
“Well, we had to pee, too,” I say, though I don’t.
“Excuse me.” Zaina ducks her head as she walks past me, heading for a stall.
A toilet flushes and Sammi emerges, her regulation uniform shirt now draped over one arm, exposing the T-shirt she was wearing beneath. It’s got an old-fashioned telephone booth on it, only it’s blue and says POLICE across the top. I never would have guessed she was a Whovian. She nods to me as she approaches the sink, but doesn’t say anything.
“Everyone thought you left,” I say, even though I want to talk about her T-shirt. I congratulate myself on my focus.
“Good.”
“Why do you do stuff like that?” I ask.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Like, saying stuff just to get people freaked out.”
She shrugs, and slings her uniform shirt around her neck like a scarf. “Why be boring?”
“Can’t you be interesting without being mean?”
“It’s not mean. Don’t be such a Boy Scout.”
Ouch. Okay, so I obviously wasn’t a Boy Scout, but I definitely stayed in Girl Scouts longer than most of the girls in my class. Earned some serious badges. I didn’t have the guts to tell my mom I didn’t want to do it anymore. Not like that’s news. I’ve never even had the guts to tell her I hate it that she comes into the doctor’s office with me.
Today is the first time in a long time that I can actually remember breaking rules on purpose. Not to mention covering up the accident in the parking lot. I lied to my own mother about why I’m still stuck at work. I’m even standing up to Sammi.
Well, a little anyway.
“I’m not a Boy Scout,” I say softly.
Sammi laughs her heh! laugh. “Right.” She finishes washing her hands and leans across the counter to inspect her bangs.
“Is that your natural color?” I ask.
“Nope. Is that yours?”
“Yeah.” I look at my own reflection, not surprised to see that my ponytail has slumped a bit to one side and I’ve got a corona of escaped curls all around my face. Not the pretty, romantic kind, just the frizzy half and three-quarter circles that come from having curly hair get wet and then dry.
