Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless

by Liz Czukas

  “It’s a pretty badass color,” Sammi says unexpectedly.

  I meet her eyes in the mirror again, startled. “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She sounds surprised at my skeptical tone. “Red is definitely cool. You should get some bright red or blue highlights or something. Then you’d be a total badass.”

  “My mom won’t let me,” I say automatically. I know it for a fact. I’ve always wanted to color my hair. Make it anything but this, but she says it would be a shame to cover up natural red.

  “She’d get over it,” Sammi says. “It’s not that big a deal. I mean, hell, GoodFoods carries a couple brands of the punk colors. How hard-core can it be?”

  “Really?” I’ve never noticed them before. Then again, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at the hair-dye section of the store. There’s never been a point. “Is it hard to do?”

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

  “Nah. It’s kind of messy, but it’s easy.”

  We hear a soft cough from the stalls, and I realize Zaina’s still in there.

  “Zaina? Are you okay?”

  “Can you please wait outside or something?” she calls. “I can’t go with you listening.”

  “Stage fright?” Sammi hollers. “Can’t pee when we’re talking to you?”

  “Please,” Zaina begs.

  “Aww, don’t be so shy.” Sammi laughs.

  I giggle, but wave a hand at Sammi. “Don’t tease her.”

  “Just relax and think of Niagara Falls, Z!” she shouts.

  “Sammi!” I whisper, but I’m laughing, too.

  “Could you please leave me alone?” Zaina’s voice is desperate.

  “Oh, fine.” Sammi throws her head back and starts to sing, “The sun’ll come out tomorrow!”

  I join her, tentatively at first, but my voice gets stronger when I realize Sammi has no intention of quitting before the big finish. Soon we’re both belting, “To-morrow! To-morrow! I love ya! To-morrow!” at the top of our lungs.

  Someone pounds on the door, hard enough to make it waft open an inch. “What’s going on in there?” It’s Solomon’s voice.

  I put my foot on the door, shoving it closed. “Nothing! Girl stuff!” My heart pounds. I can’t believe I said that to the big boss.

  Sammi laughs and adds, “Tampons!” in a piping voice.

  “Well, hurry it up. This is not playtime.”

  This is not playtime, Sammi mouths with a stern finger pointed at me.

  I cover my mouth to smother laughter.

  “Do you hear me?” Solomon shouts.

  I uncover long enough to shout, “Loud and clear!” before slapping my hand back over my mouth.

  The stall door opens and Zaina peeks out, looking pale. “He didn’t come in, did he?”

  “No.” Sammi shakes her head. “Chloe ninja-kicked the door shut.” She strikes a pose, hands raised in karate readiness.

  Zaina ducks her head and goes to the sink to wash her hands. She hisses when she touches the water. “So cold!”

  “Seriously.”

  I tuck my fingers under my arms. “I’m not even sure I could pee at this temperature.”

  “You may change your mind if they keep us here much longer.”

  “Speaking of that—” Sammi waves me aside and flings the door open, but no one is outside anymore. “You can’t hold us here against our wills, you know!” she shouts into the void. “This is kidnapping!”

  Zaina gasps and flattens herself against the wall beside the hand dryer. I stand on my toes behind Sammi, looking over her shoulder for Solomon and Kris. “Who are you talking to?” I ask.

  “Trust me, they hear.” She raises her voice back to shouting level. “Kidnapping!”

  “We’re already in trouble, Sammi.” I might be a little more badass than usual today, but there are limits. “Maybe you shouldn’t antagonize Mr. Solomon right now.”

  “Whatever. They’ve obviously decided we’re a bunch of criminals.” Sammi slips her arms through Zaina’s and mine and leads the way to the Frozen Foods section. “Come on. The boys should have finished up in Dairy by now, don’t you think?”

  She’s right. They’ve rounded the corner at the far end of Frozen Foods, causing the motion sensors in the cases to illuminate them like beacons while the rest of the aisle is dark. That changes as we walk toward them, the bulbs reacting to our approach by flicking to life. It’s like we’re creating our own runway lights.

  Gabe, who is working on the lower half of the door in front of Juice, looks up, then stands suddenly when he sees Sammi. “I thought you left.”

  “Just need a little break,” she says. “You know how it is.”

  “I thought—” he starts again, and then cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

  “It’s freezing over here!” Zaina hugs herself.

  “That’s kind of the point.” Tyson smiles at her.

  “But does it have to be so cold?”

  “Yes,” Micah answers.

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I wish the cops would hurry up and get here,” Gabe says. “I’m so done with cleaning.”

  “You’d seriously rather be arrested than stuck here cleaning?” Tyson asks.

  “I’m not going to be arrested.” Gabe sounds completely confident.

  I spray down the door in front of a display of ice-cream sandwiches and my stomach growls again.

  “Chloe, are you okay?” Tyson asks. “You look kind of pale.”

  I find a smile and try not to make direct eye contact when I answer with a breezy, “Fine!” and then change the subject. “You guys, seriously, who do you think would have done this?”

  “Agnes,” Sammi says without hesitation.

  Everyone reacts with the same kind of shock I feel.

  “Why her?” Tyson asks.

  Sammi turns, propping one hand on her hip. “Seriously, it’s the perfect cover. She seems like the model employee. She’s worked here forever. She’s probably got, like, a million cats at home and she needs more money for Cat Chow.”

  Gabe laughs. “Maybe she’s been secretly embezzling from the company all this time, and one day she’s not going to show up for work and we’ll find out she fled the country.”

  “To live on a private island with all her cats,” Sammi adds.

  “I’m serious, you guys.”

  “Oh, come on, Chloe. We’ll never figure this out. It could have been anybody. It could have been Solomon himself.”

  “There’s got to be something we’re missing. Some clue. I checked out the padlock earlier, but there were no marks—” I cut myself off with a gasp. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” Micah asks.

  I drop to a crouch and brace my head with my hands. “I’m so stupid!”

  “Did you figure it out?” Tyson asks.

  “No!” I look up at them. “I touched the padlock earlier. My fingerprints are going to be all over it. They’re going to think it was me!”

  “No, no.” Tyson hunkers down in front of me and puts a hand on my arm. “I’m sure there are tons of fingerprints on the box. Don’t worry about it.”

  “How could I be so stupid?” I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not a detective. What was I thinking?”

  “So, wait. You’ve actually been trying to solve this? Like a detective?” Sammi’s voice is closer than I expected, and I open my eyes to find them all in a loose circle around me. Tyson is still down on my level.

  Heat rushes into my face for the kajillionth time, but I don’t fight it. What’s the point? I’ve already embarrassed myself enough today. “Yes,” I admit. “I don’t know. I was bored, I guess, and it was at least something kind of interesting to think about. I thought maybe I could—never mind.” Not that I’d be willing to admit it out loud, but I kind of loved the idea of being the one to solve it before the cops got here. Too much Nancy Drew in my past, too much Sherlock Holmes in my present.

  “I can’t picture you in police academy,” Gabe say
s thoughtfully.

  The flush in my cheeks deepens. “I don’t want to be a cop.” I feel like a dork. “I read too many mysteries, I guess. It’s stupid, I know.”

  “It’s not stupid,” Micah says. He’s now sitting cross-legged, facing me from a short distance away. “Who says you can’t solve a mystery? Maybe you’ll be a detective later.”

  “Seriously?” I look at him in disbelief. Who goes around planning to be a detective? But that makes me wonder about him. “What do you want to do?” I ask.

  “Ideally, I’d like to be on the first manned flight to Mars, but I don’t know if I’ll qualify.” The look on his face says he’s dead serious. “If not, I still want to work for NASA. I think it would be almost as good to be on the team on Earth for the Mars flight.”

  No one says anything for a few beats. Surprisingly, it’s Zaina who speaks first. “I believe you will, Micah.”

  He smiles widely. “Thank you, Zaina.”

  Sammi nudges Gabe’s foot with hers. “What are you going to do next year?”

  He sighs as he leans back against the frozen-veggies case. “College. Basketball. Same shit, different school.”

  “Do you even like basketball?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t not like it. It’s just that I don’t really have a choice so it’s hard to care.”

  “Why don’t you have a choice?” Micah asks.

  “My dad went to Notre Dame. My brother and sister both went to Notre Dame. I’m a legacy. That’s where I’m going.”

  “You don’t get any say? That’s kind of rough.” I shift to sit since my legs are starting to fall asleep. It’s numbingly cold on the floor with my back against the freezer, but I don’t want to move right now. I wrap my arms around my upraised knees.

  “That’s kind of bullshit,” Sammi says.

  Gabe nods, but he looks down at the ground. “I wish he’d let me have some input in where I was going to go.”

  “Why don’t you apply to some other places?” I ask.

  “He’ll only pay if I go to Notre Dame.”

  “Good problems to have,” Tyson says.

  He’s been quiet, and now we all look at him.

  He licks his lips. “College is a given for you. I have to work my butt off just to get there.”

  Gabe’s mouth moves like he’s trying to say something, but he can’t work it out.

  “So, you know, just be glad you know you’re going,” Tyson adds.

  “Dude, I get it.” Gabe puts his hands up. “Poor little rich kid whining about how hard his life is. That’s why I didn’t bring it up.”

  “Where would you go if you had a choice?” I ask.

  “Honestly? I don’t even know. I’ve never really thought about it since it wasn’t an option.”

  “It is an option,” Tyson insists.

  “Not if I want my dad to be happy.”

  “Who cares if he’s happy?” Sammi asks.

  Gabe stares at her for a long moment. “I guess I do.”

  “What about what you want?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a good school.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Sometimes it’s easier to go along with what makes other people happy.”

  “Oh, really?” Sammi looks at him, and I have a feeling she’s not just talking about school.

  “I understand,” Zaina speaks up. “My dad expects me to be a certain way, and most of the time, it’s easier to cooperate.”

  “How does he feel about you not wearing the hijab?” Micah uses both forefingers to trace the outline of a head scarf.

  “He doesn’t mind that so much. My mother doesn’t wear it, either.” She shrugs. “But other things . . . sometimes it’s not worth the fight.”

  “I know the feeling.” Micah nods.

  “What’s your deal, anyway?” Sammi asks. “Why are you homeschooled?” She says the last word like it tastes bad.

  “I started out in regular school. For kindergarten, you know? But it was too easy. My parents wanted me to move up to first grade, but the school wouldn’t let me because I was too young. So my parents decided to homeschool me for kindergarten, and then first grade. They thought maybe the rest of the class would catch up and then I could go to school.”

  “Did you?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “See, I’m really smart.” And because it’s Micah talking, no one protests. I don’t even think he’s trying to brag.

  He continues, “I just kept getting further and further ahead of people my age, so there was never a time I could go back in. So, I stayed out. My sister, too.”

  “Does it get boring?” I ask.

  “Not really. We do a lot of stuff outside the house, depending on what we’re studying. But honestly, that’s why I wanted to get a job,” Micah says. “I have other homeschool friends, and some friends in my neighborhood. Sometimes I do video chats with my teachers or other homeschoolers, but it’s not the same as being in the same room with other people. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Believe me, it’s overrated.” Sammi crosses her arms.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Haven’t you heard? ‘Hell is other people.’”

  “Jean-Paul Sartre,” Micah says.

  She rolls her eyes. “You do know everything.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little cliché?” I ask. “The whole high-school-is-hell thing? I mean, it’s not great, but it’s not horrible every minute, right?”

  “You should try it being me,” Sammi says.

  “What’s so bad about being you?” Tyson asks. His tone says she’s full of it.

  “Gosh, where should I start?” She clasps her hands with mock enthusiasm. “Well, there’s getting called a dyke every day. There’s the fact that none of the girls will talk to me because they think I’m checking them out, and none of the guys will talk to me because they think I’m into girls.”

  “Are you?” Micah asks.

  She gives him a look. “Are you serious?”

  He nods. “I don’t know what you are. How would I know if I didn’t ask?”

  Her pale mouth hardens into a line. “No. I’m not. I like guys, okay?”

  “Huh,” Tyson says in surprise. I check the others for their reactions. Zaina is watching Sammi intently, Gabe seems distracted by something on his pants, and Micah is nodding.

  I can’t be the only one wondering. “Then why do you dress like that?” I ask.

  Sammi looks down at her baggy jeans and skater shoes. “I like my clothes. Why do you dress the way you do?”

  “Me?” My clothes are about as middle-of-the-road as you can get. I don’t like to stand out. Red hair has always done that for me without any extra help.

  “Yeah. Why do you have purple shoes? Why do you wear glasses? Why do you always have your hair in a ponytail?”

  “I—I don’t know. I just do.”

  “Exactly. I dress the way I feel like I should dress.” Sammi runs a hand over her short blond hair. “If people are so narrow-minded that they think I’m gay just because I have short hair, that’s not my problem.”

  “But if it makes you miserable at school, why wouldn’t you try to fit in more?” I ask.

  “Because that makes me miserable, too. Why should I have to fit in with everyone else’s idea of what makes someone beautiful? Why does everyone care so much? I’ll never look as good as Zaina, so what’s the point?”

  Zaina startles at the mention of her name. “You don’t want to be beautiful,” she says.

  “Everyone wants to be beautiful.” My eyes roam over the black waterfall of hair swept over her shoulder.

  “People make assumptions about me, too,” she says.

  “Because you’re Muslim?” Micah asks.

  “Most people don’t know that I am,” she says. “They think because I don’t wear the hijab that I’m something else. Greek, Russian, Mexican . . . whatever they want me to be.”

  “Does that bother you?” I ask.

>   “Not really.”

  “So, what did you mean about assumptions?” Tyson asks.

  “They assume that because I’m beautiful, that I’m cold. And mean.” She looks down, her lashes brushing her cheeks. “And that I’m easy.”

  “What?” Sammi asks.

  “People assume that beautiful girls are sluts,” she says.

  “Bullshit,” Sammi says.

  Gabe sucks air through his teeth. “I think she’s kind of right.”

  “You think just because a girl is pretty that she wants to screw everyone?” Sammi demands.

  “A lot of guys do,” he says. Fire lights in Sammi’s eyes, and Gabe searches the rest of us for backup. “Tyson, help me out. Don’t you think that’s true?”

  “I don’t know.” Tyson looks uncomfortable. “I don’t think that, but maybe other guys do. I don’t know.”

  Gabe settles on me next. “Chloe. Be honest. Who’s the most beautiful girl at your school?”

  It’s an easy question. “Jessica Mueller.”

  “And what do you think of her?”

  I picture Jessica in my head. Tall; long, sleek brown hair; perfect skin. She’s probably the most popular girl in school. Hangs out with all the coolest guys. Rumor has it she’s been with at least half of them. And that’s just what I’ve heard as the new kid. It’s not like people spend a lot of time talking to me. I lick my lips. “They say she’s kind of a slut, I guess.”

  Sammi sighs. “High school is complete bullshit.”

  “I don’t know if she is, though,” I try. “I’m new.”

  Zaina pushes the bulk of her hair behind her shoulders. “See? I’m right.”

  My ears go hot again. “Maybe.”

  “People at my school assume the same thing about me,” Zaina says.

  “And are you? A slut, I mean?” Gabe asks her.

  She glares at him. “No. Are you?”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” He grins, showing off his dimples. “I mean, I’ve been with some girls, but that doesn’t make me a slut.”

  “And being with some guys doesn’t make Jessica Mueller a slut, either,” Sammi says, shooting me a dirty look.

  The heat in my ears spreads across my temples and cheeks. “I know that.”