Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless Read online

  Tyson does a silly pantomime of grappling through the dark, which I can barely see through my own fog, but I laugh anyway. After a moment the haze clears and I can take in the view.

  The Break Room is crowded with more GoodFoods employees than I’ve ever seen in the store before. A lot of people are clutching cups of coffee like life preservers. A few spare a moment to nod, or mumble hellos as Tyson and I move through the room toward the bank of small lockers.

  A couple of times, he puts one hand on my back to steer me through the crowd. Even through my thick winter coat, I swear I can feel heat from his hand. Or maybe that heat is coming from inside me. Either way, I like the feeling of it, even when it starts to spread toward my cheeks in a secret-telling blush.

  Our lockers aren’t right next to each other, but they’re close enough that it’s hard for us both to use them at the same time. Of course, Tyson gestures for me to go first, but I shake my head.

  “No, you first. Please.” I flatten one hand in an “after you” gesture.

  He looks ready to double up on chivalry, but I smile and nod encouragingly and he gives in. This is exactly what I was hoping for, because when he turns his back, I yank my can of Glucerna out of my coat pocket and toss it in the big gray garbage can nearby.

  THINGS I WOULD RATHER DRINK THAN GLUCERNA

  1. Coffee with no cream or Splenda.

  2. Well water.

  3. Pickle juice.

  4. Clamato juice.

  5. The water left over after boiling noodles.

  When Tyson is done, he steps aside and makes a slight bow toward me. I cram my coat into the little cube, wondering for the millionth time why they couldn’t give us larger lockers. These aren’t even as big as the kind you can rent for a quarter at the mall. I manage to get the door shut with my coat and my brown-bag lunch inside, and secure it with my combination lock.

  “Ready to see what the day has in store for us?” Tyson asks, nodding toward the assignment board mounted on the far wall.

  “You betcha.” I cringe inwardly as I start moving toward the other side of the room. Couldn’t go with a simple yes, huh? I ask myself.

  The giant whiteboard with all the job assignments takes up most of the wall, but it’s so covered with info, you have to be close to see it well. I squeeze between two of the lunch tables to get a good view, and scan for my name. There it is, next to register number six. Tyson’s listed under the baggers for the day. The baggers rotate among the registers and some of the other front work, like cart collecting and carrying out packages. There’s no reason to think he’ll be my bagger, but I cross my fingers down at my side anyway.

  Then I check who’s assigned to the registers on lanes five and seven.

  Agnes is on seven. Ugh.

  Agnes, as far as anyone can tell, has been working at GoodFoods since before the building was constructed. One of the other guys who works here, Gabe, says they must have built it around her. She seems to be about ninety years old, but somehow she has enough energy to do more than anyone else and make the rest of us feel guilty about not performing at the same level. It’s like the worst superpower ever.

  Case in point, she is currently wiping down every surface in here with antibacterial wipes. More than likely, she worked until closing last night and disinfected the whole room before she left, too. You could probably do surgery in here.

  So who’s on lane five? Zaina. My thumbnail finds its way between my teeth before I can stifle the habit. Zaina’s about my age, I think, though she hasn’t talked to me enough to confirm it. It’s not just me; she doesn’t talk to anyone very much.

  THE TINY BIT OF INFORMATION I’VE BEEN ABLE TO GATHER ABOUT ZAINA

  1. She’s in high school.

  2. She wasn’t born in the US, but I don’t know where she’s from and I haven’t figured out how to ask, even though I’m dying to know.

  3. She is the most beautiful human being I’ve ever seen in real life. This is not an exaggeration. She’s so beautiful that I’ve seen people forget what they’re supposed to do when they get up to her register.

  4. She’s very quiet.

  5. Kris, my favorite of the shift managers, calls her Z, so it’s possible this is her nickname.

  At least she’s better than Agnes.

  It’s funny how circumstances can dictate your level of excitement about the people around you. Like, at school, the only people you want to see are your closest friends. If you have a class with no friends in it, you might as well be sentenced to prison. But if you were at some kind of outside event, and there was even one person from your school there and everyone else was an adult, you’d be instant BFFs. For a little while.

  Anyway, my point is that Zaina and I aren’t exactly tight, but compared to Agnes, she might as well be my long-lost sister.

  “Looks like all the Younglings are on today,” Tyson says near my ear, sending goose bumps racing along my spine. I didn’t realize he was still so close.

  “Yeah?” Younglings is what Kris calls all the high-school kids who work at the store. There aren’t many of us—six, to be exact—and it’s rare for us to all be on at the same time. I take another look at the assignment board:

  Tyson Scott—bagger, front jobs

  Zaina Malak—cashier, lane 5

  Micah Yoder—swing stocker

  Gabe Rossi—swing cashier

  Sammi Baker—swing bagger

  And of course there’s me on lane six.

  In the upper left corner, I also note that Kris is our shift manager for the day. Thank God. If what everyone has been saying is true, today is going to be crazy. Kris is the only sane and laid-back person from management.

  As if my thoughts made him appear, Kris’s voice booms across the Break Room.

  “Younglings!” He looks entirely too alert for this awful hour of the morning. I have an instinct to shield my eyes from his cheerful glow.

  “Morning, Kris,” Tyson says.

  “Happy holidays,” I add.

  “Right. Ho ho ho and all that.” Kris gives us a big, cheesy smile. “So, my young ones, what is happening?” He turns his head as he talks to include Micah, Sammi, and Gabe, who arrived in his wake.

  “It’s too damn early for your cheerfulness, Kris.” Sammi levels him with a glare over the lid of her coffee cup.

  “Your predictable snarkiness is adorable, Sammi.” Kris makes as if to pinch her cheek, and Sammi pulls away with a nasty look.

  Kris laughs. “I know it’s early, but come on, it’s Christmas Eve! You can’t be crabby on Christmas Eve.”

  “Sammi can be crabby anywhere, anytime,” Gabe says. “It’s her gift.”

  She gives Gabe a look, but it’s more “ha-ha, you think you’re so funny” than “die, mortal scum.” Gabe’s usually the only one who earns the former.

  “Should I go out and clear the walks?” Micah fiddles with the zipper on his jacket.

  Gabe groans. “Seriously? You’re asking for extra work?”

  “It is a job,” Sammi reminds him.

  “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to volunteer for shoveling.”

  “I don’t mind!” Micah smiles.

  And I totally believe him, because he’s Micah. Straw-blond hair, blue eyes, always smiling. He looks like one of those statues of children with big heads hugging puppies or kneeling for prayers. He should have an actual halo floating over his head.

  “I love this kid.” Kris thumps Micah on the shoulder, then claps his hands twice, hard. The sound clangs in my ears. “All right, people.” His voice is loud enough to silence the mutterings of the rest of the people in the room. “We have a hell of a busy day ahead of us. Let’s just try to get through this as quickly and easily as we can, mmmkay?”

  I hear a small huff near the punch-in clock and catch a brief look of annoyance from Agnes. Her disapproval for Kris beams from her pores.

  “You gonna give us our tills, or what?” Gabe asks Kris, nodding toward the Count Out room, where all the mone
y trays are locked up overnight.

  “Ha. You wish. Go grab a shovel and get to work on the walks with Micah. You too, Tyson.”

  Sammi cackles as she hoists her coffee cup to her lips once more. “Burn.”

  “Aw, man.” Gabe scowls. “I hate shoveling.”

  “I don’t mind,” Micah pipes up again.

  “Of course you don’t.” Gabe sighs.

  “Micah, if I asked you to go up on the roof to check for ice damming, would you do it?” Kris asks.

  Micah’s eyes go wide. “Do you want me to?”

  “No, I was just wondering.”

  “Well, sure, if you needed me to.”

  Sammi shakes her head. “Unbelievable. I’m leaving before I get involuntarily turned into an Eagle Scout.”

  Kris nods to me. “Come on, Red. Let’s get you and Z your drawers.”

  Zaina is still exactly where I last saw her, waiting. I look at the lockers where Tyson is shrugging back into his coat to go out on shoveling duty. He doesn’t notice me looking, though, so there are no sudden declarations of love on his part.

  I know. Weird, right?

  Just then the overhead speakers click loudly and the ubiquitous Christmas music starts. The first selection of the day? “Here Comes Santa Claus.”

  Guess it’s officially time for work.

  Chapter 3

  MY FIVE LEAST-FAVORITE CHRISTMAS CAROLS THAT I USED TO THINK WERE OKAY BEFORE WORKING IN A STORE THAT PLAYED THEM NONSTOP FOR TWO STRAIGHT MONTHS

  1. “Feliz Navidad”

  2. “The Christmas Shoes”

  3. “My Grown-Up Christmas List”

  4. “Old Saint Nick”

  5. “Last Christmas”

  The trouble with “Feliz Navidad” is that everyone hates it, but you can’t stop yourself from singing it. Every single time it comes through the sound system, I cringe, and then half a verse later, I’m humming along.

  So that’s what I’m doing while I key in the code for my customer’s giant bag of limes. It’s hard to imagine what a small blond woman could do with that many limes. I’ve worked at GoodFoods for almost nine months, and I still haven’t lost my fascination with the things people buy. I make lists of the weirdest combos I encounter every time I work.

  This woman is definitely going on the list. She looks about thirty years old, no wedding ring on her finger, no kids in her cart. It’s Christmas Eve, and she’s bothered to come to the store for a bag of limes—nearly twenty, I’d guess—a box of Bisquick, a small jar of cinnamon, and hand soap.

  “. . . prospero año y felicidad . . . ,” I sing softly as I steeple my fingers over the receipt printer. I hand it off to the blonde and wish her a happy holiday. She doesn’t respond, which only adds to her mysteriousness. Most people can’t override that reflex to reply.

  I check my watch, automatically doing the calculation in my head for how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, when I’ll need to eat again, and what level my insulin pump is running at. I’m in the safe zone, by my quick math, which is good, because I keep my insulin pump clipped to my bra while I’m at work, so it’s not exactly accessible if I need to make any adjustments. My first couple shifts, I kept it on my waistband, like usual, but I bumped into the register a few times and accidentally gave myself an extra dose of insulin. It’s easier to keep it hidden and out of reach. Plus, this way no one asks me about it.

  I’m not ashamed of being diabetic or anything; it’s just nice to have some people in my life who don’t stare at me while I eat. Or don’t eat. Or if I get a little sweaty when it’s hot out. Or if I look a little pale under fluorescent lighting.

  Not that my mother has tried my patience on this or anything.

  “Hello! Did you find everything you were looking for today?” I ask my next customer, a man who is clearly on a mission to the store from his wife. As a rule, men don’t buy heavy whipping cream and whole cloves.

  “Put it in paper” is all he says.

  So much for the holiday spirit. I turn to call down to the end of the register. “He’d like paper, please.”

  Tyson—he did get assigned to my lane!—nods and reaches for the stack of paper bags.

  The guy doesn’t speak another word to me or Tyson, even though Tyson is superfriendly. Some people are such jerks.

  My next customer has a big order, so I know I’ll have a few minutes of mindless scanning.

  “What are you doing for Christmas?” I ask Tyson.

  “Family stuff.” He shrugs. “My grandma and aunties have been cooking for days already.”

  “Yeah?” I can’t help smiling. There’s something adorable about the way he calls them his aunties. He was born in the South, and sometimes there’s a sweet twang to his words. “My mom’s been in Christmas overdrive this year, too. It’s my brother’s first year at college, and she wants it to be all special and stuff, especially since he couldn’t come home for Thanksgiving because he went to see his girlfriend’s family. Still, I’m not sure it’s actually a legitimate reason to go Christmas crazy, since it’s not like he’s been gone all that long, and it’s not like he said he wasn’t going to come home or something—” I’m babbling. I can hear it myself. Never a good sign.

  I swear, I must be missing some crucial part in my brain that tells my mouth to stop moving.

  Tyson is nodding, though, and he looks like I might even be saying something interesting. Is that possible?

  “Excuse me,” a voice says rather sharply, and I startle out of my motormouth trance. It’s my customer, and from the look on her face, it’s not the first time she tried to get my attention.

  “Yes?” My whole head goes hot with embarrassment.

  TOP TEN THINGS THAT SUCK ABOUT BEING A REDHEAD

  10. I blush the color of a tomato in an instant.

  9. I have never gotten a suntan a day in my life.

  8. I have had plenty of sunburns. Wicked nasty, peeling, blistering sunburns.

  7. There is no shade of makeup that matches “pasty bluish white and covered in freckles.”

  6. Same goes for pantyhose, bandages, fake-tanning spray, and all other so-called flesh-toned items.

  5. Everyone asks if this is my natural color.

  4. Perverts ask if the carpet matches the drapes.

  3. The carpet matches the drapes.

  2. People call me Red or Little Orphan Annie, like they’re the first people who ever thought of that.

  1. People assume I’m Irish, and therefore that I love Saint Patrick’s Day.

  “I said there’s a broken egg in this carton and I need a different one.”

  “Oh. Right.” I nod, wishing I could spontaneously unblush. “Um . . .”

  “I’ll get it,” Tyson says cheerfully. He squeezes past her cart and holds out his hand for me to give him the faulty carton.

  “Thank you.” Normally, I’d have to overhead page for a stocker and we’d all stand here staring at one another while we waited for someone to bring a fresh carton. But I never have to do that when Tyson is my bagger. He always runs for me.

  He truly is the nicest boy in the universe.

  I must be actually smiling—not just in my head—because my customer gives me a wary look. Like maybe she thinks I’m nuts. I resist the urge to sing along with “Jingle Bells.”

  Tyson comes back just about the time I start to feel nervous laughter bubble up in my chest. I’ve already finished swiping everything else from the customer’s cart, and bagged what was still in reach.

  “Here you go, ma’am.” He presents her with a fresh carton of eggs, already opened for her inspection. He can totally get away with calling women “ma’am.” Even young ones. I think it’s because of that slight Southern accent.

  The customer’s expression softens. “Thank you,” she says. I snap the lid to scan the code and finally finish this transaction.

  “Guess who’s here,” Tyson says after the customer has pushed her loaded cart away.

  “Who?”

  �
��Coupon Lady.”

  Coupon Lady is one of those extreme couponers who carries a binder full of clippings, only buys things on sale, and usually ends up walking away from the store with hundreds of dollars’ worth of groceries for, like, $3.79. It’s impressive, but getting her at your register is about the worst thing that can happen to a cashier. It can literally mean hours with her staring at your screen to make sure every cent is accounted for. I got her during my second week on the job and almost broke down in tears before it was over.

  “On Christmas Eve?” Not even crazy Coupon Lady could be this crazy, could she?

  “Crap, how far is she through the store?” Sammi, who is bagging for Zaina, demands. I didn’t realize she was paying attention to us.

  “She was in Dairy,” Tyson says.

  “Who?” Zaina speaks up for the first time in ages.

  “Coupon Lady,” I answer, scanning my next customer’s cereal without looking. Only the double beep from the register alerts me that something is wrong. I refocus and have to take an extra item off the total. My customer sighs.

  “Why is she here today?” Zaina whispers.

  “She’ll go for the shortest line. Try to look busier,” Sammi instructs Zaina.

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Just do it!”

  Tyson laughs. “What do you want her to do, run in place?”

  “Anything to make our line longer.” Sammi puts a few items into the reusable bag open in front of her. “Free cookies to the next twenty customers in lane five!” she suddenly shouts.

  A few people look over with interest.

  “Free cookies?” someone asks.

  “Sure! Why not?”

  “You don’t even have any cookies,” Tyson says.

  “I will find some cookies if it means I can avoid bagging groceries for Coupon Lady. I’ll take ’em from the Break Room.”

  “You’re going to steal our Christmas cookies?” he asks.

  “Whatever it takes, man.”

  “Who’s stealing Christmas cookies?” Kris cuts into our conversation, arriving suddenly from behind Tyson.