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  “Hmm.” I’m more curious about how much the check was for than how big it was. More than that, I can’t help wondering how much it would have been for if there weren’t money missing. “Did they say how much money was in the box?”

  “Sixty-seven dollars.”

  “Hmm,” I say again. “Zaina said she put in twenty dollars every time she worked. There should have been more than that. A couple hundred at least, right?”

  “How many times has she worked?” Micah asks.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe three times a week? That’s what I work.”

  “Sixty dollars a week times, we’ll say, seven weeks, is four hundred and twenty dollars.” Micah speaks in a flat tone I’ve never heard him use before, his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling and his fingertips tapping out unseen code on the table. “There were sixty-seven dollars in the box this morning. Since we know Zaina put in her money this morning, and there were no other twenties in the box, let’s assume the money was taken just prior to this morning. If we take Zaina’s twenty away, that’s an average of forty-seven dollars over a three-hour period, give or take. The store is open for an average of twelve hours a day. . . .”

  I find myself leaning back, a little startled by his human-calculator routine.

  And he’s still talking. “. . . that’s approximately one hundred eighty-eight dollars a day. Today is the twenty-fourth of December, plus how many days in November . . . ?” He seems to be asking himself, but after a long pause he looks down from the ceiling and looks at me expectantly. “How many days in November was the box up?”

  “Uh . . . ,” I stammer. “Didn’t it go up right after Halloween?”

  Micah’s eyes go back to the ceiling. “So, twenty-four plus thirty is fifty-four, times a hundred and eighty-eight is—” His fingers still on the table, his open mouth soundless.

  “What?” I ask.

  “There could have been over ten thousand dollars in there.”

  Chapter 6

  MEMO—MEMO—MEMO—MEMO—MEMO—MEMO—MEMO

  TO: ALL EMPLOYEES

  THEFT AFFECTS ALL OF US!

  What should you do if you witness a customer or fellow employee stealing?

  DO:

  • Report it immediately to your shift or store manager!

  • Call the police if the thief is attempting to flee!

  • Cooperate with an armed robber! We don’t want our employees and valued customers getting hurt!

  • Complete an INCIDENT REPORT (obtained from your shift manager)!

  • Keep your personal belongings locked in your assigned locker at all times!

  DON’T:

  • Attempt to apprehend the thief yourself!

  • Put off reporting the incident!

  • Falsely accuse your fellow employees! Theft is a serious crime, and we take all reports seriously.

  • Share your locker code or cashier ID number with anyone!

  • Bring large amounts of cash or valuables to work!

  Ten thousand dollars? I would have expected a thousand. Maybe two thousand if people were really generous. But ten thousand? I wonder if anyone else realizes how much money is possibly missing.

  Should I tell someone? I wonder. Then again, what would I tell them? That a girl who doesn’t talk much and the weird homeschooled kid who’s good at math think there could be ten thousand dollars missing? Yeah. Sounds like a good way to get myself labeled a conspiracy nut.

  Maybe if I had some proof . . . but what? And when did I turn into Nancy Drew, for God’s sake? I think I took my distraction technique at the register a little too far. Too much time to think and too many borrowed mystery novels: that’s what my problem is.

  And yet, I find myself staring at the door to the Count Out Room. Could there be some kind of proof on the box itself?

  I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. Besides, the room is sure to be locked.

  I need an excuse for someone to let me in.

  What? my brain demands as clearly as if someone had spoken aloud. You are not a detective. Stop thinking crazy thoughts.

  Kris is the obvious choice.

  Correction: going back to work is the obvious choice. So I head to the main store. But then I start scanning the registers and Customer Service for signs of Kris. My eyes find Gabe still running my register, which surprises me for a second before I remember him taking over when I followed Sammi into the bathroom. Amazing how ten thousand dollars can drive other thoughts from your mind.

  Kris is doing an override at lane ten, so I slink past my own register, hoping Gabe won’t notice me leaving him in the lurch. He doesn’t, and neither does Tyson.

  For once, I’m glad Tyson doesn’t have the kind of radar for me that I do for him.

  When Kris is done, I flag him down.

  “What’s up, Red?”

  “I need quarters.” It’s not a bad excuse once I hear myself say it.

  “Why didn’t you put your light on?” He squints down the row to my register.

  “I, uh, had to go to the bathroom. Gabe took over for me for a second. I figured I could just bring the roll of quarters back with me. Save some time.”

  “All right, come on.” Kris takes off at a near-run toward the Break Room. I have to jog to keep up with him. The coded door is nearly shut behind him by the time I catch it with my fingertips. He’s already at the Count Out Room door, working a key on a sizable ring into the lock.

  As I wait behind him, my pulse picks up again. I have to get a look at the box quickly and without him noticing. It’ll only take a few seconds for him to get me a roll of quarters.

  I just hope the box is in there. With my hands stuffed in my apron pockets, I feel less childish crossing all my fingers.

  Kris gets the door open. Instead of standing in the door with it propped against my foot, like I usually do, I step all the way into the room and let the door close behind me.

  The big, wrapped box is there. Sitting on the desk in one corner of the small room. Kris is working on the safe, so I go straight to the desk and lean down to inspect the box’s padlock, which is still in place. I lift it up to check the keyhole. There are a few faint scratches around it, but nothing that makes me think it’s been jimmied with crude tools. That doesn’t exclude picking, though. The whole point of picking is to make it impossible to tell a lock has been opened, isn’t it? Not that I’m an expert on lock picking. Still, I’d think a screwdriver or whatever would have left at least some sign.

  Then again, I’m basing all of this on the movies.

  Scanning the rest of the box quickly, I don’t notice any imperfections in the wrapping paper. Even after being handled today, it’s still perfectly creased and taped. So either it was rewrapped after the money was stolen, or it was never damaged.

  The heavy sound of the safe door shutting makes me turn my attention back to Kris.

  He holds out a roll of quarters to me. “There you go, Red.”

  “Thanks.” I slip the heavy cylinder into my apron pocket beside my notebook. “So, what was the grand total for Full Hearts Full Plates?” I ask. “I missed the big-check part.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’ve been running around so much, I barely noticed it was happening.”

  I can believe that. He’s sweating. In December.

  I offer him a smile. “Sorry they’re working you so hard today.”

  “Hey, it’s Christmas Eve. I knew what I was in for. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  I smile a little bigger at the dorky expression. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Get Gabe off your register before he screws up the totals and keeps me here late.” He grins.

  I’m about to do just that, but then the Big Mouth center in my brain takes over. “Why did you let him be a cashier anyway?”

  Kris shrugs again. “Sometimes the Powers That Be make mysterious decisions.”

  “I take it you didn’t have any say in that decision?”

  He le
ans in like we’re sharing a secret. “I don’t have a say in much around here.”

  “Really?”

  “I know, right?” He laughs. “Am I crushing your dreams of rising to the level of middle management at a regional chain of grocery stores?”

  Now I’m the one laughing. “Yeah. How dare you!”

  His laugh fades and he looks at me sadly. “Promise me you’ve got bigger aspirations than this place, Red.”

  I nod, even though I’m not really sure what my aspirations are. So far the only things in life that get me jazzed are good books, making lists, and Tyson’s smile. Not much to build a career on.

  “Good,” Kris says, having no clue that my head is full of doubt. “Now get at it.” He nods toward the door.

  I open my mouth to tell him about Micah’s math tricks and how much money I think is missing, but suddenly it seems even stupider than before. So I just smile a little and head back for the floor with my fist in my apron clutching my roll of quarters.

  Chapter 7

  MY TOP FIVE WEIRDEST THINGS TO EVER HAPPEN IN GOODFOODS MARKET*

  *A Work in Progress

  5. The woman who put her dog in a dress and drove her around the store sitting in the child seat. When Kris tried to enforce the “No Dogs” policy, the woman claimed the dog was a service dog that helped with her depression.

  4. The man who came in dressed in a silver suit, said he was from the future, and demanded to know where we kept the nutrition tablets.

  3. The man who paid his entire grocery bill—$215.56—in coins.

  2. The stocker who quit in the middle of his shift after setting off a cherry bomb in a gallon of milk.

  And the latest addition: 1. The woman who ate chips and dip in the bathroom stall, then gave half a bottle of peppermint schnapps to Sammi.

  Before I get to Gabe, he’s already talking. “Jesus, that took long enough! Is Sammi okay?”

  I’ve never seen him look so serious.

  It takes me a second to clear my head of my conversations with Micah and Kris. “She’ll be all right. I think she should have had stitches, but she doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”

  Gabe reads the total on his screen to the customer, then turns back to me as the woman goes through the card-swipe/PIN-code thing. “Did she seem . . . mad?”

  “She was pretty mad about cutting herself.”

  “But nothing else?”

  “I don’t think so.” I’m not getting involved in whatever went down back there, no matter how curious I am. Sammi may have thawed toward me a bit today, but I’m still pretty sure she would eagerly beat me senseless if I interfered in her personal life.

  Gabe huffs out a sigh and stabs the credit button on the register to finish the transaction.

  “We didn’t really talk much,” I say. I feel like I have to justify my lack of information on Sammi’s state of mind. “Besides, this weird woman came in and we sort of got distracted.”

  “Weird how?”

  I wait until the customer at the register takes her receipt and moves down the lane. The next customer is unloading a pretty full cart so we’ll have a moment to talk. Still, I don’t want to anyone to overhear me gossiping about customers, so I lean closer to Gabe and speak in a low voice.

  “She was eating southwestern bean dip in the bathroom stall. And drinking peppermint schnapps right out of the bottle.”

  Gabe’s eyes light up. “That is without a doubt the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s better than that. Top ten, for sure.”

  “All-time?” He looks impressed. Although I would be willing to bet no one else has a written list they keep on hand like I do, most people who work at GoodFoods have a mental tally of the weirdest things they’ve ever seen on the job.

  Well, maybe not Agnes.

  Gabe, who likes to make a game out of nearly everything, talks about his list a lot.

  I consider his question. “Possibly.”

  “That’s bold.”

  Mentally, I run over my list. It’s only five items long so far, because I haven’t seen enough things that I think deserve All-Time status. Between me and the other Younglings, though, there’s more than enough stuff to make a fantastic Top Ten, but I don’t think I’ve achieved List Collaboration status with anyone.

  “I can take the register back,” I remind Gabe.

  “I know.” He keeps scanning items. “They’re trying to make me go to Produce, though, and I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate stocking wet stuff. It’s nasty.”

  I push my glasses up and stare at him.

  He sighs. “Fine.”

  When he steps off the cushioned black mat, I take his place and finish the order he started. He doesn’t go straight to Produce, of course, since this is Gabe Rossi we’re talking about. He makes the most out of his walk the few feet down the aisle to Tyson’s area, practically strolling.

  “You up for a game of Guess the Groceries?” he asks.

  “Am I ever?” Tyson replies.

  Guess the Groceries is a game we all play, but Gabe is the only one who likes to do it for money. Basically, you look at a customer as they come in, and guess what they’re going to buy based on how they’re dressed and how they act. It’s surprisingly easy.

  Like Mrs. Hudson from earlier, in her high-end workout clothes. She’s obviously going to go for the healthy foods. Kind of a no-brainer.

  White mom types buy all the typical kid stuff: bananas, apples, carrots, cereal, hot dogs, and stuff like that.

  Single women in business clothes buy diet soda, salad kits, wine, and frozen dinners.

  Single men spend their money in the meat and liquor departments.

  Stereotyping? Yeah, but it passes the time.

  The challenge is finding someone who doesn’t give you many clues. I’m pretty good at the game, if I do say so myself.

  “That one.” Gabe points to a customer rounding the frozen-food cases. I cringe at his blatant point, but the woman doesn’t see him.

  The unofficial rules of Guess the Groceries state that you cannot play with a customer who already has items in his/her cart, unless you can’t see what’s inside. The crowds today make it hard to see more than one or two people away, so it’s a fair bet that neither of them can make out what she’s pushing around in her cart.

  I look, too, even though I’m not officially playing.

  The target is a middle-aged woman. Everything about her screams “suburban mom.” She probably has one of those stick-figure family decals in the back window of her minivan.

  “A dollar says the only fruit she’s got is bananas and apples,” Gabe says. He likes to maximize each betting opportunity by making multiple wagers on one person.

  “No bet,” Tyson says, “but she’s getting potatoes, too.”

  I’m pretty sure they’re both wrong. This woman is like a version of my mom. She’s probably been planning Christmas for weeks. It’s not likely she’s here for the usual stuff. I’m guessing she’s forgotten a few things on an earlier trip, or she’s here for something that has to be fresh, like shrimp or lobster.

  “Interesting . . .” Gabe wanders casually down the row of registers until he can get a clear view of her. I know he’ll get the answer, so I turn my attention back to my customer.

  A few minutes later he comes back, and declares, “Sweet potatoes. Close, but no cigar!”

  “You were wrong, too,” I remind him.

  “True. All right, who’s next?”

  I can’t help it; I look for another target. A young blond woman rounds the corner into my field of vision. Her hair is full and smooth, her makeup just right. She has tall boots over her jeans and she’s talking on her phone.

  “Her,” I say.

  Gabe looks around me to the target. “Ooh, very nice. I’d buy her groceries.” He grins.

  I make a face at him, and Tyson punches him in the arm. “You say that about every woman under thir
ty who comes into this place.”

  “That is not true,” he protests. “I don’t like the crusty vegans with dreads.”

  Tyson shakes his head. “Gotta have standards, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right, what’s she buying?” Tyson asks.

  “That is a wine buyer, for sure. No food need apply.”

  “That was a gimme,” Tyson says.

  “Fine. Don’t let Chloe pick anymore.”

  “I’m not even playing!” I protest, startling my customer, who didn’t realize I was listening to the conversation at the end of the lane. “Sorry.”

  She goes back to her smartphone without comment.

  “Who’s next?” Gabe rubs his hands together like a happy villain.

  Tyson shrugs. “Don’t care. You pick.”

  “You’re not making this very fun for me,” Gabe says.

  “We’re supposed to be working.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “You guys, how much room do you think ten thousand dollars in cash would take up?” I ask, drawing blank looks from both of them.

  “What?” Gabe says.

  “Like, how big do you think it would be?” I pantomime a largish cube shape in the air.

  “Depends on what kind of bills you’re talking about,” Tyson says. “It would only be ten thousand-dollar bills.” He pinches an invisible stack of bills, his fingers less than a centimeter apart.

  “Mixed, I guess.” I consider that. “Mostly small bills.”

  “Chloe,” Gabe says in a fake serious voice, “are you secretly a drug dealer?”

  I frown at him. “I was just thinking about the missing money.”

  Gabe blinks at me. “Why? Who cares?”

  “Chloe likes mysteries. She’s always reading them at lunch,” Tyson says, and I get the warm fuzzies all over. He remembers something about me! I have to look away and scan groceries for a moment to prevent myself from blushing all over.

  Just then Gabe’s walkie-talkie crackles and we all hear his name. He scoops it off his belt and keys the mic. “This is Gabe.”