Dead End Job by Vicki Grant

Chapter One
    There was something really weird about that bag of cheese doodles. It was too fat at the bottom or too pointy at the corners or something. I stared at it for ages, but I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. It was making me crazy.
    I grabbed my hair and screamed.
    Someone said, “Are you all right?”
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. I hadn’t even heard the guy come in. I tried to casually put my hand over my drawing. I didn’t wanthim to see it. I said, “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine. Can I help you?”
    He put a chocolate bar on the counter. He said, “I just came in to buy this.” Then he smiled in a way he probably thought was cute and whispered, “But now I’d really like to see your picture too.”
    I sort of smiled back. He was a customer after all. I didn’t want to be rude. But I didn’t want to encourage him either—especially since he was nowhere near as hot as he thought he was. He was just sort of normal. Your average eighteen-year old with the hoodie, the jeans, and the earphones hooked around his neck. He was sort of pale, sort of skinny and could have used a shave too. (I only noticed that because I was trapped behind the counter looking at him. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed him at all.)
    â€œPleeeease?” he said. He gave me that cheesy smile again. This was getting embarrassing. Even more embarrassing than me screaming.
    I said, “Ah, no. I don’t think so.” I pulled a box of bubble gum over my drawing.
    â€œC’mon. Don’t be shy,” he said and tried to take a peek.
    â€œThat will be $1.07 for the bar,” I said. I covered the rest of the picture with a copy of the week’s Lotto numbers.
    â€œOkay, okay.” He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Here’s one and a quarter. Keep the change.”
    Oooh. All that charm and a big tipper too. I threw the money in the cash and then we both just sort of stood there. I found it really awkward, but it didn’t seem to bug him at all. He took a bite of his Krispy Bits and said, “Mmmm. Good bar.” As if I had something to do with it. He leaned against the counter until he finished eating. Then he wiped his hand on his jacket and said, “Well, I guess I better get going.”
    No kidding, I thought.
    â€œThanks for coming in,” I said.
    He was on his way out past the magazine rack when the phone rang. What a relief. It was almost midnight. It had to be my boyfriend. I crouched down behind the cigarette rack and acted like the perfect little receptionist.
    â€œHighway Buyway Convenience Store. This is Frances. How may I direct your call?”
    Leo
demanded
to speak with the head of Customer Relations immediately! He was appalled at the shabby treatment he’d received that day from one of our sales-people. He didn’t catch her name, but he could describe her. She had scraggy blond hair, brown old-lady glasses and size eleven feet. (It sounded a lot like me, but I wasn’t going to admit to anything.)
    According to Leo, she had refused to sneak out of biology class with him that day. He’d even promised to give her a biology lesson himself in the back of his “way cool” 1985 Impala. If this behavior did not stop, he said, he would be forced to report the Highway Buyway to the Better Business Bureau!
    We had been goofing around like that for a while when I heard someone in the store. I figured it was the owner coming in to do the nightshift. I whispered, “See you at the usual time,” and hung up. Mr. Abdul’s a niceguyand everything, but he still doesn’t want me flirting with my boyfriend on company time.
    I hopped up from behind the counter and said “Hi!” in this really bouncy cheerleader voice. I wanted to sound like your ideal employee. The type of person who just loves spending her Friday nights restocking the cigarette shelves.
    â€œWell, hello there!”