Dead End Job by Vicki Grant Page A

It was Mr. Krispy Bits again.
    Great.
    â€œCan I help you?” I said.
    â€œYeah. Mind if I stay here for a few minutes? It’s really starting to rain outside.”
    I did mind, but what could I say?
    â€œI guess not,” I said and actually started to restock the cigarettes.
    He said, “You don’t have to sound so happy about it. I mean, I could help you.”
    Oh right. Just what I wanted.
    â€œNo thanks,” I said. “This’ll only take a second and my shift’s almost over anyway.”
    He snorted. I’m not kidding. “I don’t mean help stocking the shelves!” I turned towardthe low-tar section and rolled my eyes. Like he’s too good to stock shelves.
    â€œI mean, I could help with your drawing,” he said.
    I heard this shushing sound. I turned around just in time to see him pull the picture out from under the bubble gum box.
    â€œHey!” I said.
    He had my drawing in his hands and was studying it as if he was some kind of major art expert.
    â€œThis is good,” he said, nodding.
    I was mad now. “How would you know?” I took a swipe at the drawing but he jumped out of the way.
    â€œEver heard of Tom Orser?” he said.
    â€œYeah. So what?” In a little town like this, who wouldn’t know Tom?
    I took another swipe at my drawing.
    â€œHe’s my father.”
    â€œSure,” I said. Like I was going to fall for that one. Tom Orser is this really rich wildlife artist. He lives in an amazing house way out on the cliff at East Green Harbor. He’s about sixty and his wife’s about thirty. Theyhave two little girls. Zorah, who likes salt-and-vinegar chips, and Stella, who prefers all-dressed.
    â€œHe comes in here all the time,” I said. “He doesn’t have a son.”
    Krispy Bits went even paler than he already was. I figured I had him.
    â€œNot by this wife,” he said. His face had gone really serious. “I’m the product of wife number one. The one who had to work to support the starving artist.”
    He wasn’t kidding. I didn’t know what to say. I could hardly get mad at him now. It was really uncomfortable. Just to be nice I said, “When did they split up?”
    â€œI was about eight. Tom started making money and decided to trade the old lady in for a newer model. A swimsuit model, in fact. That would be Sacha, wife number two. They had three kids. Then he dumped her for someone prettier. Margo got fat after the second baby, so he left her for the wife he has now.”
    He had this fake smile on his face. I had a horrible feeling he was going to start to cry.
    â€œDid you know he had other wives?” he asked.
    â€œAh…no,” I said. I was starting to wish I’d just let him take the stupid picture in the first place.
    â€œSo how did you know he didn’t have a son then?”
    He had me there. This seemed really painful for him. I mumbled some apology-type thing. I thought he was going to stomp out of the store, but he just shrugged.
    â€œHey, don’t feel bad,” he said. “Most of the time Tom acts like he doesn’t know he has a son either. Tell him Devin came into your store and watch what he does. He’ll go, ‘Who’s he?’ I’m serious. Try it next time he comes in.”
    He laughed and handed me back my picture.
    â€œIt’s good, Frances. I mean it,” he said. “You just made the bag a little too short on the left side.”
    I looked down at the picture.
    Damn. He was right.
    I was just going to thank him when something hit me. I looked up.
    â€œHey,” I said. “How do you know my name?”
    He didn’t answer. Somehow he’d managed to disappear just before Mr. Abdul walked in the door.

Chapter Two
    We were driving home after my shift that night and I was telling Leo about what happened. He couldn’t believe the stuff about Tom dumping all those women.
    He said,