Getting Caught by Mandy Hubbard Page B

he can be called a customer.
    Gavin smoothly kicks the fake finger, which has fallen directly in the center of an aisle, under a cat food display and wipes his hands with a paper towel. I can tell he’s readying his friendly “How may I help you?” routine, oblivious to the fact that my heart has just stopped.
    “Hey, you,” Dave says, as if he’s surprised to see me.
    “Dave Ashworth,” I announce once I’ve found my voice, hoping Gavin will get the hint. After all, I’ve mentioned Dave’s name at least a dozen times in the past three years, but Gavin has never seen him in the flesh.
    Until now.
    It’s almost surreal. I’ve never expected him to be here, in the mall’s most vacant store. After three years, we’ve earned a small following of regular customers, but Dave isn’t one of them. Does he even have pets? The only “new” faces we ever see are preteen girls hoping to get a look at the puppies, and they always leave disappointed when we explain we aren’t a puppy mill and only keep a few at a time.
    Gavin obviously recognizes the name because his mouth forms a giant O and he mumbles something about “sifting the kitty litter” in the back room, as if that’s a real job. Gavin shuffles off, but not before giving Dave a head-to-toe inspection that could’ve only been more thorough had he slapped on some rubber gloves and told him to bend over.
    “Hey. You work here? I didn’t know that,” he says, coming over to me and inspecting my Pet Pantry badge. Mine says Dr. Doolittle. He grins. “Doctor.”
    “Right, well, they say I shouldn’t waste my gifts, talking to animals and everything,” I say, wondering why I’m even daring to speak when I know it’ll just be a jumble. The wrestling section ended weeks ago, and unfortunately, the class has moved on to basketball. Though he’d pinned me a lot during those few blissful moments, our relationship had since dwindled to just about nothing. It was a total drag now, because during wrestling, I’d actually gotten comfortable talking to him. We never had any weighty discussions, but the back-and-forth jabs at one another had grown to be the highlight of my day. Week. Life, actually.
    “Gotcha.” He rubs his chin, then points to a yellow bird, chirping next to the cash register. “What’s he saying?”
    I pretend to concentrate on it. “‘I wonder how that guy’s nose tastes.’”
    He tilts his head at it. “Seriously?”
    I nod. “He’s not a nice bird.”
    There’s a case on the counter, filled with nearly three-dozen white mice. He points at one of them. “What about that one?”
    “She’s saying, ‘Are you my brother? Are you my brother? What the hell? We all look alike! Where’s my brother?’”
    He laughs. “Hmm.” Then he points at a tropical fish in a tank. “And this one?”
    I shrug. “‘Blub.’”
    He grins. “Blub?”
    “Fish don’t talk, dummy,” I say, to which he doubles over. As he stands there, shaking and laughing hysterically, I’m suddenly aware that once again I’m talking to Dave Ashworth. Dave Ashworth! Though I’ve been doing a good job of not stammering like a moron, I feel vulnerable, as if I’m two seconds away from blowing it. “Um, why are you here?”
    He straightens and looks around. “Just wanted to get some food for my fish.”
    I switch to business mode. “Oh. Okay. What kind of fish?”
    He stands there, silent for a moment, then bursts out with a laugh. “Okay, no. I lied.”
    I squint at him. “You lied about having fish?”
    For once, Dave looks flustered. In front of me. Me! Finally he says, “Uh, yeah, because—”
    “Is there a self-help group for people like you?”
    “No. See. Listen. I knew you worked here.”
    For the fifth time in the past five minutes, my heart stops. “You did?”
    “Yeah. See, I asked around because—”
    “You asked around to find out where I worked?”
    “Yeah, because—”
    “Wait. Why?” Suddenly my mouth won’t stop.
    He holds out