“Turn right at the next light,” Dad says.
“I know where Castle Hardware is.”
I pull into the almost-empty lot and park near the entrance to the squat gray stone building, grinning with relief. I did it! I got us all the way here without getting us killed!
“Well, I don’t know what that was all about, but we obviously need to practice some more,” Dad says. He unclenches his hands from the dashboard and unbuckles his seat belt. “We’ll try again after your shift ends.”
I leave the car running and climb out, wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts again. As Dad drives away, I notice Alistair’s mom’s minivan tucked in the corner of the lot. I know it’s her van because the back window has a stick-family decal—Alistair, his mom, and his younger sister, Cameron, along with their two ancient cats, Frida and Cosmo.
My nerves kick into high gear. This is it. I’m about to see Alistair.
A huge dark green sign shaped like a medieval flag hangs above the door, CASTLE HARDWARE written on it in Gothic white letters. I walk past an outdoor display of plastic Adirondack chairs and bags of wood chips. The glass doors slide open and I head through the turnstile, past a row of shopping carts. The store smells like soil and rubber and is blindingly white—white floors, tall white shelves, white light fixtures. It’s still early, so it’s pretty quiet, only a few customers pushing carts or with plastic baskets looped over their arms.
I spot Alistair standing near the paint department, talking to a woman holding a fan of blue paint chips. My heart knocks painfully against my ribs. His dark hair is a little shorter than I’m used to, but it’s still long enough for me to get my fingers tangled in. The summer sun has scattered freckles across his cheeks, and his arms are tanned and more muscly than I remember. Somehow, he manages to make the ugly green Castle Hardware vest look hot.
Alistair glances over at me and our eyes meet and I swear my knees almost give out. His eyes flick back to the woman, still listening to her talk, but a small smile crosses his face, one that I know is actually meant for me.
It’s been a long time since he’s smiled at me. I want to run over and talk to him, but he’s leading the woman down an aisle, so I guess our reunion will have to wait a few more minutes.
“You’re late,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around. Violet Chen is behind the front counter. And she’s glaring at me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I overslept.”
She snorts. “So, are you just going to stand there all day?”
I don’t know Violet well. Our paths never really crossed at school—mostly because she can be kind of scary.
She raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to do something. But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do—where do I clock in? Is there somewhere I usually stash my bag? What is my job, even? This is all stuff that I should know, considering I’ve worked here for the past few months. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything!
I have to do something, though, before Violet kills me dead with her laser-beam eyes, so I join her behind the long counter. I think it’s the right move, because her shoulders relax a little. There are three cash registers, spaced a few feet apart. I shove my bag on the shelf underneath the register beside her, wondering how I’m going to get through this shift without making a complete fool of myself.
Violet has purple-streaked hair and a septum ring, and her eyes are rimmed with thick black eyeliner that looks like she drew it on with black marker. Her green vest is covered in metal buttons—a unicorn with a rainbow mane, a chocolate chip cookie wearing thick, black-framed glasses, a yellow smiley face. And a plain white one that says CUTE AS A …
I bite back a smile. Violet Chen, cute as a button.
“Why does your name tag say Paul?” I ask, pointing at the metal tag pinned above the buttons.
Violet reaches into the pocket of her vest and hands me a tag. “I made them for all of us.”
“Okay. But why Paul?”
She blinks at me. “After my hedgehog.”
The way she says this, so matter-of-factly, tells me I’m supposed to know that she has a hedgehog named Paul. I’m probably supposed to know a lot of things about her.
A customer walks up to the counter with a power drill. Violet smiles tightly at him, barely concealing her irritation at being bothered. I try to discreetly watch over her shoulder as she rings up his purchase, hoping I can figure out how to work the cash register.
She scans the drill, then silently points at the total on the screen: $68.52.
The man taps his credit card on the machine attached to the counter. A few seconds later, Violet tears off a receipt and hands it to him.
So, that doesn’t look so hard.
The man leaves and the smile instantly melts off Violet’s face. “I hate my life,” she says, tugging on one of the silver nuts strung like pearls on a thin wire around her neck.
“Are you okay?”
“No.” I think she’s going to leave it at that, but a few minutes later she says, “Avery and I broke up.”
I can’t very well ask her who Avery is—it’s clearly another thing that I’m supposed to know.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I say.
“Yeah, well.” She sighs heavily and rubs her eyes, smudging her liner. “The worst part is, I didn’t even see it coming. I thought we were happy. But it turns out, I was the only one who was happy—apparently she was miserable.”
A bolt of guilt shoots through me. That’s exactly how I felt in my relationship with Ben—miserable. Only I didn’t have the guts to break up with him. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better, so I don’t say anything, and the silence between us soon turns awkward.
“Why are you acting weird?” she finally asks.
“I’m not.” My cheeks burn.
“Yeah. You are.” Her eyes narrow. “Is it because you made out with that random guy at Ryan’s party? Because I’ve told you a million times, I’m taking that to the grave.”
Huh? What party? Who’s Ryan? And why would I make out with a random guy there? Alistair is my boyfriend.
Oh my God. Did I cheat on Alistair?
This is all so confusing.
Before I can ask her about this supposed make-out session, a woman starts to unload her buggy onto the counter in front of me—light bulbs, floor wax, a roll of duct tape. A baby is sitting in the front of the cart, chewing on an amber teething ring.
“Good morning,” I say.
I stare at the cash register, my mind reeling. I need to sign in to unlock it, but I have no idea how to do that. And another customer has just walked up with a bag of wood chips. Violet starts to ring him through. Luckily, my customer is distracted by her baby and hasn’t noticed that I haven’t even started to put her order through.
I punch in my birthday—maybe I used that as my password?—and the register beeps loudly, reprimanding me for getting it wrong. I try a bunch of other number combinations, but none of them work.
This is a nightmare.
Violet gives me the side-eye. I’m about to give up and admit that I don’t know what I’m doing, consequences be damned, when Alistair slips behind the counter.
“I forgot my password,” I say.