“Hey, Cameron,” says Stacie a few days later when I get to work. It is ten after five. I’m late thanks to Leah. She made a big fuss when I dumped her at the sitter’s. Thankfully, Marcus the Midget Manager is not around.
“You’re on returns,” Stacie says. “I covered for you.”
I mutter, “Thanks.”
When I head for the drop box, she’s right behind me. “I bet working helps out at home,” she says. “Like, now that your mom’s the breadwinner.”
“My dad was insured.” As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s a dumb thing to say. But my mouth often moves before my brain’s in gear. “And my mom’s a nurse. You know how much they make these days. Hey, maybe you could be a nurse when you grow up. Oh, wait—you need good grades for that.”
I can tell by her face I’ve gone too far. She turns away and slinks off.
Jeez. A couple of months ago, I’d never have been so mean.
I drag the returned movies out of the box, cracking my head as I back out to pile them on the cart.
“Is that what you call a uniform?” The Midget Manager is in my face, breathing licorice fumes at me. He lives on red Twizzlers that I bet he doesn’t pay for.
I look down at my pants and Oilers sweatshirt. I’ve forgotten to put on my work shirt. Smocks, they call them here. It’s a stupid name for stupid clothing. “Oops.” I fake a laugh. “I’ll head right back to the staff room and put it on.”
“You do that. After you’ve taken care of these.” He gives the cart a shove.
I’m about to do just that when he says, “And one more thing.”
“Yes, Marcus.”
“I know it’s been tough. Your dad and all. And I’ve made allowances.”
I try to edge past him, but he takes a step sideways so he’s blocking my way. “You’ve had breaks no one else gets,” he goes on. “I give you shifts that work with your mom’s schedule. Overlook lateness. But it can’t go on forever. You’re part of a team. We all pull together.”
This sounds like something he heard at one of the managers’ team meetings he’s always going to.
Then he adds, “Don’t think I don’t know how tough things are for you.”
I stare at the dvds jumbled on the top shelf of the cart. I’ve learned that it’s best to avoid eye contact with people who feel sorry for you. Even mini-twits like Marcus.
“But I expect you to be on time for your shifts from now on,” he says, all business again. “Wear your uniform. And don’t upset the other staff.”
Either Sad Sack Stacie’s been telling tales. Or our great leader has been keeping tabs on me, despite his phony compassionate pitch.
“Capiche?” He taps his pen against his teeth.
“Oui, monsieur. Is that all?” Capiche? Someone should tell him that Canada’s second language is French. Not Spanish. Or Italian. Whatever that was.
When he stands aside to let me pass, I push through the swinging door that separates the customers from the checkout counter.
I decide to make nice with Stacie. Even the unpopular girls at school don’t include her in their airhead talk about nail polish and The Bachelor. And there’s not a guy in his right mind who would make a pass at her. Could be something to do with the short, short skirts. And the tights. Today they are green.
I hold up a copy of Lip Sync. “Seen this?” I ask her. “It must be new.”
“It came in weeks ago.” She rings up chips and pop for a mom with about eight kids scrabbling around her. “Would you like a bag?” she asks the customer. Even though the woman says no, Stacie shoves her videos and snacks into a bag and passes it across the counter.
How’s that for customer service?
She starts handing me movies off the cart so I can check them in. “You’re supposed to know the stock,” she says in a prim voice. Then, in case I’ve forgotten, she adds, “I recommended you for this job, remember. I’m going to look stupid if it doesn’t work out.”
You’d have thought she saved me from an icy death in the Fraser River. Not just gave me the lead on a lousy job at Video Mart, which she won’t let me forget for a minute.
I’m saved from any more lectures by a customer leaning across the counter. “Excuse me. I’m looking for a copy of Hamlet.”
“I can look that up for you.” Employee of the Year Stacie puts down the stack of movies she’s holding. She turns to the computer. “There’s a number of versions. I’ll see what’s in.”
“Oh. I don’t want to trouble you,” says the guy. “You look busy. But perhaps this young man can help me. But thank you”—he leans forward and reads the name tag on her flat chest— “Stacie, is it? Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” She moves to the computer and types madly. Before he can say anything else, she taps the screen, “Classics. Is the one with Kenneth Branagh in it the one you want? Or Mel Gibson? Let me show you.”
The man looks back at me once as he follows her across the store.
Something about the way he walks… I can’t quite place it, but he seems familiar. When he glances back at me, I look down and get busy separating the comedies from the dramas.
“Now that was weird,” says Stacie when she comes back.
“Weird how?” I ask.
“The movie he wanted was right on the shelf. But he didn’t even pick it up.”
“Happens all the time,” I tell her. “Folks come in wanting one thing and find something better. Sometimes something recommended by people like you. Who know the stock.” I can’t help making the dig.
It’s like she doesn’t hear me. She taps Finding Nemo against her chin and looks toward the big picture window smothered with posters. “Like, he just said thanks. Then took off.” She slips the movie in among the stack of others waiting to go out on the floor. “But first he asked your name,” she says. “Like you weren’t wearing a name tag. Oh. You’re not.”
I ignore the superior look spreading across her face and look toward the door.
A chill creeps across my shoulders. Now I remember that walk.
I remember the quiet of that day it snowed. The harsh sound of the shovel on the driveway. The guy walking to his truck after my mom was finished yelling at him.
Stacie is blathering on about privacy and store policy as I shove past her. She gives a little squeak when I tread on her foot.
I barge through the doorway past a skinny punk and his girlfriend who are on their way in.
I scan the sidewalk and the parking lot.
I can’t see the guy anywhere. I hang on to the door handle, feeling its cold edge cut into my palm.
The guy’s gone.
Mom said she would report him to the police if he showed up at the house again. But I bet she’d never thought he’d turn up at my work.
But that was him. I know it.
Which, in my book, makes him a stalker.