She nodded without turning, gave him a wave over her shoulder and was gone before he knew it. Reprieve, he thought with a guilty sigh of relief; the governor hasn't called, but the power's temporarily gone out.
He took off his jacket and shoved the briefcase behind the counter. Ten minutes of wandering around the store, picking up boxes and bottles and putting them back down, finger-dusting the shelves, rearranging a few books into their proper slots. A number of customers came in and bought the local paper, chatted about leaving before the Screamer hit, asked after Peg and left with amused smiles. He stood at the entrance and watched the trees push back at the breeze, looked to his right at the bench Gran had used.
He blinked: The old man was there, sitting and talking quietly with Matt while both of them whittled on dead branches found in the empty lot. A handful of other kids came by and stopped, and soon Gran was grinning, his thin arms waving about, his eyes wide with laughter, Matt quietly proud he was the only one asked to join the old man on the bench.
Colin blinked again; the memory was gone.
Hands in his pockets, then he returned to the counter and was ready to read a magazine when Denise Adams walked in.
"Forget something?" he said brightly.
She examined the display of candies below the counter, looked at him without raising her head. "Cart thinks you're in love with me."
"He… I… my God, you can't be serious!"
He started to laugh, choked it off when he saw her hand move idly to the top button on her blouse; it was already undone, and she parted the material slightly while she picked up a chocolate bar and placed it by the register. "He's crazy," he said.
She cupped her palms around her cheeks and leaned her elbows on the counter. "I guess so."
"I know so, Denise," he said sternly.
Soft brunette curls drifted over her forehead, covered her hands, spiraled his gaze to the flat of her chest and the rise of her breasts. She's only eighteen, he reminded himself as he punched the register keys, had to correct himself twice before he got it right. The drawer snapped open and rapped his knuckles.
She stifled a laugh, and let one hand cover the chocolate.
"He thinks you look at me that way," she said so quietly he frowned until she repeated herself. "What way?"
She straightened and dug into her pocket, pulled out a dollar bill and held out her hand. He reached for it automatically, and stiffened when her fingers brushed across his skin.
"That way," she said. "You know. He thinks you want to paint me… " She shrugged slowly, "… without my clothes on."
He slid out the change, dropped a dime and fetched it with a curse, at the same time hunting for a way to get her out without screaming. When he stood she was eating the chocolate, nibbling at each section while she met his confusion with a smile.
"You corrected him, of course," he said, handing her the coins.
"Oh sure," she told him, looked pointedly at her chest to be sure he noticed she wasn't wearing a bra. "Oh sure."
"Good."
She didn't move; her smile made him uncomfortable as the candy disappeared, deliberately slowly. "I have work, Denise."
She licked a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth. "Don't you?"
"Don't I what?"
"Don't you want to paint me so I can be in a museum?"
He recalled with a wince the look he'd given her when she'd left school, regretted it less than he suddenly thought he should. "Sure," he said. "As long as you wear a tent."
"Oh," she said, and he could have sworn her pursed lips were offering him a kiss.
"Denise, I said I have work."
"Okay." She pushed the last of the bar into her mouth, ran a slow finger around her lips and walked back up the aisle. At the door she paused, looked over her shoulder. "I think he wants to beat you up, Mr. Ross."
Before he could say anything she was out the door and gone. The urge to chase and strangle her propelled him around the counter until he stopped himself with a "Jesus!"
What in hell was going on, he wondered, wiping his brow with a palm. This place is going nuts. Efron, Cameron, now even the stupid kids. He snapped the candy wrapper from the floor and tossed it behind the counter, turned and stared at the entrance, daring her to return.
Who he saw was Carter Naughton, hands on his hips, a knowing expression on his face.
"Naughton, I want to talk to you!"
"Fuck you, teacher," Carter said. "I'll see you later."
A single step was enough to send the boy running, another before he was able to stop himself from panting, unclench his fists and wish for Peg to return. He had no idea what idiotic scheme the kids had in mind, but he didn't like the feeling that hinted he just might be helpless.
Frankie Adams sat hunched in a cardboard cave- empty cartons piled behind the drugstore, arranged into a private place where he could sit and smoke and think of ways he could get his sister away from Naughton so Carter would notice him for a change. It wasn't that he didn't know anything about women; those magazines Cart gave him told him all he had to know. And it wasn't that he was jealous, for God's sake, because Denise the Bitch was his sister, for God's sake. And she was ugly, for God's sake!
What it was, was that it just wasn't fair.
That's all there was to it-it just wasn't fair.
He did practically everything Cart told him, hardly ever wiseassed him, and he was still treated like shit. Was it his fault his mother wouldn't buy him the weights that would give him muscles? Was it his fault he was always broke because he had to turn over his paycheck every week to his old man? Allowance. Jesus H. Christ, he was sixteen years old and still getting an allowance. He drew on the cigarette from the pack he'd stolen from the store and let the smoke trail from his nostrils. He'd seen that in a movie, and he'd seen Cart do it once. He'd nearly choked to death before he'd mastered it, and now, who gave a damn?
He squirmed and hugged his shins, jammed his chin onto one knee. The ground beneath him was still damp from the rain, the cardboard walls sagging. Tonight, before he finished work, he'd have to crush them and stuff them in the dumpster. Of course, he might not have a job left by the time he finally showed up. But he couldn't go in there now. He'd seen Cart and his sister there, and later Mr. Ross had gone in. All those people, half of them thinking he was a sap and needed help, the other half thinking he was a sap and needing a swift kick in the ass.
It wasn't fair.
Nothing was fair.
Nobody was fair, except maybe Mrs. Fletcher. At least she let him have the keys, lock up and stuff like that, like he knew what he was doing. Once she'd let him fix the small generator in her backyard shed, the one she used when storms knocked out the electricity. He'd shown her how to store the kerosene, and she'd given him twenty dollars. Just like that. Twenty dollars.
His mother, for God's sake, still treated him like a baby even when she was sober. Frankie, darling, don't forget your coat, it's chilly today. Frankie, darling, you need more than a T-shirt, it's chilly today. Frankie, finish your supper. Frankie, finish your breakfast. Oh, Frankie, why do you have to wear your hair that way when all the other little boys have nice haircuts?
Little boys. Jesus… H… Christ.
He scowled and dug his heel into the ground.
And the old man. Hell, he's nothing more than a janitor in school, and any place else he can find someone dumb enough to give him a job. What a jackass. Jesus.
He held the cigarette to his palm to see how close he could get before he had to pull away. Cart could put it right on the skin. Cart could flip one around into his mouth and stick it back out still smoking, and not burn his tongue. Cart could walk into the supermarket and tell his old man to give him some money and tell his old lady to shut up, and all they did was yell and give him the money just to get him away. Frankie had tried that once. He'd walked into the house and told his old man to give him ten dollars, and when his mother had started to babytalk him and grill him and ask what he wanted the money for, he'd told her to shut up. His old man had beaten him half to death.