Read Online Am I Right or Am I Right? by Barry Jonsberg - Free Book Online

banana and stormed off. Then, with a dark, malevolent surge, the anger swelled within me and I was on my feet.
    I yelled at her retreating back.
    “And what the hell do you know, Vanessa? About me, about Kiffo, about anything?” She didn’t stop. “Fuck you, Vanessa.
Fuck you!
”
    I can’t stand immaturity in others, but I have a surprisingly high tolerance of it in myself. Strange, isn’t it?
    If nothing else, I had the complete attention of every student within a hundred yards. Not that I cared. I also had the undivided attention of Mr. Haubrick, a teacher on yard duty. I spent the rest of the day in the office of the assistant principal for student welfare, where I continued to cry as if I was never going to stop. I refused to talk about Kiffo, though she tried to draw me out. I’m not going to tell you, either. I’m not in the mood. Sorry.
    Remember I said earlier that the week wasn’t high on drama? Okay, that was a fib as well. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: all narrators are unreliable, but some are more unreliable than others.
    Then again, maybe I’m too smart for my own good.
     
    I worked at Crazi-Cheep on Wednesday evening. It wasn’t my normal shift. In fact, I had told them I could only work weekends because I didn’t want anything that would interfere with schoolwork. I was forceful about that. Under no circumstances could I work Monday to Thursday. Non-negotiable. Set in stone. Don’t even ask.
    So they called me late Wednesday afternoon and I said yes.
    There was an emergency. Three employees had called in sick with subacute pulmonary carcinoma of the clack, or something. Maybe it was flu. Maybe they wanted to wander around the riverfront and lie to their children about it. Anyway, the store was desperate and would I, just this once…
    I wasn’t doing anything anyway. The Fridge was out (who knew where) and I was torn between knocking my head against probability theory or feeling depressed over the things Vanessa had said. Perhaps paid employment would take me out of myself. Perhaps there would just be me and Jason in the store.
    He wasn’t in and I worried for a while if he had succumbed to the mystery clack ailment, and if so, whether it would have cleared up by Friday.
    Candy was in, though. I got the impression she never took a night off sick, possibly because no self-respecting virus would touch her. She looked at me as if I was something nasty left over in the mother-baby diaper-changing facility (I wanted them to rename it Crazi-Krap but didn’t think it was worth suggesting to management). Or rather, she nearly looked at me. Her eyes slid over the fluorescent lighting as she explained the mysteries of register rolls, scanning procedures, and refund policies.
    I was going to work the register!
    So much for the theory that operating the checkout was up there with cardiac bypass operations in terms of complexity and experience required. A few people got sick and they threw in a complete novice. I don’t know what they would have done if I hadn’t been able to work—probably kidnapped a toddler from the parking lot and stuck him in a high chair at the register.
    Anyway, it didn’t seem complicated. Get the bar code in line with the scanner and away you go. I reckoned I could do that without burning out too many neurons. Candy wandered off to hone her gum-chewing skills at the customer service desk and I was left in charge of checkout six. It was the only one in operation. I had been hoping that all the carts laden with tricky items would miraculously line up at another register and I would be left with the handbaskets containing one item. With one checkout in operation, this seemed an unlikely scenario.
    My first customer was all right. She
did
have a handbasket and there were only a few items in it. Now, I hadn’t had any specific training, but I knew what to do. I fixed her with a dazzling smile, like she was a long-lost relative.
    “And how are you this fine