Read Online Vassa in the Night by Sarah Porter - Free Book Online Page B

discouraging customers,” Opera Boy says. “Now should you? Because I’m here to spend everything I’ve got. Down to the last nickel .”
    â€œWe do offer a wide array of delectable, hard-to-find treats,” I tell him. It’s completely hypocritical of me, and I know it, but I can’t help feeling some contempt for his recklessness. He might wind up spending a lot more than money. “Have you tried our strawberry marshmallow butter?” Behind him his friends are fanning out, one or two of them at the opening of each aisle. They’re striking poses, pretending to be boxers warming up or sprinters waiting for the shot.
    â€œI live for strawberry marshmallow butter,” he assures me. “Want to show me where it is?”
    I shake my head and step back. “I have to stay at the register. You go ahead.”
    He doesn’t, though. Lottery glances over her shoulder to see what’s keeping him and then turns back with a knowing sneer.
    â€œSo,” Opera Boy says. Like a lot of people around here he’s probably some crazy mix of nationalities, with golden-brown skin but gray-green eyes. Messy dark hair. “So would you do it? Chop my head off, over just some little snack pack?” He holds up a cellophane package: crackers made to look like man-in-the-moons accompanied by a mound of spreadable green cheese.
    â€œMe, personally?” I say. “That’s not really my job, but I guess if everyone else was busy …”
    â€œThen you’re not the only one working here?” He’s still fiddling with his moon crackers, zipping them around like a toy airplane. Every time it flies past his hip, a small involuntary current jolts through my nerves.
    â€œThat’s right, I’m really not.” I look dramatically toward the shelves, trying to inject a clue into his foggy head. “I’m not alone, but you won’t see my coworkers until it’s too late.”
    He nods. “That’s what I thought. There’s something sneaky in here. You can hear the hop .”
    â€œSo maybe instead of being a self-destructive moron,” I suggest, “you should get the hell out. At least pretend you care about your life?” I have no right to be this mad, but I am. My nails are digging into my palms. He swings the crackers in midair, looping and twirling them. And then his hand dives straight for his pocket. Is he really so desperate to show off? I let out a small shriek and my heart jams into my throat. The pack is gone and his hands are rising again. I expect him to wave them triumphantly in midair, display how empty they are.
    And then he laughs, loudly, and his curled right hand flips to show the crackers, tucked behind his wrist where I couldn’t see them. I’d like to slap him. He pulls up the side of his jacket, tugging at the fabric. At first I don’t get it, but then I realize: he’s showing me that his pockets are sewed shut with big, bright pink stitches.
    â€œOh, I observe basic shopping precautions, ” he says. Lottery is glaring at him again. “Okay, we’ll see you in a few.”
    I head back to my chair and watch the children at their little game. They move down all the aisles at once, going fast, dodging and weaving as if they were hounded by sniper fire. They’re giggling, grabbing random items off the shelves, and then darting forward again, sometimes tossing boxes to one another. Technique, like Lottery said.
    Once or twice I get a glimpse of fingertips bounding after them; they’re looking pretty aggravated. I almost stop worrying. Probably if Opera knows enough to sew his pockets shut, the others do, too. Once I distinctly see a hand feinting toward a girl in Chelsea’s year, Felice, with something silvery clutched in its green glitter pincers. I’m just about to yell out a warning when the hand drops back, fidgeting, the silver object still in its palm. It