Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless
Read Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless Online
Authors: Liz Czukas
To sallie, who believed
Contents
TOP TEN WEIRDEST THINGS PEOPLE DO EVERY DAY AT GOODFOODS MARKET
10. Try to pay for their stuff with stolen credit cards and then get pissed off when
we have to cut the cards up.
9. Leave frozen foods—especially ice cream—in the nonfreezer sections, so they melt
all over everything.
8. Try to do that extreme couponing stuff just because they’ve seen a couple episodes
of that TV show.
7. Try to get refunds on food they didn’t like. After they ate it.
6. Let their kids run around the store like it’s a playground, then get all panicky
when their little precious darlings get lost.
5. Come in on Saturdays and eat enough samples to make a meal.
4. Think that it’s perfectly acceptable to make out in the aisles or the bathrooms.
3. Insist on only buying produce “from the back” even when we’ve got the freshest
stuff out already and the stuff from the back is visibly rotting.
2. Try to return partially eaten cakes, claiming they’re too dry.
1. Eat food while they’re in the store, then stuff the empty boxes and bags behind
other food on the shelf.
I had to get up before the sun today, so I can’t really be held responsible for the
fact that I hit the snooze button three times. Fatal mistake. Everything was dependent
on me getting up on time. It’s never a good sign when you wake up screwed.
I went to sleep with damp hair and now half my head looks like it’s been ironed, while
the other half looks like I stuck my finger in a light socket. A ponytail is the only
solution. My favorite jeans are nowhere to be found, and my festive Christmas socks
turn out to have holes in the toes.
This is not what I had in mind for this morning. Especially since everyone at GoodFoods
has been telling me for weeks that today is going to kick my butt. Christmas Eve is
one of the busiest shopping days of the year, and grocery stores are no exception.
I’m running late, of course, so I shouldn’t stop for anything, but there are some
things that just cannot be skipped. For me, that’s today’s list.
My list habit started in fifth grade. My best friend, Eva, and I wrote each other
notes every night. As we got older, they turned into daily to-do lists. The thing
was, we wrote them for each other. Sometimes there were simple tasks on the lists,
like, “Get through biology class today without falling asleep.” Sometimes, they were
closer to dares, like, “Finally talk to Connor Richards.”
Since my family moved, though, Eva and I don’t go to the same school. And she doesn’t
write me lists anymore. She doesn’t really keep in touch at all, actually. Not even
a Like on Facebook. Of course, my status updates lately haven’t exactly been the stuff
of legend:
Off to work!
and
Ugh, I hate Mondays.
Try not to faint with excitement.
Once Eva dropped out of my life, I started writing my own lists. Daring myself to
not be the clichéd New Kid who doesn’t fit in. So far, it’s not working. Like, at
all.
I know—it’s so nerdy, right? I keep hearing that being a geek is cool now, but I’m
not sure the rest of the world has gotten the memo, because I still feel like a pretty
big dork compared to a lot of people at my new school. And being insecure makes me
want to write more lists, which makes me feel nerdier, which makes me write more lists. . . .
You can see my problem.
My mom says list making is “a good habit I’ll be grateful for in my future career.”
Then again she’s the kind of person who labeled her label maker with a label that
says “Label Maker,” so I’m not sure she’s the world’s most trustworthy authority on
good habits. My older brother, David, says someday the wrong person is going to see
one of my lists and I’m going to get burned, but most of my lists are too boring for
anyone to bother reading, much less use against me. Besides, I’ve solved that problem
by not really making any friends yet, so no one even knows about my lists, much less
tries to read them.
Which brings me to today’s list.
TO-DO, 12/24
1. Talk to at least three of my coworkers long enough to learn something new about
them.
2. Try not to let my mouth take over my brain during those conversations.
3. Actually remember to turn off my ringer when I get to work.
4. Write no more than three lists during the day.
5. Pick up the Christmas ham Mom ordered from the butcher department.
6. Give Tyson a ride home.
So maybe not every day can be action-packed.
As I tuck my little notebook into my back pocket, I glance at the clock and see I’m
going to be seriously late if I don’t get in the car in the next two minutes. Crap.
And there’s still the possibility of running into my mother, which will only make
me later. Please, God, let her still be asleep! I grab my shoes and do my best to
run silently down the stairs.
“Chloe.”
I let out a choked scream, my hand flying up to cover my mouth, cracking myself in
the cheekbone with my shoes as a result. So much for stealth. I have no idea how she
snuck up on me like that. Some kind of secret Mom-ninja skill.
“I thought I’d get started early and drive you to work,” she says brightly, unaware
she almost made me wet myself.
My heart is slowing from the scare, but now a dash of annoyance flits through my system,
zinging my pulse back up a few notches. “Why? It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Exactly.” My mother takes a couple steps forward and I can see her more clearly.
I notice she’s already dressed in a Christmas sweater and dangly earrings that look
like tiny Christmas ornaments. Makeup, too, I think, though it’s hard to be certain
with the twinkling of the multicolored LED lights out on the front porch, which means
she got up early enough to not only be completely made up, but turn on the twinkle
lights.
Yikes.
This is officially Christmas overdrive. Maybe it’s the new house that’s made her go
Christmas bonkers, or maybe it’s my brother coming home from college for the first
time. Either way, my mother is going to need a twelve-step program to detox from her
insane holiday prep routine this year.
But back to the matter at hand.
“It’s no big deal, Mom.”
“You shouldn’t have to drive all by yourself on Christmas Eve!” she says.
“But if you drive me, how am I supposed to get home after my shift?” I prop one hand
on the wall and bring a foot up to shove my shoe on.
“I’ll come back and get you.” She gives me a hopeful smile.
“In the middle of the afternoon? With David coming home?”
My mom purses her lips, trying to think of a way to baby me and my brother simultaneously.
She is the undisputed master of babying.
I jump in before she can suggest a do-it-yourself wormhole or something. “I really
don’t mind, Mom. Besides, it’ll save gas, right? And you don’t want to be gone when
David gets here, do you?” Maybe if I keep using my brother’s name over and over she’ll
redirect her energy to him.
“But the weather . . .” Her lower lip disappears between her teeth, her signature
worry gesture.
“I’ll be okay. You should be here when David gets home.”
And if I don’t have my car, there is no way that Tyson Scott will ask for a ride home.
And if Tyson doesn’t ask me for a ride home . . . well, then I can’t give him one,
can I? And it’s on the list, after all. That makes it practically ordained.
She’s eyeing me critically, with a certain glint that tells me she’s still trying
to figure out how to emerge the winner. I stay resolute, certain this time there is
no magical Mom solution. Finally, she drawls, “I suppose. But at least let me get
you breakfast.”
“No time. I’ll be late.”
The warm and fuzzy Christmas Mom is gone in an instant. “Chloe.”
Yeah, I should have seen that coming. If there is one thing my mother won’t tolerate,
it’s me playing roulette with my diabetes. I was diagnosed with type 1 when I was
three, and she’s pretty much been a complete spaz about what, when, where, and how
much I eat ever since.
I’m what is referred to as a “brittle” diabetic, which always makes me feel like I
might be made of glass, but actually means that my blood sugars don’t stay well controlled.
No matter how carefully I watch what I eat and how precisely we time the insulin,
I can still sometimes make big yo-yoing changes without warning. My mom regards this
as a personal attack, and she has vowed revenge on the evil pancreas that enslaves
her daughter. I should get her a Viking helmet.
“All right, all right.” Opening the refrigerator, I snag one of the disgusting Glucerna
drinks we keep around in case of emergency and grab a banana from the counter. Looking
back at my mother, I see how worried she looks, and guilt pinches at me. “Sorry, Mom.
If I’d gotten up earlier . . .”
“You need more protein than that,” she says, opening the refrigerator and pulling
out two slices of deli turkey.
“Really?” I ask with a sigh. One of these days, I’m going to turn into a person-shaped
sculpture of deli-sliced turkey. It’s nearly instant, low-fat protein. The pediatric
dietician told my parents about it when I was first diagnosed, and since then, my
mom has shoved it at me whenever she thinks I haven’t eaten enough. I shudder to think
how many turkeys have given their lives in the name of my defective pancreas.
“There’s no time for a real breakfast. You said so yourself.”
“Okay.” I take the cold cuts and tuck them both into my mouth at once, chewing madly.
I barely taste them before they’re gone.
“Thank you.” She smiles. “And take this, too.” She lifts a paper bag off the counter.
She packed me a lunch.
Part of me wants to knock it away—remind her that I’m going to work in a giant building
literally full of food—but it’s Christmas Eve and I already know how this story ends.
Spoiler alert: the mom always wins.
So, I grit my teeth and say, “Thank you.”
She looks relieved. “You’re welcome. Take care of yourself.”
“I will, Mom.”
With her paranoia extinguished, I zip my jacket and scoop up my ad hoc breakfast once
more.
“Merry Christmas Eve, honey!” my mom calls after me.
Outside, the sky is even darker than it should be, given the hour. There are heavy
clouds overhead. The air feels damp, but even though it’s cold, it’s too warm for
snow. Definitely not the kind of White Christmas people dream about.
The passenger door on my ugly teal Chevy Malibu is frozen shut, so I have to use the
key to break through the ice, and then brace my foot against the car to yank the door
open. If only the lock on the driver’s side worked—it’s downwind and wouldn’t be shellacked
in ice. My brother swears up and down there is a trick to opening it, but after driving
the car for five months, I still can’t get it. I always have to crawl across the front
seat to get behind the wheel.
The leg of my jeans catches on the parking brake and I spend another precious minute
unhooking myself. My glasses slide so far down my nose I can’t see straight, and I’m
in such an awkward position I have to hold the steering wheel with one hand and try
to balance on the opposite knee while my left hand searches for the tangled threads.
Finally, I just yank, and the ripping sound that follows tells me the hem is torn.
As a bonus, I lose my balance and bump my head on the headrest.
“Stupid snooze button,” I mutter as I back out of the driveway.
Six a.m. is an inhumane time to start working. I don’t usually work the opening shift,
but with the crowds we’re expecting and the shortened day, practically every employee
is scheduled this morning. My eyes burn and itch from being open hours too early.
I’m still trying to scrub the sleep out of them—one at a time of course, because I’m
driving—when the GoodFoods Market sign comes into view.
At the far end of the parking lot, a city bus is pulling away. My heart starts beating
a little faster, because I know who takes the bus to work.
And there he is.
Tyson.
Even with his heavy black coat on, and the hood pulled up over his head, I can tell
it’s him.
I steer my car into the lot and cut across the empty painted parking stalls to pull
into one of the spots around the side of the building reserved for employees. Tyson
is still only halfway across the lot when I get out of my car. I should have driven
a little slower because now I have to make a decision: To wait, or not to wait?
REASONS TYSON SCOTT IS WORTH WAITING FOR IN A FREEZING PARKING LOT
1. When he smiles, you can’t help smiling back.
2. His dark brown eyes. Completely gorgeous even when partially hidden behind glasses,
which incidentally make him look handsome and intelligent.
3. He drops everything to help old ladies get their bags loaded into their cars.
4. The way he can’t help grooving along to the music that plays on the speaker system.
(Except at Christmas, because nobody can groove to “Here Comes Santa Claus.”)
5. He has never once called me a nerd, even when I spent an entire shift telling him
about the special I watched on the Science Channel on forensics, because I don’t know
how to shut up, even when I really, really should.
6. We have spent more than one shift talking about Harry Potter, and he once admitted
to me that he spent his entire eleventh birthday waiting for an owl to arrive.
Now if only I could tell whether he actually wanted
me
to wait for him in a freezing parking lot.
I try to convince my feet to move and take me inside, but it doesn’t work. I just
stand there like a statue of indecision with the cold seeping up through the soles
of my shoes.
