Alex, Approximately
Page 35

“So, yeah,” he says, sort of smiling to himself while he taps on the top of my locker. “I was just going to tell you, uh, both—tell you both,” he clarifies, looking over at Grace. “We got this new lock system . . . long story, but I have to help install it. So Pangborn and Madison will be dealing with all your Hotbox needs today. You know, in case you wondered where I was.”
“Because we’re always thinking about you,” Grace says sarcastically.
“I know you are, Gracie,” he replies, giving her a wink. He leans a little closer, hanging on my locker, and speaks to me in a lower voice. “So anyway, I was wondering what you’re doing after work.”
Heart. Exploding.
“What’s that?” Grace says.
Porter playfully shoves her head away. “I think I hear someone calling you, Gracie. Is that Cadaver? He said you’re fired for listening in on other people’s private conversations.”
“This is private?” she says. “It looks like a public break room to me, and we were talking before you sauntered up, if you do recall.”
He ignores her and give me an expectant look. “Well?”
“I’m not busy,” I tell him.
“Oh, good. Maybe want to get something to eat later?”
Be cool, Rydell. This sounds like it could be a date. “Yeah, why not?”
“Excellent. Umm, so . . . maybe we should swap numbers. We can leave from here, but, you know, just in case we need to call each other.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” I notice Grace when I’m digging out my phone. She’s standing next to me with eyes like two full moons. I think she might be temporarily stunned into silence. Which only makes me more nervous. And that’s no good, because I can barely handle the basic exchange of a few single numbers, and I still almost mess that up.
“Okay, well . . . ,” Porter says, tucking a curly lock of hair behind one ear. How can he be adorable and sexy at the same time? If he doesn’t vacate the break room soon, I might swoon to death. “Go sell some tickets.”
“Go lock some locks,” I tell him.
He flashes me a smile and after he leaves the break room, I quietly bang my head against the lockers. Lock some locks. Who says that? What a dork. He’s broken my brain.
I look up and see Grace. She’s still staring at me, all wide-eyed.
“Mmm—” she starts.
“Argh! Don’t you say it,” I warn her.
She keeps quiet until we get to cash-out. “I knew that lad was asking too many questions about you.”
The only good thing about our shift is that it’s insanely busy, so it passes quickly. I don’t even see Porter once. Mr. Cavadini, either. Guess that lock business is time-consuming. So is being nervous, and by the time six o’clock rolls around, I’m wired and ready to get out of there. I count down my cash drawer, inform Grace that if she follows me out to the parking lot, I will slash her tires, and that, yes, I will tell her everything tomorrow, duh, and then I look around for Porter. Nada. No surfer boy in sight. But I do get a text from him: Almost done. Meet you outside in five?
Okay, cool. That gives me time to head out to Baby and swap my work shoes for some slinkier sandals, which I’ve got stashed under the helmet in my seat. I grab my purse from my locker and dash outside. The sky’s looking dark. Overcast and grumpy. It hasn’t rained since I’ve moved here, but it looks like that might change today. Driving Baby in the rain isn’t my idea of a fun time, so I’m actually relieved Porter invited me out.
I . . .
Look around. To the left. To the right.
Where’s Baby?
I parked her right here. I always do.
I double-check. I must be confused. Third aisle from the back door . . .
I spin around, looking for her turquoise frame and leopard-print seat. There’s got to be an explanation. Maybe someone moved her for some reason, though. . . . I don’t know how they would. . . . She was locked up. I always lock her up. Always. I go through exactly what I did when I arrived that afternoon, making sure I did—and yes, I know I did. I’m positive.
“Anything the matter, dear?”
It’s Pangborn, strolling out from the employee entrance.
“My scooter’s gone,” I say.
“What? Gone?”
“I parked it right here at the start of my shift.”
“You’re absolutely certain? What color is it? Let me help you look,” he says, putting a calming hand on my shoulder. “Don’t panic just yet, now. Let’s be sure first, okay?”
I blow out a breath and describe it. There are several scooters back here, but none of them are Vespas, none are vintage, none are turquoise, and, really, the employee lot isn’t that big. I’m starting to feel dizzy. I think it’s finally time to face facts.
Baby’s been stolen.
“Aren’t there cameras back here?” I say.
“Just over the building exits and the delivery door.” Pangborn tells me. “Not on the lots and roads.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say. What kind of hick place is this? Don’t they care if a truck pulls up and tries to rob the place?
I’m panicking now. What am I going to do? Should I call the police? Dad and Wanda drove to San Jose today to go dancing, or something. It’s her only day off work this week. Now I’ve got to ruin their day? And how am I going to get to work for the rest of my scheduled shifts? And who’s got my bike? Are they taking it around town for a joyride, with all my personal stuff in the seat? I think I’m going to be sick.
“What’s going on?” Porter says, out of breath as he runs up to meet us.
“Her scooter’s missing,” Pangborn tells him in a quiet voice. He’s still squeezing my shoulder. God, the old man’s so nice, and that makes me want to cry.
“Missing, as in stolen?”
“Looks like it. Didn’t notice anything unusual on the door cams, but you know how hard it is to spot anything coming and going way out here.”
“It’s impossible,” Porter agrees, and he starts asking me the same questions all over again—when did I get there, where did I park, did I lock it? I snap at him a little and then apologize. I’m on edge and trying not to bawl my eyes out like a two-year-old kid in front of everyone, because—of course—now there are several other employees out here. And everyone’s looking around the lots, making sure they don’t see it abandoned in the regular parking area.
Just when I’m about to give up and call my dad, Pangborn says to Porter, “By the way, did your friend catch up with you?”
“Who?”
“The one with the bum leg.”
Porter stills. “Davy?”
“That’s the one. He was looking for you.”
“Here?” Porter’s confused.
Pangborn nods. “He was skulking around by the employee entrance when I was coming back from my . . . uh, afternoon medicine break.” Pangborn’s eyes dart to some nearby employees. “Anyway, he didn’t recognize me at first, but I remembered him from when he worked here last summer for a few days. I asked him if he wanted me to page you, but he said he’d just text you.”
“No, he didn’t,” Porter says. “What time was this?”
“Couple of hours ago?”