superkite. We need to get you some good weed or something.” He takes a sip of the coffee.
“Are you serious?!”
“About which part?” He goes back to typing. “I gotta say, though: I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. Is that weird?”
“Umm…yes.”
“Hmm. Well, you have to admit we’ve got rapport, you and me.”
I find myself silently agreeing in spite of the needling little voice telling me to compare his and my footwear (me: used and abused Keds I got for $2.50 at a flea market; him: what are surely the latest and greatest Nike Air Maxes).
Thankfully, though, before I have a chance to spiral and run away, some parking lot footage pops up on the screen.
“Oh! You’re in!”
“Nope. Your boss has it set up where each month of footage has a different unlock passcode. This is January so I’m looking for some kind of loophole that will let me into the December stuff. Has he been hacked before?”
I shrug. “I guess it’s possible. He got new software just after the store was broken into and trashed by anti-Muslim douchefaces last August.”
Zan nods. “I’m guessing whoever did that got into the computer and messed some stuff up because homeboy’s got this thing locked down.”
The bell on the door chimes again, and I look at my watch. “Down to fifteen minutes.”
“I’m on it. Go tend to your customer.”
Except it’s not a customer.
“Mr. Z!”
Oh God, oh God…crap crap CRAP!
“What are you doing back there, Rico? You leave the store open this way?” He walks toward the office.
My heart hops up between my ears. I’m so dead.
“You’re back early,” I say.
“Yes, yes. Dunkin’ was fresh out of gingerbread cheesecake donuts.” He shakes his head, thankfully distracted for the moment. “For shame.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Mr. Zoughbi, Gas ’n’ Go owner!” Dear God, if you’re real, please let Zan be hearing this and take the hint to frickin’ HIDE!
“You’re acting very strangely, young lady. Is everything fine?” He comes closer, and I try my hardest to block the way to the office.
“There was, umm…a minor problem.” Man, I wish I were a better liar.
“Problem?” He looks down at the open boxes of candy bars on the floor. “What sort of problem?”
“Oh, no big deal…candy inventory mix-up.”
“Ah. So you’re ready to finish the restock?” He gestures to the boxes.
“Absolutely, Mr. Z.” I smile and try to pull the office door closed, but then he says, “No, no, leave it. I’m going inside.”
He gets closer. Closer.
I’m. So. Dead.
Though still smiling somehow. If only I could get my damn feet to move.
“Rico?” Mr. Z says when he’s about five feet from me. “Are you—?”
“I’m just about done in here!” Zan says from the office.
My smile falls off.
“There is someone in my office?”
Mr. Z don’t look happy. Matter of fact, the last time I saw a look like the one he’s wearing right now, he was standing outside the store rubbing his beard as he stared at the broken windows and smashed-in front door.
I’m about to get fired. What if he calls the cops?
And there’s Zany Zanny Macklin, who decides it’s a good idea to come lean against the office doorjamb with his hands in his pockets like he owns the place.
Because he surely thinks he owns everything.
I hate him. I really, really hate him.
Mr. Zoughbi is understandably furious. “And who might this be, Rico?”
“Alexander Gustavo Macklin, sir,” Zan says, extending a hand.
Gustavo?
“Rico here was having some trouble matching your physical inventory with what was in the system. Your computer apparently had a VV.”
Mr. Z’s eyes go wide. “A VV?”
“A Voldemort Virus, sir.”
“Oh my…” Mr. Zoughbi is officially shook.
I gulp down a laugh. Even with my subnovice level of tech savvy, I highly doubt Voldemort Virus is an actual thing.
“It was causing a glitch in your spreadsheet software that doubled the number of bars in each box. Got it all cleaned up for ya.”
Mr. Z puts a hand on his chest and exhales. He’s buying this BS hook, line, and sinker. “Thank you so very much, young man! And good for you catching on and calling someone, Rico.” With a pat on the back.
I clear my throat. “It was nothing, Mr. Z. Just didn’t want you to worry.” I’m lying to my boss. “I knew my pal Zan here could figure out the issue—”
“Wait just one moment,” Mr. Z says, and his expression morphs into something indecipherable, at least for me.
That million-dollar Macklin smile falters.
Ah, fiddlesticks, he’s onto us.
“Macklin, you say?”
Zan’s Adam’s