The Center of Everything - By Laura Moriarty Page 0,38

don’t want you kids coming in here without mothers.”

“We don’t have mothers,” Travis says, already moving down one of the aisles. “We’re orphans.”

Carlotta can’t see him, so she glares at me. “Yeah, you’re hilarious, buddy,” she says. “You steal one thing, and I call the police.”

“We’re not here to steal,” I tell her. “I have money.” I reach into my pocket and bring out the wad of bills, all that is left from the twenty dollars. She leans over the counter and eyes the money, and I can’t help but stare. Carlotta is an interesting person to look at on any day because of all the colors on her skin: pink blush streaked across her cheeks and not rubbed in, red glossed lips, and yellow teeth. But on this day, there’s even more: two large hickeys sit on her neck just over the line between her orange smock and her throat. They’re blue and bruised at the center, green around the edges. She sees me staring, and her hand goes to her throat.

“Hmm. Well, I’ll be watching you both.” She points up to the circular mirrors in each corner of the ceiling. “I can see you at every point in the store.”

“Can you see me now?” Travis asks. His voice is coming from the aisle with the corn chips.

“Yes,” Carlotta says.

“What am I doing?” he asks.

“Bothering me.”

Travis stands up, leaning on the handle of one of the glass refrigerator doors. “You could get her a pop,” he says. “Everybody likes pop.”

“It has to be nicer than that.” I look around the front aisles. Sewing kits. Sunglasses. Tiny jars of instant coffee. Work gloves. My mother has use for none of these things. Superglue. Rows of doughnuts, crackers, and animal cookies. Aspirin. Cough drops.

“Get her sunglasses,” Travis says. “Everybody likes sunglasses.”

“She already has some.”

Two workmen come in to pay for gas and cigarettes, wearing khaki overalls and yellow gloves. One of them moves very slowly, his eyes on Carlotta’s neck. She looks flustered, trying to work the register and watch us at the same time.

“I see how you two are spreading out,” she yells. “I can watch you both at the same time.” She smiles at the man buying cigarettes. “Kids.”

A Kwikshop Supergulp mug sits next to the cash register, filled with miniature long-stemmed roses, each one wrapped in plastic with a red bow around the top. A white card in front of the cup reads THE GIFT OF A RED ROSE IS A TRADITIONAL WAY TO SAY “I LOVE YOU” in Magic Marker. One rose costs a dollar fifty.

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Travis says, slapping two quarters on the counter. He is already drinking a Dr Pepper. “Get her flowers. Girls like flowers.”

I peel back the plastic wrap and sniff the top of the rose. No smell. “Are these even real?” I ask. Travis has moved to the back of the store again.

“Yeah they’re real,” she says. “They’re just tiny. Who’re you trying to buy something for?”

“My mom.”

Carlotta stops chewing her gum. “Hmm. That’s kind of sweet. Is it her birthday or something?”

“No. She’s just sad.”

She frowns. Carlotta knows who my mother is, and I know she likes her. My mother comes in to buy milk when she can’t get to the store in town, and she leaves pennies in the bowl that says TAKE A PENNY, ADD A PENNY. Carlotta likes my mother’s hair, and has told her this, several times. “Those curls,” she tells her. “You can’t get that from a permanent wave. It’s just not the same.”

“Why’s your mama sad, hon?”

“She just is.”

“Well, a flower is enough, then. If any of my kids ever bought me even a flower, even a fake tiny flower like this, I’d fall over dead. I’d be like—” She gasps and makes a croaking sound, her eyes wide.

I shake my head. “It’s not enough.”

She blows a bubble, large and light purple. “You could make her a care package. Put a lot of little stuff in there, you know?” She gets a brown cardboard box out from under the register and sets it on the counter. She is able to hold it with just her nails, not touching it with her fingers at all. “Now you just fill it up with lots of little stuff she might like. We’ll put the flower in last, so it doesn’t get smushed.”

I like this idea, and collect small items from each aisle: a tester bottle of White Rain shampoo. A can of Pepsi. A pink cord to