“How’s community college?” I asked.
“I’m taking a break,” he said. “I had a business opportunity come up, and I didn’t want to pass it up.” He turned and pointed out the window to an older-model red Camaro parked at the curb. “Check out the new wheels. Cost me nearly a grand.”
“Nice,” I said and then, because I just couldn’t help myself. “Tomaro’s Camaro.”
Donna snorted, then tried to cover it up as a sneeze.
Tomaro said, “Yeah. I’m thinking about getting one of those personalized license plates.”
Donna’s lips were pursed tight, as if she was holding her breath. I indicated I needed to get the garbage box below the cash register, and she took a step back to give me room. I knelt, biting my tongue to keep from laughing, and pulled out the box of garbage, which was filled with Kleenex—Betty had a perpetual cold—along with candy wrappers and receipts. When I reached behind the box to gather all Betty’s frequent misses, Donna bent down behind the register. The blue smock, which she left mostly unzipped, fell open, revealing a silver chain with a locket and a considerable line of freckled cleavage. I tried to keep my eyes focused on the garbage, but then she said, “Here you go, Sam.”
She handed me a balled-up scrap of paper and mimed sticking her finger down her throat. I laughed out loud. At that point, I think even Tomaro realized he’d been the butt of my joke. When I popped back up, he said, “So, are you in high school yet, sport?”
“I’m a junior,” I said.
“At Saint Mo’s?” He said this in a feminine voice and bent his wrist. “I couldn’t do a school without the ladies. I guess you don’t have that problem. Or maybe you do?” He bent his wrist again. My father called from the back of the store, indicating Tomaro’s prescription had been filled. “Get that for me, will you, sport? You’re the delivery boy, after all, aren’t you?” He winked at Donna.
“No problem,” I said.
I hurried like an obedient retriever, grabbed the white bag from the counter, and brought it back, handing Donna the paperwork to ring up the sale on the cash register. Tomaro pulled out a credit card and slapped it on the counter. “You keep working hard, and someday you might get some plastic.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, as if I’d forgotten. “My dad said to just rub that cream in twice a day, and it should take care of that rash in no time.” My father had said no such thing and would never have broken a customer’s confidence, but having been at the store, I’d picked up a bit about certain medications. Before Tomaro could respond, I nodded to the window. A parking-meter cop stood on the sidewalk, flipping open her ticket book. “I guess the parking meters don’t take plastic.”
Tomaro grabbed his package and hurried out, but not before Donna burst out laughing.
13
I returned from my deliveries just before my dad locked the front door and flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED. Donna had stayed to help ring up the cash deliveries. Half an hour later we all departed together.
“See you at home,” my father said, walking to his car.
“Could you believe that guy today?” Donna asked as we walked down the sidewalk.
“He hits on all the girls who work for my dad,” I said, though Donna was the first girl to work at the store.
“Trust me, I know. He hit on all the girls at school, too. Everyone knows he’s after one thing.”
“Stimulating conversation?” I asked.
Donna laughed. “You’re funny.” I stopped next to the Falcon, and she said, “Now, that is a sweet ride.”
I mimicked the sound of Tomaro’s voice. “So where are your ‘wheels,’ sport?”