course it’s yours,” I said quickly, smoothly, smiling up at the glaring mom and then at her pouting kid. I balanced the jar on my open palm. The kid’s little hand grabbed it and snapped back faster than a striking cobra. The mother took a step forward, still staring me down.
“I’m sorry . . . about that.” I dabbed my forehead with the back of my wrist. No one spoke or moved. “I’m sure there’s another jar in back, so I’ll just . . .” The kid kind of smirked at me, so I reached out to give him a high five, a seemingly friendly gesture.
“No! No!” he yelped, brown eyes wide, backing away like I was some freako child snatcher. “She try to take my jelly. Mummie!”
“Tom-Tom,” the woman said gently, patting his head. But wee Tom-Tom would not be shushed.
The bearded man in the red apron appeared, probably wondering what all the yelping was about.
“Don’t let her take it! Don’t let her, pleeeeease!” Excellent. The precious little nipper was now pointing a chubby finger at me—no more than three inches from my nose—as he wailed.
The man in the apron scanned me up and down with a scowl. I was now thinking of him as “Evil Santa,” and this thought was cracking me up, which made his scowl deepen.
“No-no-no,” I implored, biting back another laugh. “I’m not trying to take it. I just wanted some . . . uhh . . .” I chuckled nervously. “Some red currant . . . jam stuff.”
The mother and Evil Santa stared at me like I was speaking Martian.
“Okay, then, how about I get dibs on the next jar? Or, you know, we can thumb wrestle for it.” I looked at the kid and laughed. “Ha ha, I’m sure you’ll win!”
Evil Santa shifted his weight defensively when I turned to him.
“So, I . . . The jam, if you see any more sitting around, right? Na-ha-ha.” Okay, I had no idea what I was saying, and I suspected that my sounding like a mustache-twirling villain wasn’t helping the situation. I sat back on my heels, completely out of ideas, with an overwhelming desire to go lie down in the middle of a busy freeway.
“Trouble, Bob?” someone asked from behind me.
I flinched in surprise, immediately recognizing the distinctive vocal timbre of the new speaker. It was burned on my brain, as was the scent of its owner’s similarly distinctive aftershave. And for about the tenth time in an hour, I felt myself flushing from head to toe and becoming positively speechless—this time because I was trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Abigail Kelly was (heh-heh) squatting in the middle of the floor trying to scam a five-year-old out of a ten-ounce jar of high fructose corn syrup.
“No trouble,” stated Evil Santa. “This young lady was just leaving .”
Yeah, I got the hint.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the new voice, displaying my best doe-eyed look of innocence.
Todd didn’t so much as blink as he stepped between Evil Santa and me. For a second I thought maybe he hadn’t recognized me, or if he had, maybe he was positioning himself to cause a crafty diversion for me to escape. At the very least, he was sure to challenge Evil Santa to a duel to save my honor.
Todd did none of the above. He stood and stared, just like the others. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed and said to Evil Santa, “May I remove her for you?”
“Please,” Evil Santa answered and then escorted his malicious minions away from the scene of the crime.
Todd frowned at me like a disappointed father before extending his hand to help me up.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, winding a strand of my hair around one finger. “I don’t know what just happened. I swear, I was—”
“Stealing candy from a baby?” he whispered. “Abby, how cliché.”
“I wasn’t stealing,” I hissed, wishing for that busy freeway again. I dipped my chin self-consciously and glanced around. “Just please get me out of here.”
Todd nodded to the door sporting the tinkling bell.
With long, stiff
“I’m sorry . . . about that.” I dabbed my forehead with the back of my wrist. No one spoke or moved. “I’m sure there’s another jar in back, so I’ll just . . .” The kid kind of smirked at me, so I reached out to give him a high five, a seemingly friendly gesture.
“No! No!” he yelped, brown eyes wide, backing away like I was some freako child snatcher. “She try to take my jelly. Mummie!”
“Tom-Tom,” the woman said gently, patting his head. But wee Tom-Tom would not be shushed.
The bearded man in the red apron appeared, probably wondering what all the yelping was about.
“Don’t let her take it! Don’t let her, pleeeeease!” Excellent. The precious little nipper was now pointing a chubby finger at me—no more than three inches from my nose—as he wailed.
The man in the apron scanned me up and down with a scowl. I was now thinking of him as “Evil Santa,” and this thought was cracking me up, which made his scowl deepen.
“No-no-no,” I implored, biting back another laugh. “I’m not trying to take it. I just wanted some . . . uhh . . .” I chuckled nervously. “Some red currant . . . jam stuff.”
The mother and Evil Santa stared at me like I was speaking Martian.
“Okay, then, how about I get dibs on the next jar? Or, you know, we can thumb wrestle for it.” I looked at the kid and laughed. “Ha ha, I’m sure you’ll win!”
Evil Santa shifted his weight defensively when I turned to him.
“So, I . . . The jam, if you see any more sitting around, right? Na-ha-ha.” Okay, I had no idea what I was saying, and I suspected that my sounding like a mustache-twirling villain wasn’t helping the situation. I sat back on my heels, completely out of ideas, with an overwhelming desire to go lie down in the middle of a busy freeway.
“Trouble, Bob?” someone asked from behind me.
I flinched in surprise, immediately recognizing the distinctive vocal timbre of the new speaker. It was burned on my brain, as was the scent of its owner’s similarly distinctive aftershave. And for about the tenth time in an hour, I felt myself flushing from head to toe and becoming positively speechless—this time because I was trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why Abigail Kelly was (heh-heh) squatting in the middle of the floor trying to scam a five-year-old out of a ten-ounce jar of high fructose corn syrup.
“No trouble,” stated Evil Santa. “This young lady was just leaving .”
Yeah, I got the hint.
Slowly, I turned my head toward the new voice, displaying my best doe-eyed look of innocence.
Todd didn’t so much as blink as he stepped between Evil Santa and me. For a second I thought maybe he hadn’t recognized me, or if he had, maybe he was positioning himself to cause a crafty diversion for me to escape. At the very least, he was sure to challenge Evil Santa to a duel to save my honor.
Todd did none of the above. He stood and stared, just like the others. After what felt like an eternity, he sighed and said to Evil Santa, “May I remove her for you?”
“Please,” Evil Santa answered and then escorted his malicious minions away from the scene of the crime.
Todd frowned at me like a disappointed father before extending his hand to help me up.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, winding a strand of my hair around one finger. “I don’t know what just happened. I swear, I was—”
“Stealing candy from a baby?” he whispered. “Abby, how cliché.”
“I wasn’t stealing,” I hissed, wishing for that busy freeway again. I dipped my chin self-consciously and glanced around. “Just please get me out of here.”
Todd nodded to the door sporting the tinkling bell.
With long, stiff
Similar Books
