The Perfect Place by Teresa E. Harris Page B

or otherwise—the shelves and boxes seem to multiply right before my eyes.
    â€œI can’t do this by myself.”
    â€œMaybe you won’t have to.”
    â€œMaybe?”
    â€œYou might get help, you might not. Pray on it, girl.”
    Great-Aunt Grace takes a few rags and a bottle of yellow cleaner down from the shelf next to her and hands them to me.
    I
might
get help? To do this job, I’m going to need the help of ten men. Or Jesus. I hope Great-Aunt Grace doesn’t plan on sending Tiffany to work back here. I can just picture her spindly arms trembling. Before I can ask Great-Aunt Grace about this possible help, she is on her way to the front. Tiffany turns and waves at me over her shoulder. I see pity in her eyes.
    What if I spent all day sitting on this cold stockroom floor, not cleaning a single shelf? Would Great-Aunt Grace call Mom and tell her to come back and pick me up? Doubt it. She’s more the warm-your-butt-with-a-whupping type.
    I take one deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Then I get to work, pulling the boxes down from the first shelf. When it’s empty, I start wiping it down.
    I’m bored within minutes. The cleaner turns out to be pine-scented and slick. It leaves a greasy sheen on the shelf and I have to wipe extra hard to get it to go away. Which means my shoulders go first. Then my patience, followed by my will to live. I can hear Great-Aunt Grace explaining to Tiffany how the cash register works.
    â€œYou type in the price and hit this button. . . . No, not that one; this one, girl. It’s like tryin’ to teach Mr. Shuffle.”
    By the time I’m up on the ladder, cleaning the top shelf, I’m so deep into counting the many ways I despise my great-aunt, I don’t even notice the witch herself standing below me.
    â€œGirl, you deaf or something?”
    I look down, right into Great-Aunt Grace’s flared nostrils. A boy is with her. A boy around my age wearing khaki cargo shorts and an orange T-shirt with a robot on the front of it.
    â€œHelp is here,” Great-Aunt Grace says. “Get on down here and meet him.”
    I climb down the ladder slowly. The boy looks at me and I look back at him. He has copper-colored skin and eyes the color of pencil shavings.
    â€œThis is Terrance. Terrance, this is Treasure. She wants to be called Jeanie, but you can ignore that nonsense. Terrance is new to town, just like you, but he don’t talk back. You could learn a few things from him.” Great-Aunt Grace runs her index finger over one of the shelves I’ve just cleaned. “He’s gonna have to teach you a thing or two about cleaning my shelves, too.”
    â€œIt’s nice to meet you,” Terrance says, holding out his hand. I stare at it like it has eight legs.
    â€œTry to teach her some manners while you’re at it,” Great-Aunt Grace tells him.
    The minute she leaves us to the shelves, that boy says, “So you’re not into shaking hands? Don’t worry. I’m not offended. Are you a germaphobe or something, though? My aunt is. She buys hand sanitizer by the bulk. Want some Pop Rocks?”
    He reaches into his pocket and holds the box out to me. Pop Rocks aren’t my favorite candy, but I can deal with them, especially the blue ones, which he has. But taking candy from Terrance might make him think we’re friends, and I don’t make friends. It’s the first and most important of my Moving Rules:
Don’t make friends.
Avoid extended eye contact and turn down all invitations for play dates. Try not to smile. Don’t waste words, which means no small talk. Try not to speak unless your life—or grades—depends on it.
    I shake my head, and Terrance shrugs. “More for me,” he says, and I have to spend the next ten minutes listening to the Pop Rocks crackle in his mouth and not in mine.
    Great-Aunt Grace’s booming voice spills into