the car in the driveway and hoist myself up the side of the drainpipe. I almost laugh out loud at the thought. I have not scaled anything since I shredded my palms attempting to pass the rope-climbing requirement for seventh-grade P.E. My pits stain at the very thought of this. That’s so not happening.
So I wait a while longer. There’s no other way to say this: The Nail’s house looks trashy. Like his family is on welfare or something.
Oh God. Maybe that’s it
. Maybe he’s stealing to feed his family? Could that be it? How much could reselling vintage stuff—even really top-quality stuff—possibly make? Especially swiping it one item at a time. Maybe there’s more to it somehow. Maybe if I stay a little longer, I’ll find out.
I am the nail, I am the nail, I am the nail …
But on the off chance that Claire has actually shown up at work and is wondering where the hell I am, I abandon the stakeout and head back to the store.
“Hey, Veronica?” Bill calls after me as I tiptoe in and start to make a running dash for the stairs. Bill is adept at foiling my attempts to enter Employees Only! without engaging in conversation with the Florons.
“Yeah?”
“Can you check if there’s anyone in the girls’ john? I have to go, uh, clean it.”
I narrow my eyes and shoot him a look. But I do it anyway, since I have to go myself. No one is in there.
“Yeah, actually,” I tell him when I come out.
“Oh,” says Bill, disappointed. I don’t know why he likes to spend time in the ladies’ room, nor do I really want to know why.
“I think one of them is sick, too,” I tell him. “It could be a while.”
Bill sighs, taking a bag from a Picker and weighing it.
“Seventeen dollars,” I hear him say.
“Say what?”
Bill digs through the bag. He pulls out a pair of bowling shoes and shows them to the guy. “Shoes, man—they’ll get you every time. It’s like a salad bar. Shoes are the cherry tomatoes.”
“You got that right.” The man tosses the shoes back into The Pile. While Bill is reweighing his bag, I tiptoe up the stairs. Thankfully, I make it all the way up to Employees Only!, where—surprise, surprise—there’s still no sign of Claire.
I’m at my desk for two seconds max when the phone rings.
“Claire?” I say.
“Paging Spy Girl!” chirps Ginger. “Come in, Spy Girl! Report to Spy Girl Headquarters for a full interrogation, immediately.”
“Yeah, um, I can’t leave right now,” I tell her.
“Yes, you can.”
“If you’re not down in five minutes, we’re coming to get you,” booms Zoe, who has clearly just grabbed the phone from Ginger.
“Over and out!” I hear Ginger yell in the background before Zoe slams the phone down.
Once again, not a lot of choice with Zoe.
I go downstairs and find them at the counter by the dressing rooms. Zoe is behind the bar, tending, perched high on her stool. Ginger stands in front of her like a cocktail waitress or something. Ginger grins and waves when she sees me. Zoe’s head is down, eyes closed as she shakes her head from side to side and sings along with a track on the store’s sound system.
“Jet Boy, Jet Girl
.
I’m gonna take you round the world
.
Jet Boy, I’m gonna make you penetrate
,
I’m gonna make you be a girl
.
Ooo-woo-ooo-ooo. He gives me head.”
“Shut up, shut up, Zo, Vee’s here.”
Zoe glares at her.
“So?” she snarls. To me, she demands, “How’d you do?”
“Uh, not so good. I kind of lost track of him.”
Ginger guffaws, like she thinks I’m kidding. I shrug.
“Seriously?”
I know how stupid I sound, but I really don’t know what to tell them. “I just … I mean, he got to his house and everything, but there wasn’t really anything to see.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Ginger and Zoe look at each other.
“So … what did his house look like?” coaxes Ginger.
“I mean, like a house. It was, um, kind of old.”
“Uh-huh, like how?” They’re both leaning in,
So I wait a while longer. There’s no other way to say this: The Nail’s house looks trashy. Like his family is on welfare or something.
Oh God. Maybe that’s it
. Maybe he’s stealing to feed his family? Could that be it? How much could reselling vintage stuff—even really top-quality stuff—possibly make? Especially swiping it one item at a time. Maybe there’s more to it somehow. Maybe if I stay a little longer, I’ll find out.
I am the nail, I am the nail, I am the nail …
But on the off chance that Claire has actually shown up at work and is wondering where the hell I am, I abandon the stakeout and head back to the store.
“Hey, Veronica?” Bill calls after me as I tiptoe in and start to make a running dash for the stairs. Bill is adept at foiling my attempts to enter Employees Only! without engaging in conversation with the Florons.
“Yeah?”
“Can you check if there’s anyone in the girls’ john? I have to go, uh, clean it.”
I narrow my eyes and shoot him a look. But I do it anyway, since I have to go myself. No one is in there.
“Yeah, actually,” I tell him when I come out.
“Oh,” says Bill, disappointed. I don’t know why he likes to spend time in the ladies’ room, nor do I really want to know why.
“I think one of them is sick, too,” I tell him. “It could be a while.”
Bill sighs, taking a bag from a Picker and weighing it.
“Seventeen dollars,” I hear him say.
“Say what?”
Bill digs through the bag. He pulls out a pair of bowling shoes and shows them to the guy. “Shoes, man—they’ll get you every time. It’s like a salad bar. Shoes are the cherry tomatoes.”
“You got that right.” The man tosses the shoes back into The Pile. While Bill is reweighing his bag, I tiptoe up the stairs. Thankfully, I make it all the way up to Employees Only!, where—surprise, surprise—there’s still no sign of Claire.
I’m at my desk for two seconds max when the phone rings.
“Claire?” I say.
“Paging Spy Girl!” chirps Ginger. “Come in, Spy Girl! Report to Spy Girl Headquarters for a full interrogation, immediately.”
“Yeah, um, I can’t leave right now,” I tell her.
“Yes, you can.”
“If you’re not down in five minutes, we’re coming to get you,” booms Zoe, who has clearly just grabbed the phone from Ginger.
“Over and out!” I hear Ginger yell in the background before Zoe slams the phone down.
Once again, not a lot of choice with Zoe.
I go downstairs and find them at the counter by the dressing rooms. Zoe is behind the bar, tending, perched high on her stool. Ginger stands in front of her like a cocktail waitress or something. Ginger grins and waves when she sees me. Zoe’s head is down, eyes closed as she shakes her head from side to side and sings along with a track on the store’s sound system.
“Jet Boy, Jet Girl
.
I’m gonna take you round the world
.
Jet Boy, I’m gonna make you penetrate
,
I’m gonna make you be a girl
.
Ooo-woo-ooo-ooo. He gives me head.”
“Shut up, shut up, Zo, Vee’s here.”
Zoe glares at her.
“So?” she snarls. To me, she demands, “How’d you do?”
“Uh, not so good. I kind of lost track of him.”
Ginger guffaws, like she thinks I’m kidding. I shrug.
“Seriously?”
I know how stupid I sound, but I really don’t know what to tell them. “I just … I mean, he got to his house and everything, but there wasn’t really anything to see.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Ginger and Zoe look at each other.
“So … what did his house look like?” coaxes Ginger.
“I mean, like a house. It was, um, kind of old.”
“Uh-huh, like how?” They’re both leaning in,
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