hungry for details.
“I dunno … it looked like it hadn’t been painted in a while. The paint was all, you know, dirty and flaking off? And there were all these blinds on the windows, so I couldn’t see in or anything.”
“Totally,” breathes Ginger. I’ve come to notice that it is her favorite word.
“It was kind of gross,” I add quickly. “A total dump.”
“Did you see Claire?” asks Zoe.
“Nope, didn’t see anyone but The N—” I catch myself. “I didn’t see anyone but him.”
“Oh, this is great!” crows Zoe.
“Totally,” chortles Ginger.
“What?”
“You totally have to go back!” urges Ginger.
“I—what?”
“To blow the lid off their whole operation, don’t you see?”
“Uh, I don’t really …”
“It’s perfect. He’s their eyes and ears at the store, taking the stuff, bringing it back to their hideout, while she’s managing everything from behind the scenes.”
“Yeah, well, count me out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not going to do it.”
“But you have to! You saw him take the pajamas. You have evidence of a crime being perpetrated.”
“Yeah, but what am I supposed to do, ring the doorbell? And be all, ‘Hello, I’m here to bust you for stealing. Have a nice day.’?”
“Noooo,” says Ginger, looking to Zoe for help.
Zoe tilts her head, considering. Suddenly she claps her hands together. “I know!” she says.
“What?”
“You could make a
suggestion
,” Zoe says.
“Hey, yeah!” says Ginger.
“I don’t …” I look from Zoe to Ginger. “A suggestion?”
“Follow me,” says Zoe. Leaving the dressing rooms unattended, she walks all the way across The Real Deal. We cross the yellow brick road. We pass the decade racks and the Wig Wall. We duck under the Harley-Davidson hanging from the ceiling.
“Presenting,” says Zoe, using her arms to make a frame in the air, “the feedback box.”
“Ta-da!” adds Ginger.
I look through Zoe’s arms and see a pink birdhouse nailed to the wall. It is marked FEEDBACK BOX ! in large black letters that closely resemble those on the EMPLOYEES ONLY ! sign and virtually every other sign in the place. I’ve never noticed the birdhouse before, probably because I spend so little time on The Real Deal. Also probably because it is partially obscured by a much bigger sign that reads DUDE, WHERE’S MY CART ?, which I’m guessing is the spot where the Florons relocatecarts of merchandise that have been abandoned on the retail floor.
The roof of the Feedback Box! is adorned with a very realistic sparrow or lark or something. Given the obscure location and tiny size of the box—not to mention the even tinier size of the hole for inserting comments—the extent to which management values customer input seems pretty obvious. There isn’t even a pad of paper for “feedback” to go on, although a long string hanging off the birdhouse suggests that once upon a time there was a pencil.
“I … I don’t get it,” I say.
Zoe smiles indulgently. “This is where you put suggestions. About, you know, anything. For example, you could
suggest
that all songs by Bob Marley be put on the no-play list, for example.”
“We did that,” admits Ginger. “Didn’t work.”
“It was just a
suggestion
,” says Zoe, shrugging, like
no big deal
. “Do you see?”
I nod.
“Another
suggestion
might be that a certain extremely deceased boy be investigated for stealing. For example.”
I cringe at the thought. “I dunno,” I say.
“What?” says Zoe. “It’s just a
suggestion
. Nobody has to know that it was your suggestion. It could have come from anyone. That’s the beauty of the feedback box.”
“Yeah, I just …”
“Got a pen?” interrupts Zoe.
“Uh, no.” I buy myself a moment. I mean, what’s the harm? It’s not like he’s going to get fired or anything. Theworst that might happen is he’ll have to answer some questions, maybe get watched more closely. Right? Besides,
“I dunno … it looked like it hadn’t been painted in a while. The paint was all, you know, dirty and flaking off? And there were all these blinds on the windows, so I couldn’t see in or anything.”
“Totally,” breathes Ginger. I’ve come to notice that it is her favorite word.
“It was kind of gross,” I add quickly. “A total dump.”
“Did you see Claire?” asks Zoe.
“Nope, didn’t see anyone but The N—” I catch myself. “I didn’t see anyone but him.”
“Oh, this is great!” crows Zoe.
“Totally,” chortles Ginger.
“What?”
“You totally have to go back!” urges Ginger.
“I—what?”
“To blow the lid off their whole operation, don’t you see?”
“Uh, I don’t really …”
“It’s perfect. He’s their eyes and ears at the store, taking the stuff, bringing it back to their hideout, while she’s managing everything from behind the scenes.”
“Yeah, well, count me out.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m not going to do it.”
“But you have to! You saw him take the pajamas. You have evidence of a crime being perpetrated.”
“Yeah, but what am I supposed to do, ring the doorbell? And be all, ‘Hello, I’m here to bust you for stealing. Have a nice day.’?”
“Noooo,” says Ginger, looking to Zoe for help.
Zoe tilts her head, considering. Suddenly she claps her hands together. “I know!” she says.
“What?”
“You could make a
suggestion
,” Zoe says.
“Hey, yeah!” says Ginger.
“I don’t …” I look from Zoe to Ginger. “A suggestion?”
“Follow me,” says Zoe. Leaving the dressing rooms unattended, she walks all the way across The Real Deal. We cross the yellow brick road. We pass the decade racks and the Wig Wall. We duck under the Harley-Davidson hanging from the ceiling.
“Presenting,” says Zoe, using her arms to make a frame in the air, “the feedback box.”
“Ta-da!” adds Ginger.
I look through Zoe’s arms and see a pink birdhouse nailed to the wall. It is marked FEEDBACK BOX ! in large black letters that closely resemble those on the EMPLOYEES ONLY ! sign and virtually every other sign in the place. I’ve never noticed the birdhouse before, probably because I spend so little time on The Real Deal. Also probably because it is partially obscured by a much bigger sign that reads DUDE, WHERE’S MY CART ?, which I’m guessing is the spot where the Florons relocatecarts of merchandise that have been abandoned on the retail floor.
The roof of the Feedback Box! is adorned with a very realistic sparrow or lark or something. Given the obscure location and tiny size of the box—not to mention the even tinier size of the hole for inserting comments—the extent to which management values customer input seems pretty obvious. There isn’t even a pad of paper for “feedback” to go on, although a long string hanging off the birdhouse suggests that once upon a time there was a pencil.
“I … I don’t get it,” I say.
Zoe smiles indulgently. “This is where you put suggestions. About, you know, anything. For example, you could
suggest
that all songs by Bob Marley be put on the no-play list, for example.”
“We did that,” admits Ginger. “Didn’t work.”
“It was just a
suggestion
,” says Zoe, shrugging, like
no big deal
. “Do you see?”
I nod.
“Another
suggestion
might be that a certain extremely deceased boy be investigated for stealing. For example.”
I cringe at the thought. “I dunno,” I say.
“What?” says Zoe. “It’s just a
suggestion
. Nobody has to know that it was your suggestion. It could have come from anyone. That’s the beauty of the feedback box.”
“Yeah, I just …”
“Got a pen?” interrupts Zoe.
“Uh, no.” I buy myself a moment. I mean, what’s the harm? It’s not like he’s going to get fired or anything. Theworst that might happen is he’ll have to answer some questions, maybe get watched more closely. Right? Besides,
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