Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 2: Lost in the Supermarket

2 

Lost in the Supermarket

==========DANNY===========

After tugging back the handle on the front door of the grocery store, a pair of glass doors grumbled open in front of me. The sensor beeped. Not quite the stealth entrance I had in mind, but I was already there and walking in like a stalker.

Standing at the door, staring out at the five aisles that made up the entire store and trying to decide which one would keep me best undetected, I heard two voices bickering from the back. Scooting down the aisle closest to the bakery section, silently landing my feet as I took careful steps, the voices grew louder, but not much clearer. Then, while reading the labels on the shelf, getting myself into the character of a curious shopper, one of the voices shouted. I snapped upright. My leg drew back, sliding my foot across the ground. The floor squeaked as I stunted my step. My position was given away.

Maybe this is totally a bad idea, I came to realize. I've totally intruded on something personal.

Suddenly feeling incredibly stupid, I resumed my role of scanning the shelves, looking for something to buy to justify my spying. Despite looking stale, the aroma of bread made my stomach growl. Truly, I would've been the world's worst spy. I got mad at myself.

A voice then boomed. It sounded like a girl's. I stopped. Then things got quiet again. There was only more grumbling from behind the tarp that divided the storage room from the rest of the store, and grumbling from my stomach. A clock on the wall was ticking. And so did mine.

Rockstar was playing air-guitar with the squeegee, and then, in a dramatic Townshend-like exit, smashed the squeegee against the ground and left it there. I had to get back to work, fast.

Declaring to myself that this was pointless—I didn't know these people—and that at any second I was going to get in mega trouble with Miller, I spun around, thoughtless to how loud my feet squeaked, and ran to the front of the store.

But right as I made it to the end of the aisle, someone hollered:

"TANNER LEAVE!"

Off the shelf beside me, I snatched a loaf of bagels and took a giant, casual lunge to the checkout line. Then crossing my hands behind my back, I curled my lips in a failed attempt to whistle. God, what goes through my head?

With a forceful whoosh, I heard the tarp bash forward. I jerked my head down the aisle. The driver of the black Chevy was stomping directly toward me. Then suddenly, spinning around, he shouted back towards the direction of the vinyl tarp waving in place.

"Whatever! It's your life, you stupid bitch!"

Just beyond the sideway bill of his baseball hat, I saw a hand swipe back the tarp, and once more heard the girl scream for him to leave. The Chevy driver spun around again, walking backwards towards me, and screamed in response, calling her a dumb bitch this time.

Absorbed by the action, I had hardly noticed that he and I were on an inevitable collision course. And in the second it took to realize that—and in the half second I had to react—it was too late.

We crashed. And upon recoil made direct, dead on, eye contact. Anticipating a fist to the face, I flinched as his arm swung out—quickly thought of Rob—but then was surprised when his hand landed not on my nose, but on his own shoulder exposed in a baggy Devils Jersey. He snarled, cursed, and then charged past me. Making sure to smack every pack of gum off the racks on his way out. The sliding doors closed behind him. The sensor beeped.