“Oh, well, you want me to help you with some of these boxes?” I asked, hoping he’d say yes, because the only other place I could go was the bus stop, and that was too out in the open. Either that or the track, but I was going to end up there later anyway, and after yesterday, I wasn’t down for another double practice. Plus, if the cops were out looking for a kid who stole track shoes, they might show up where the kid might be using them. So it was best to not be out there in the middle of the day, alone.
Mr. Charles studied me for a moment, then thrust a box of cat food in my arms. “Here, help me unpack this.”
The process was simple. There should be five of everything, everywhere, which was really just a weird way for Mr. Charles to keep the store looking neat and organized, and also an easy way for him to know if people were stealing from him. So for instance, in the fridge, there should be five of every soda. Five of every juice. On the cereal shelf there needed to be five of every kind of cereal, even the nasty ones that taste like dirt until you put sugar on it. Same went for chips and cookies. So my job was to look around the store and let Mr. Charles know what was missing.
“We need two orange juices,” I said, thumbing through the juices like I was looking for a shirt in the coldest closet ever. Mr. Charles, as usual, didn’t hear me. I looked over; he was reading another piece of paper. This time it was one that he pulled from a box. I think it was like a receipt or something to tell him what he was supposed to have in each carton. He never even looked up, didn’t hear me at all. Dang. I wonder what it must be like to be hard of hearing. I bet gunshots sound like knocks on the door, which is a scary thought. Sheesh. Anyway, I repeated myself, louder. “Mr. Charles!” This time he looked up. “We need two orange juices.” Mr. Charles nodded, pulled two from a box, and handed them to me.
Of course, while we were doing all this, I kept an eye on my backpack. I had set it down in a corner at the back of the store. Every time we’d restock some cookies or some dishwashing liquid, I would double-check to make sure it was still there, that my sweet silver babies were still safe.
After the counting and restocking was done, Mr. Charles asked me to move all the leftovers into the stockroom.
“No problem,” I said, struggling to get a grip on the sides of one of the bigger cardboard boxes. “Is there any order you want me to put them in?”
“Nope,” Mr. Charles said, now wiping down the counter. “Just stack it all up toward the back so I can get in there and move around. That’s all.”
One by one, I picked up boxes of ramen noodles, six-packs of beer, and cases of Worcestershire sauce (war-sess-ter-shyer . . . worst-tester-shier . . . gotta be a world record for hardest word) and moved them into the stockroom. Mr. Charles seemed to have relaxed and was now standing behind the counter, staring at his old TV again. That made me feel kind of good, like I was doing something to help the old man out. I mean, he had always been so cool to me, such a good dude, so it felt nice to be able to do something for him. Plus, he was getting up there in age. He even had that weird, flappy, turkey-neck thing. So lifting these boxes was probably getting pretty hard for him.
The sixth (or was it the seventh?) box was the heaviest. It was filled with gallons of water, which was crazy because it just doesn’t seem like water should be that heavy. I mean, it’s clear. Like air. And air don’t weigh nothing. I couldn’t even really lift the box. I just kinda held my arms straight and did the caveman walk to the stockroom, bumping into everything, including the stockroom door, hoping I’d make it there before my shoulders popped out the sockets.
The door closed behind me. I dropped the box and used my feet to slide it across the room over to the other boxes. Then I stopped and, for the first time, had a look around.
I can’t tell you that I remember anything about what the stockroom looked like when me and my mom hid in it. But I know we were in the corner, a corner where there was now a coatrack. I remember that me and Ma huddled right there, up against the wall, her holding me by the face, her hands covering my ears. Now when I think about it, I think she did that so that I wouldn’t hear her crying or breathing hard, even though I could feel her chest rising and falling at the exact same pace of my own thumping heart. But I don’t remember there being any boxes. I don’t remember the desk and file drawers, the clock on the wall or the five-dollar bill hanging in a frame. It all might’ve been there, but I just don’t remember seeing it. And looking at it then, gazing around the room, I didn’t really feel nothing. Like, no emotions. Until . . . I tried . . . to open . . . the door.
It wouldn’t budge.
I tried again.
The knob turned, but the door wouldn’t come loose. I knocked lightly, trying not to panic. But of course, Mr. Charles couldn’t hear me. He was probably deep into his cowboy flick. And he was on the other side of the store. And on top of all that, he was practically deaf. So I banged. Still nothing. Then I started trippin’. Like how when you at the swimming pool on the hottest day of summer, and you jump in and it’s cool, and then you take one step too far and suddenly you’re in the deep end, and things ain’t so cool no more. Because you can’t swim. That’s how I felt. Like I was drowning. Like I was filling up with water. Like this place, this weird little room that had saved my life, now felt like it was gonna take it.
I looked at that corner again, my mind boomeranging back to me and my mom crouching and crying, wondering if my dad would corner us. My heart began to hammer just like it did back then. The clock on the wall suddenly seemed to tick louder. I turned back around and beat on the door again. Tried to beat a hole through it. Balled my hand into a fist and pounded and pounded and pounded, yelling Mr. Charles’s name until at last, after what seemed like forever, I could hear him on the other side of the door.
“Castle! I’m here,” his voice came through, muffled. Mr. Charles yanked it a few times, each time letting out a weird grunt, until finally the door swung open. He stumbled back into the chip display, before finally catching his balance. I shot out of the room.
“Stupid thing gets stuck,” he tried explaining, but I couldn’t wait around to hear about it. One more minute and I would melt in the aisle between the chips and the sodas, so I grabbed my backpack and ran straight for the door.
6
WORLD RECORD FOR THE LONGEST RUN AFTER THE MOST RUNAWAYS IN A SINGLE DAY
I RAN NONSTOP to my next stop, which was the track. But not only because I was buggin’ about being trapped in a stockroom—that stockroom—and trust me, I was buggin’, but also because that creepy clock reminded me that I was also late for practice. I ran through the streets until I finally made it to the park, where everyone was already warming up.