The Quarry Girls(20)

“Stop snooping!” she cried.

“Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was in here.” I looked around, my brow wrinkling. “What were you doing?”

“Practicing my smile,” she said, sullenly. And then she grinned.

It was a great smile. When she grew into those teeth, she would be the prettiest girl in Pantown, all wavy auburn hair, green eyes, and creamy skin. Unsettled from last night, weary from a poor night’s sleep, I couldn’t help but grin back. “Make sure to bring Mom lunch, okay? I work till two.”



As a reflex, I pulled my hair forward to shield the one side of my head as I biked across the Zayre Shoppers City parking lot. I didn’t need to. My knot of melted flesh was already covered. My Quadrafones were snug to my scalp, playing this month’s pick, Led Zeppelin’s Presence. I’d started wearing ’phones right after the accident, once it was healed enough not to hurt, to hide my deformity. In retrospect, that was officially the dumbest thing I could have done because it drew attention to me, wearing big ol’ earphones not connected to anything. Now I was at least smart enough to carry a tape recorder.

Thanks to the Columbia Record and Tape Club, my whole life had a soundtrack.

“Nobody’s Fault But Mine” started piping through my ’phones. It was my favorite song on the tape. Too bad I was nearly at the Zayre employee entrance. I’d have to listen to the rest of it later.

I’d started working at Zayre the week after school got out. Dad had insisted I get a job. He said a woman needed to be able to take care of herself in this world, that he didn’t want me to ever have to rely on somebody else. Then he called in a favor to get me the position. I worked at the deli counter with Claude and Ricky and some older ladies. We pulled icy soda and slung sandwiches with a side of chips and a frog-colored pickle spear.

Our customers were all shoppers taking a break. They needed it. Zayre was a grocery, hardware store, furniture outlet, clothing store—heck, there was even a barbershop in there. I never told Dad that I would have rather worked in the clothing department, folding pretty silk shirts and straightening the latest bell-bottom jeans, or the jewelry counter, arranging the emerald-, ruby-, and sapphire-colored stones.

Instead, I acted grateful for the job at the deli.

It wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was pretty exciting at first. I liked being responsible for the till. I enjoyed making customers happy. It felt good to feed them. I had played store clerk so much as a girl, store clerk and teacher and actress and housewife, that it seemed like fate to actually do it in real life.

It didn’t hurt that I got to work with Claude most shifts. We’d occasionally remind each other of how, when we were little, we’d hold our tongues and try to say “Zayre Shoppers City” and then nearly pee our pants giggling when “city” sounded like a swear word. Now we both worked there. Claude stayed out front with me, where he’d fill glasses of pop and make sure Ricky was cooking up the correct orders. There wasn’t a huge selection. Club sandwiches, hot dogs, barbecue, and a grilled cheese sandwich that was sliced Velveeta on white. Three kinds of chips plus that pickle spear. Ketchup, mustard, and relish that customers served themselves. Even with the limited menu, we were busy. Zayre was the place to go on this end of town. Some people used it for their social time.

I rested my bike against the signpost in the back of the deli and locked it up. There was only a minute or so left on the song, but I didn’t want to punch in late, so I hit pause on John Bonham and slid the Quadrafones to my neck. The sticky air was as uncomfortable as a stranger’s hug.

“Hey, Head.”

I jumped. Ricky stood between the dumpster and the building, about to light a cigarette.

“Hi,” I said, heart thudding.

Ricky was pretty much the only one who called me Head. It wasn’t a kind nickname, but it wasn’t as mean as it sounded, either. He said it in a normal voice, and anyhow, it was better than pretending I had two ears. He’d come up with it right after the accident, when I was still all bandaged up. Mom and Dad wouldn’t let me leave the house. I think they didn’t want anyone to see how banged up I looked, but they acted like it was for my own good. Ricky was the only one who came by regularly.

It was before his fever, so he couldn’t have been more than eight. He’d bring his crabby old housecat over. Mrs. Brownie, he called her. She hissed at everyone but him and me, and he knew I loved to pet her silky fur. Though she tolerated me and Ricky stroking her, she hated being held and even more being held and then walked, so his arms would be scratched bloody when he’d arrive. He’d set her on the bed next to me and flop into a chair, complaining about his sisters and his brothers and his mom and his dad, talking until he reached some point that only he could see, at which time he’d scoop up a furious Mrs. Brownie and disappear until the next day.

It kept me from feeling too sorry for myself, Ricky dropping by with his old tabby cat, never asking me about the accident, pretending like it was all normal except he called me Head rather than Heather. He stopped visiting once my bandages came off. We’d never talked about those visits since, acted like it’d never happened.

My heart puffed up thinking of them.

I was just about to ask if he remembered when he blew out a stream of smoke. “You look like shit,” he said, squinting at me.

“Thanks, Ricky,” I said, rolling my eyes, reminded why I’d never brought it up. I left him to the already stifling day as I stepped into the cool of the break room.