Lock and Key(70)

I made a face. “Yuck.”

She shrugged. “I don’t judge. Unless you’re one of those totally anal-retentive types that wants it in specific layers, which takes ages. Then I hate you.”

I smiled, taking the popcorn as she slid it across to me. “Thanks,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “What do I—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving me off.

“You sure?”

“If you’d asked for butter layers, I would have charged you. But that was easy. Come on.”

She came out from behind the counter, and I followed her across the lobby of the Vista 10—which was mostly empty except for some kids playing video games by the rest-rooms—to the box office door. She pulled it open, ducking inside, then flipped the sign in the window to OPEN before clearing a bunch of papers from a nearby stool for me to sit down. “You sure? ” I said, glancing around. “Your boss won’t mind? ”

“My dad’s the manager,” she said. “Plus I’m working Saturday morning, the kiddie shift, against my will. The girl who was supposed to be here flaked out on him. I can do what I want.”

“The kiddie—?” I began, then stopped when I saw a woman approaching with about five elementary school-aged children, some running ahead in front, others dragging along behind. One kid had a handheld video game and wasn’t even looking where he was going, yet still managed to navigate the curb without tripping, which was kind of impressive. The woman, who appeared to be in her mid-forties and was wearing a long green sweater and carrying a huge purse, stopped in front of the window, squinting up.

“Mom,” one of the kids, a girl with ponytails, said, tugging on her arm. “I want Smarties.”

“No candy,” the woman murmured, still staring up at the movie listings.

“But you promised!” the girl said, her voice verging on a whine. One of the other kids, a younger boy, was now on her other side, tugging as well. I watched the woman reach out to him absently, brushing her hand over the top of his head as he latched himself around her leg.

“Yes!” the kid with the handheld yelled, jumping up and down. “I made level five with the cherries!”

Olivia shot me a look, then pushed down the button by her microphone, leaning into it. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes,” the woman said, still staring up, “I need . . . five children and one adult for Pretzel Dog Two.”

Olivia punched this into her register. “That’ll be thirty-six dollars.”

"Thirty-six? ” the woman said, finally looking at us. The girl was tugging her arm again. “With the child’s price? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s crazy. It’s just a movie!”

“Don’t I know it,” Olivia told her, hitting the ticket button a few times. She put her hand on the tickets as the woman reached into her huge purse, digging around for a few minutes before finally coming up with two twenties. Then Olivia slid them across, along with her change. “Enjoy the show.”

The woman grumbled, hoisting her bag up her shoulder, then moved into the theater, the kids trailing along behind her. Olivia sighed, sitting back and stretching her arms over her head as two minivans pulled into the lot in front of us in quick succession.

“Don’t I know it,” I said, remembering my mom with her clipboard, on so many front stoops. “My mom used to say that.”

“Empathy works,” Olivia replied. “And it’s not like she’s wrong. I mean, it is expensive. But we make the bulk of our money on concessions, and she’s sneaking in food for all those rug rats. So it all comes out even, really.”

I looked over my shoulder back into the lobby, where the woman was now leading her brood to a theater. “You think? ”

“Did you see that purse? Please.” She reached over, taking a piece of popcorn from my bag, which I hadn’t even touched. Apparently she’d noticed, next saying, “What? Too much butter?”

I shook my head, looking down at it. “No, it’s fine.”

“I was about to say. Don’t get picky on me now.”

The minivans were deboarding now, people emptying car seats and sliding open back doors. Olivia sighed, checking her watch. “I didn’t really come here for the popcorn,” I said. “I wanted . . . I just wanted to thank you.”

“You already did,” she said.

“No,” I corrected her, “I tried—twice—but you wouldn’t let me. Which, frankly, I just don’t understand.”

She reached for the popcorn again, taking out a handful. “Honestly,” she said as another pack of parents and kids approached, “it’s not that complicated. You did something for me, I did something for you. We’re even. Let it go already.”

This was easier said than done, though, something I considered as she sold a bunch of tickets, endured more kvetching about the prices, and directed one woman with a very unhappy toddler in the direction of the bathroom. By the time things had calmed down, fifteen minutes had passed, and I’d worked my way halfway through the popcorn bag.

“Look,” I said, “all I’m saying is that I just . . . I want you to know I’m not like that.”

“Like what? ” she said, arranging some bills in the register.