a low, miserable voice, “I guess I’m supposed to come here.”
Catherine Lyle whispered, “Are you the one Officer O’Dell told me about?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, is this a court-ordered case?”
Dorfman twitched uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
She asked him patiently, “Did a judge, as a condition of probation, require you to join this substance-abuse group?”
Dorfman looked around at anyone within earshot, including me. He answered angrily, “Yes.”
Arthur whispered, “Not surprising. Dork-man’s a big ’roids user. Everybody knows that.”
“What?”
“ ’Roids! To bulk up for football, you know.”
Lilly asked, “What are ’roids?”
“Steroids—HGH, progesterone. They bulk you up. Without them, Dork-man’s really, like, five foot two and ninety pounds.”
I laughed, which I probably should not have done. Dorfman turned and glared at me.
Catherine Lyle told him, “Welcome to the group.”
He growled, “Just tell me what I gotta do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Dorfman’s mouth curled up into a menacing smile. I had seen that smile before, and I started to worry. He said, “Look, lady, why don’t you stop busting my balls and tell me what to do?”
Arthur reacted immediately. He pushed his chair back, like he might have to move fast. Rick Dorfman saw that.
Catherine Lyle remained calm. “As I told you, you are welcome here. You may join any group you like. You are welcome to take part or not, as you see fit.”
But Dorfman was already moving back toward the exit. He held out the middle finger on each hand to the group. And after suggesting that Catherine Lyle do something that was anatomically impossible, he stomped out of the room.
Arthur rose up out of his chair. He seemed on the verge of going after him, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Lyle?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Why, yes, Arthur. Thank you.”
Then she turned the incident into some counseling. “Let’s take a moment to analyze what just happened here. Obscene language and physical intimidation are two elements of abuse. How do we deal with that? By turning to drugs? Or alcohol? Does that really deal with it?”
She stopped so we could shake our heads or mutter no.
“No. Because that’s not dealing with it. Is it?”
Lilly had been tapping her pencil nervously on the table. She stopped and asked, “So what about a nasty jerk like that? I get them at work sometimes. What should I do?”
“In a situation like that, you should always ask yourself, Who owns this problem? In this case, that young man clearly owns the problem, not me. He is going to have to figure out how to solve it. The problem was not mine when he walked in, and it is not mine now that he has walked out, no matter what crude thing he has said or done to try to make it mine. He still owns it.”
Lilly said, “That’s good advice. I’m gonna use that.”
Mrs. Lyle gave her a big smile, and the meeting broke up on that positive note.
When I arrived at the Food Giant, Bobby was at register one, bagging groceries for Marsha.
As always, he was bagging them quickly and efficiently. He wasn’t saying a word, either to her or to the customers. He never did, except when there was a new bag boy to train. Then he delivered a pitch that came word for word from the Food Giant training tapes. Stuff like “Tell a customer there is no tipping, and that loading bags is a courtesy. Do not mix a package of frozen food with a box of cereal. The customer will get home with a wet box, and they won’t be happy with us. Push no more than five carts at a time. Otherwise, you might damage the carts, or a customer’s vehicle, or yourself.”
This could get annoying, especially on the third or fourth recitation. I think we lost a few bag boys because of it.
As I grabbed my green slicker, it occurred to me that there had been
Why wasn’t Dad hiring anybody? Why was he working double shifts, and adding hours for Lilly and me, without pay? (I should say that, technically, we do get paid. Dad and Mom put money into our college funds, but still…)
I had just stepped outside when I heard shouting by the back spaces. Bobby was pointing at the bottom of a man’s cart, so I ran out to see what was going on.
The man was short, stocky, and balding. And he was quite indignant, claiming, “I didn’t know anything was under there! I didn’t see anything.”
Bobby countered with, “What do you mean you didn’t see anything? It’s right there. You had to see it.”
“Somebody else left these,” the guy insisted. “I was just getting a cart to go in the store!”
He was clearly lying, and Bobby knew it. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t going
The guy had heard enough. “I don’t need to stand here arguing with an idiot.”
Bobby fired back, “You’re the idiot. Stealing stuff. Only an idiot steals!”
I stood close behind Bobby. The guy’s car had lettering on the back window that said LEHIGH UNIVERSITY. He had a bumper sticker that said MY CHILD MADE THE DEAN’S LIST AT POTTSTOWN ELEMENTARY. I figured that he was from eastern Pennsylvania, a long drive from here.
I examined the supplies under his cart—jugs of ammonia and rubbing alcohol, boxes of Sudafed and Actifed.
The guy threw up his hands, releasing the cart. It started to roll downhill, so I ran and grabbed it. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and peeled out, driving way too fast.
Bobby watched him go, shaking his round head disapprovingly.
I wheeled the cart up to him. “That guy was upset, Bobby. You need to be more careful with people like that.”
“He needs to not steal!”
“True. But I don’t want you getting hurt out here. And I know my dad doesn’t, either.”
“I ain’t hurt.”
“I know. But you could have been. That guy could have pulled out a rifle.” Bobby’s eyes widened. I added, “Or a bow and arrow.”
“Yeah? Yeah. Don’t tell your dad. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Because he’ll call my mom. And she’ll come and take my blood pressure. And maybe make me go home.”
“Okay.”
I gathered two more carts, slammed them together, and pushed them toward the entrance. Suddenly I gripped the handles and pulled the train of carts to a screeching halt.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! There, just inside the glass, looking way too stylish for the Food Giant, were Catherine and Wendy Lyle.
I was thrilled. But then, just seconds later, I was horrified. I thought of my dad at the front in his white shirt and tie, and my sister at the register in her Food Giant smock, and myself running around in a green slicker. Could I look any dorkier?
I left the carts for Bobby.
I peeled off my slicker, lowered my head, and ducked inside. I scooted along the left edge of the store, not stopping until I was back in the storeroom, peeking out through its small square window. Peeking out like a stalker.
