Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless (13 page)

Zaina sighs. “Most people are kind, though. Don’t you think? The bad ones just stick
in your mind so much longer.”

“I think that’s true for everyone,” Gabe says. “No matter who you are. When people
are shitty to you, it can really mess you up.”

“Even if those people are your dad?” Sammi asks with an eyebrow raised. And just like
that, the good humor drains from the group. Gabe holds her gaze, both of them still,
like big cats facing off in the jungle.

Finally Gabe speaks, and his words sound a lot more casual than his tone. “Easy there.
I think we’ve had enough warm fuzziness for now.”

Part of my brain had taken in the fact that the riding floor-scrubber sounds were
getting closer, but it’s still something of a surprise when the night-crew guy rounds
the end of the aisle on board the big gray machine. He looks just as startled to find
us sitting on the floor in the Freezer section.

“Guess we’re done here,” Tyson says, rising to his feet.

“Thank God.” Gabe pushes off the cooler and lopes over to the janitorial cart to give
it a shove toward the far end of the aisle.

Tyson extends a hand to Zaina, helping her to her feet, then does the same for me.
I can’t tamp down the little thrill in my skin when he touches me. I whisper a thank-you
and tuck my hands into my apron pockets as soon as I’ve got my balance. Never mind
the fact that my head is swimming from the position change.

“Now what should we clean?” Micah asks.

“I want to know where the damn police are,” Sammi says.

Gabe smirks. “I thought you were all anticop. You weren’t going to let the man get
your fingerprints and all that.”

“Whatever. I just want to get the hell out of here. I don’t care how it happens anymore.”

“Kris was up front before,” I remind her. “Maybe he knows something.”

“He’d better.” She takes the lead, striding down the aisle faster than I would have
given her credit for at her height. The rest of us trail after her, me in the rear
once again.

“Are you all right?” Micah asks me, slowing his pace to let me close the gap between
us.

“I’m hungry,” I say. This is putting it mildly. And it’s not entirely accurate. I’m
so far past the point of needing to eat that I’m slightly nauseated. This is bad.
I have to do something about this soon. Very, very soon. I should tell someone, but
now I feel like I’ve pushed past the point where I can tell anyone without revealing
that I was trying to hide it. Which just makes the fact that I’ve been hiding it that
much lamer. It’s a Catch-22 of idiocy.

Why can’t I just do what I need to do and not worry about it?
Hear that, pancreas?
I ask.
Just do what you need to do.

It never listens.

My stomach growls again.

Micah glances at his watch. “I’m hungry, too.”

“This is taking longer than I thought.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

No.
“I’m okay.”

But he doesn’t go back to his quicker pace, instead staying near me, and for that,
I’m grateful.

Chapter 16

TEN SIGNS YOUR BLOOD SUGAR IS GETTING TOO LOW, OR RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU HAVE ALL
TEN OF THESE SYMPTOMS RIGHT NOW, CHLOE, YOU IDIOT

1. Shaking

2. Sweating

3. Sleepiness

4. Blurry vision

5. Heart palpitations

6. Confusion

7. Tingling in the hands, feet, or face

8. Difficulty speaking

9. Weakness

10. Fainting

Kris is still sitting in his Zen position on the powered-down conveyor belt when we
get to the front of the store. I’m not sure if he’s lost in thought, or what, but
he doesn’t move as we approach. And it’s not like we’re quiet about it.

He jumps when Gabe asks, “How much longer do we have to stay here, Kris? It’s Christmas
Eve, man.”

“The cops should be here soon,” he says. His usual cheerful tone has gone flat. “They
said this is a low-priority call, though.”

Gabe sighs loudly. “This sucks!”

“I still don’t get why Mr. Solomon’s keeping us and no one else,” Tyson says.

“I don’t get why Micah’s here at all,” Sammi says.

“It’s okay,” Micah says.

“But it’s Christmas Eve,” Gabe repeats.

“At least it’s not Christmas Day.”

“I’m going to miss dinner,” Tyson sighs. “And my grandma’s cooking.”

“My mom’s going to kill me,” I say. “And my brother came home from college today.”

“You guys, I don’t want to be here, either. Can you quit bitching at me?” Kris looks
at us, and we fall silent. Then he shakes his head. “Sorry. I—can you all just go
to the Break Room?”

“Don’t you want us to clean some more?” Micah asks, then winces when Gabe elbows him.

“No. Just go wait, okay?”

I study him as we file past to the Break Room, but I can’t get any solid clues as
to what’s on his mind. He’s definitely not himself right now. Judging from the quiet
among the others, they’re feeling it, too.

When we’re safely behind the heavy door to the Break Room, Sammi asks, “What’s up
his butt?”

“I don’t know,” Gabe says. “But he is not happy right now.”

“He probably wants to go home, like we do,” Tyson says.

“Yeah . . .” Sammi looks at the door. “Maybe.”

I move past them and take a seat at one of the tables. I’m so worn out from washing
all the glass. Not to mention our little race.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Micah asks.

“There’s nothing
to
do,” Sammi says.

“Sure there is,” Gabe counters.

“All right, then, what do
you
want to do?” she asks.

THINGS GABE WANTED TO DO THAT COULDN’T BE DONE

1. Play poker. (No cards, no chips, no money.)

2. Plan a prison-style escape. (No windows, only one door, no skills that would be
useful in a prison break.)

3. Eat. (Nothing in the staff refrigerator but a can of Diet Coke with someone else’s
name on it.)

4. Watch hilarious videos on YouTube. (Work computers block all social networking
sites; cell network service is crappy in the store.)

5. Play basketball. (No basket, no ball.)

THINGS GABE WANTED TO DO THAT COULD BE DONE

1. Play Name That Tune using everyone’s playlists.

“How can you not know this song?” Gabe demands, making his phone dance at Sammi. An
upbeat song with a driving guitar line wails at us from its tiny speaker. “They only
play it on the radio, like, five times a day.”

“Which is why I don’t listen to the radio,” she says.

“It’s like you’re deliberately ignoring the culture of your own generation,” he says.

“Culture?” She raises her eyebrow. “Please.”

“I don’t know the song, either,” Micah says.

Their voices stretch like taffy in my head, making my eyes water. I look down, and
the room takes a moment to catch up with me.

Oh crap.

“Try this.” Sammi cranks the volume on her own phone, trying to drown out Gabe’s pop
song with something more electronica. “This is music!” she shouts over the din.

“Sounds like a bunch of noise.” Gabe sticks his finger in his ear, wincing.

“You’re both crazy.” Tyson jumps into the fray. “Neither of you know what real music
sounds like.”

“And I suppose you do?”

Sweat prickles my back. Experimentally, I lift my hands off my knees and feel them
both jittering madly. This is so not good. I glance at my watch, but the numbers seem
to dance and I can’t be sure of the time. My insulin pump is still merrily dumping
insulin into my bloodstream, and I don’t have any food in my system to take the hit.

This is so, so, so bad.

Suddenly the painful mix of Sammi’s and Gabe’s songs cuts off and Tyson brings up
one of his own. I think I recognize the song, but my ears won’t make sense of it.
Like I can’t be bothered to understand the words, even though they’re in English.

So. Not. Good.

I look around the spinning room. The trays of Christmas cookies I’d so carefully avoided
are gone. I already know there’s nothing in the refrigerator. This is nuts. It’s a
grocery store, for God’s sake. The place is full of food. But there’s nothing in the
Break Room. With the store closed tomorrow, Agnes probably went on one of her cleaning
sprees and tossed everything that could spoil.

I’m screwed. Shutting off my pump is the only answer, and it’s not even a good answer.
I have to go back to the bathroom to do it in private, and I’m pretty sure I can’t
make it that far. My blood sugar is tanking, fast. I can feel it with each droplet
of sweat forming on my temples. Looking up, spots dance in front of my eyes.

“Does anyone have any juice?” I ask.

No one hears me over the sound of Tyson’s song, and Gabe and Sammi’s loud argument.

I try again, but my voice can’t push much past a mumble.

Zaina notices me and tilts her head like a curious dog.

“I need juice,” I say.

“What?” She leans closer.

I shake my head as best I can.

“Would you three be quiet?” she says loudly, startling the others into silence. Then
she turns back to me. “What did you say?”

“I need juice,” I say.

“No shit, I’m hungry, too,” Sammi says. “They can’t keep starving us like this.”

Tyson gets up to open the small refrigerator where employees are allowed to keep their
lunches. We looked in it earlier, so I know he knows it’s pointless, but he does it
anyway. “Still just the Diet Coke in here,” he says. “Whose initials are these, anyway?”

I shake my head. “I need sugar.”

“I totally agree. That diet crap is worthless,” Gabe agrees.

“No . . . I . . . need sugar.” I lean forward, pressing my hot cheek to the tabletop.

“Are you all right?” Zaina asks.

I try to shake my head again, but it doesn’t work very well. It’s so unbearably hot
in the room that everything seems hard. A high-pitched whining starts in my ears.

“Chloe?” Someone’s hand lands on my back.

“Chloe, are you okay?” The voice sounds distorted and slow.

I try to tell them I need some sugar right away, but the words won’t come.

“Chloe?” The voice is closer now. Much closer. I open my eyes and find Tyson looking
at me from just inches away. “What’s wrong?”

“Diabetic,” I whisper.

“You’re diabetic?” he asks.

I nod as much as I can.

His eyes go wide. “Are you high or low?” he asks.

Low
. My mouth forms the shape of the word, but I can’t make any sound come out.

“We need to get her something to eat. Now.” He stands, and I find myself staring at
his pants. I close my eyes.

Their voices whirl around me, too fast to keep track, and then someone is lifting
me by the shoulders. My head comes last, like it’s stuck to the tabletop with glue.

“God, she’s covered in sweat,” a voice says.

“Chloe? Open your mouth.”

My tongue makes a clicking sound when I open. I feel something against my lips and
struggle to open my eyes. Tyson again.

“Hey!” He smiles encouragingly. “I’m going to put this on your tongue.”

Suddenly, I feel something grainy fall into my mouth. Deep in my jaw, something twinges
in reaction to the pure sweetness. It’s a packet of sugar. When the tiny avalanche
of crystals stops, I close my mouth, willing the glucose to go straight to my blood.

“Another?” Tyson asks, shaking one of the little packets.

I nod once and then his fingers are on my jaw, steadying me as he brings the paper
envelope to my lips.

“Is this going to work?” Zaina asks.

“Yeah, but it’ll take a few minutes.”

“What should we do?” Micah asks. “Should I call nine-one-one?”

Adrenaline powers me to gasp out, “No!”

“She’ll be okay,” Tyson says. “Let’s lie her down.”

Zaina wrinkles her nose. “On the floor?”

“I don’t see another option, do you?”

“We should at least spread out some coats or something.”

My head is propped against somebody’s body. Not sure who or what part of them I’m
leaning against, but it’s easier to let it rest there with my eyes closed while I
wait for the hit of sugar to do its job. It’s not going to be enough, but it’s a start.

“Chloe.” Tyson’s voice again. My stomach flutters, but I don’t think I’m going to
puke this time. “Come on, let’s lay you down.” He hooks me under the armpits, and
the world tilts crazily and then I’m lying on the floor, with a slim layer of parkas
beneath me. There’s something lumpy under my lower back, but I don’t have the energy
to rearrange it.

“Chloe? Are you okay?” Zaina’s voice.

I struggle to open my eyes and fight for focus while two Zainas stretch out and snap
back together.

“I’m okay.” My voice is choked with the unfamiliar coating of sugar in my throat.

“What do you need?” Gabe’s face pops into view, upside down. I roll my eyes up to
see him.

“My monitor,” I croak. “In my locker.”

Can this really be happening? All the time I spent not talking about my diabetes,
and now I’m in the middle of a hypoglycemic attack on the floor of the Break Room?

“What’s your combination?” Sammi asks from across the room.

I think hard, my fingers moving with muscle memory as I bring the combination up from
the depths of my brain. I tell her the three numbers and hear the telltale clunks
of the lock releasing and the door opening. It takes a little back and forth, but
she finds the meter in my bag and brings it to me.

“I can do it,” Tyson says when I reach for it with violently shaking hands.

“No—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“My grandma has diabetes. I’ve done this a million times. This is one of the arm ones,
right?”

I nod.

He’s gentle as he pushes back my sleeve. A few seconds later there’s a slight pinch
from the lancet and then the feathery pressure of the test strip against my skin.
He’s going to be a fantastic vet someday. I open my eyes again, finding everyone that
I can see focused intently on the meter. The electronic beep announces a result.

“Forty-two,” Gabe reads. “What does that mean?”

“It means she needs more food.”

It means I was in dangerous territory before the sugar. Way too low. It’s a miracle
I didn’t pass out completely.

“Well, let’s get her some freaking food,” Sammi says.

“The fridge is empty,” Tyson reminds her.

“It’s a grocery store; I’m sure we can find something,” she retorts. I don’t have
to see her to know she’s rolling her eyes.

“I’ll go with you,” Gabe says. “What do you want, Chloe? Cookies or something?”

“She needs protein, not sugar,” Tyson says.

“Wait. What?” Sammi says.

“Protein?” Tyson says slowly.

“A turkey sandwich,” I whisper. “Sugar-free yogurt . . . some cheese or . . .”

“Too complicated,” Sammi declares. “We’ll just bring you along.”

“What?” I crane my neck, trying to see her. The sugar is already starting to work
and my eyes can focus a lot better. The ringing in my ears is quieting, too.

“She’s shaking like crazy,” Tyson says. “She can’t move.”

Sammi frowns. “Fine, we’ll put her in a cart.”