Me & Emma by Elizabeth Flock Read Free Book Online Page B

how much you owe. Sometimes she uses the eraser end of the pencil that usually sits behind her left ear, but that day was a fingernail day. I watch her total up Mr. Sugner from the library that’s also the Toast Historical Society–if you need to know anything about Toast, Mr. Sugner’s the man to talk to. Tap-tappit),-ta[.
    Richard looks as happy to be here as if you’d driven a railroad tie into his foot. He scowls at Miss Mary and shifts from one leg to another, huffing, like it was Mr. Sugner’s fault he was here and not the fact that Momma needs Band-Aids, toothpaste and a cup measure. I got a funny feeling in my stomach when I saw the way he looked at Miss Mary, all mean like she smelled bad, so I went over to the rack that holds dusty postcards that no one’s ever bought even though they’re only ten cents each. They’re not postcards of our town, they’re North Carolina state postcards with pictures of the capitol and a town called Mount Airy.
    When I turn around Richard’s nowhere to be seen. I even check the aisle that has diapers and other soft-like things but no luck.
    “He ain’t here.” Miss Mary aims a fingernail at a spot to the left of her chin and gently scratches. “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” Her mouth was turned down and she was shaking her head like she thought of him the same way he thought of her.
    “Where is he?” I ask. I only turned around for a second.

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    “Check out by the Dumpster,” and I think I heard her say—she was mumbling, though, so I couldn’t be sure—”That’s where trash ends up.”
    “Miss Mary?” Mr. White’s voice slices the air like a paper cut. “Is there a problem here?” It’s weird how he can smile at me but keep that teacher tone with Miss Mary.
    “Miss Caroline, how would you like to choose a piece of penny candy?” He was holding out the big glass jar with fingerprints all over from where all us kids point at the exact piece we want. It had been refilled and was brimming full of Mary Janes, Tootsie Rolls, little-bitty Necco wafer rolls and Hershey’s. It was so packed that Mr. Whte’s thumb knocked a piece onto the floor when he gripped it from the top. The Mary lane was lying on the floor between us like it was saying “Pick me, pick me!”
    “I’m sorry, sir.” I stare at it while I say this, hoping it would magically unwrap itself and hop into my watering mouth. “I don’t have any money with me right now.”
    “Oh, don’t be silly—” he smiles even nicer “—this is a gift. Take your pick.” He says this last part in Miss Mary’s direction, even though I think he was talking to me. Before he has time to change his mind, my arm, like it had a mind of its own, shoots down to the floor, past the old glass jar, and scoops up that Mary lane.
    Miss Mary was busying herself with the zipper on her gray coverp that has White’s Drugstore sewn over her heart and looks just like Mr. White’s, but is gray instead of, well, white.
    “Am I to understand you got separated from your escort?” he asks me. This always happens: people ask questions right when I’ve got my mouth full and I can’t answer. Mr. White’s so polite, though, and he keeps talking till he sees my iaw stop moving up and down on the

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    E I,I ZA B ET H FLOCK

    peanut toffee. “This must be my lucky day, if this is true. I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a helper in the back room, someone to alphabetize bottles, you know, get things in order. Would you be so kind as to help me out for a bit, young lady?”
    He timed this question perfectly: I had just finished scooping the Mary Jane that was stuck in my back teeth out with my tongue. “Yes, sir, but I don’t know if I’m allowed.”
    “What if I call your momma for you and we can ask her permission,” he says.
    “Yes, sir,” I say. I don’t know where I’d have gone, anyway, since Richard had up and left me there. Mr. White went over to the phone near Miss Mary’s cash register