Evening Bags and Executions(30)

“They’re calling it a contest,” Bella grumbled. “How are we supposed to win anything? It all comes down to how many customers actually show up for the so-called fashion show, then pony up their money to buy something.”

“It sounds like a crappy contest to me,” I said, and picked up my second bag of M&M’s.

In fact, all of Holt’s contests were crappy, in my opinion. I figured that if we won anything better than the beach towel all the store employees had gotten in the last contest, we could count ourselves lucky.

“At least you’ll get something good, if our store wins,” Bella said.

The last prize Holt’s had awarded me was a totally lame sewing machine, so I wasn’t at all interested in hearing about the grand prize in this contest.

Besides, all of the Holt’s employee contests were conceived and forced upon us by Sarah Covington.

I hate her.

And now she was engaged to Ty—maybe.

I ripped the end off of the M&M’s bag and dumped them into my mouth.

But that’s okay because Ty and I broke up.

I still hate Sarah Covington, of course.

“Hey, look at that,” Bella said, and pointed to the television.

I glanced up to see a commercial for an afternoon soap opera. I knew it was a soap opera because overly dramatic music was playing and the actors were all delivering their lines as if they were newscasters reporting that a meteor was about to crash into Earth, ending all life on our planet.

“That’s her,” Bella said. “Look. It’s her.”

I watched as the camera zoomed in on a blond actress standing beside a fake fireplace, looking end-of-Earth worried.

“Oh my God, it is her,” I realized.

She was that girl who used to work here and always stunk up the breakroom with those microwavable diet meals. She’d lost a hundred pounds, or something, swapped her glasses for contacts, gone blond, and quit Holt’s. I’d seen her modeling in print ads, then doing a shampoo commercial. And now she was on a soap opera?

“I hate her,” Bella said.

I hated her too, of course.

“I’m out of here.” Bella shoved out of her chair, dumped her trash, and headed back to the sales floor. I finished off another bag of M&M’s, and followed.

I’d been assigned to the boys clothing department tonight—which was the all-time most boring department in retail—and I couldn’t face my final hour in the store sizing Batman briefs and Phineas and Ferb pajamas. I went into the stock room instead.

I figured that since I hadn’t yet come up with a good excuse for ditching my duties as Holt’s fashion show coordinator, I may as well take advantage of the situation.

The stock room was really cool. There were towering shelving units stuffed absolutely full of all kinds of fresh, new merchandise, and miles of racks that held plastic-wrapped hanging garments—although the mannequin farm by the janitor’s closet was kind of creepy.

During the day, the truck team was here unloading the new merchandise from the big rigs backed up to the loading dock, and employees were busy hauling it onto the sales floor on U-boats and Z-rails, or placing it in its designated location on either the first or second floor of the stock room. In the evening few employees had reason to come back here. It was quiet except for the Holt’s music track and an occasional announcement over the P.A. system.

I wound my way to the rear of the stock room near the big roll-up doors where the clothing for the Holt’s fashion show had been strategically placed. There were dozens of big brown boxes that held the folded garments and accessories. The hanging items were not only wrapped in plastic but covered in tarps. Apparently, Holt’s wanted to surprise the employees with the new line on the day of the fashion show.

Nobody was looking forward to that surprise.

A few minutes passed while I gathered my courage—and killed a little more of my shift—then lifted the tarp.

Yikes!

I jumped back. Oh my God, this stuff was horrible—no, it was beyond horrible. It was hideous—no, it was beyond hideous, whatever that was.

How the heck was I supposed to pull off a fashion show? Corporate had hired models—but how was I going to force them into these garments and make them walk down the runway?

I drew in a big breath, trying to calm myself. Just as well I wasn’t interested in winning the fashion show coordinator’s prize—whatever it was.

I headed back across the stock room—the boys department didn’t seem so bad right now—then came to my senses and trotted up the big concrete staircase to the second floor. I didn’t like coming up here—long story—but I had some personal business to attend to.