Broken Wings (Broken Wings 1)

“Forget it,” I said. “I’m going to work.”

I slammed their door and rushed out of the apartment, my steps pounding the stairway and clicking over the walk. There wasn’t a bus for quite a while. I grew impatient and walked toward the next station. With the way my nerve endings were twanging and my stomach was churning, I couldn’t just sit and wait with the other people. It was a mistake because the bus arrived only five minutes later and passed me up on my way to the next stop. I ran, but I didn’t get there in time. Tired and disgusted, I flopped on the bench and waited again. This bus seemed to make more stops. By the time I arrived at the supermarket, I was just a minute or so late. Mr. Ritter jumped out at me the moment I entered.

He didn’t speak. He pointed to his watch.

“I missed the bus,” I began. “And the next one wasn’t as fast and…”

“You have to anticipate such things, young lady. The trick is to start earlier, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My policy is if you’re a minute late, you are still docked for an hour. My advice to you is be here early tomorrow to be sure you’re not late. If you were a minute or so more, I’d fire you, so count your blessings.”

I mouthed a thank you and went in to get my apron. Everything made my cramps more intense this particular morning. People thought I was smiling, when I was really grimacing in agony. My bad luck continued. It turned out to be one of the busiest days of the week. I never stopped until my break for lunch.

Instead of joining the other employees, I went outside and found a bench upon which to sit and eat one of the ready-made sandwiches the store sold. It was to be subtracted from my salary, of course. I ended up feeding most of it to the birds.

When a lull came in the afternoon, Tammy Carol had me working at the frozen food freezer. She wanted everything taken out and rearranged neatly. It was hard because it was so cold my fingers became numb. If I paused too long, either she or Mr. Ritter was there to tell me I couldn’t leave the items out of the freezer too long. Get with it.

My last shift as a packer was the hardest. I was so tired and cranky, I dropped a bottle of cranberry juice, which shattered at my feet.

“That will come out of your salary,” Mr. Ritter told me instantly. “I want this cleaned up immediately. First, get our customer another bottle so she is not delayed another unnecessary second. Go!” he shouted.

I hurried, clinging to this bottle for dear life, and returned. Then I started to clean up the mess. I cut my finger on a piece of glass, which enraged him even more.

“Dropping blood everywhere now. Go in the back and use the first-aid kit. I should have my head examined. Cory owes me big time,” he eagerly announced.

Finally, eight o’clock came and I punched out.

“Remember,” Mr. Ritter said as I was leaving, “get here early tomorrow.”

I nodded and left. I was in such a daze that for a moment, I had forgotten Keefer was going to be there. He actually had to sound his horn. I turned and saw him waving from the battered vehicle. Never so glad to see him, I ran to the car and he got out to embrace me.

“Hey,” he said. “You look worse than me.”

“I had a terrible day,” I said, and rattled every moment off in minutes. Then I remembered what his day had to be like and asked him how it went.

“It was hard. My father was in a stupor, which was good. He actually looked like he didn’t know who I was. Charlie was great. I stayed after everyone left and had my last conversation with her,” he added, his eyes getting glassy. He took a deep breath.

I kissed his cheek and squeezed his arm gently. He shook his head.

“I can’t stay here,” he said. “I thought I could work it through, get another job for a while, but I just want to get away.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I’m miserable back at that apartment, and they really don’t want me around.” I told him what a creep Cory Lewis was and how I was devastated by my mother always taking his side no matter what.

“She’s dependent on him now.” He looked back at the supermarket. “You have an idea about how much money the cashier checks out when the shift is changed?”

“I don’t know. I think about twenty-five hundred or so. Why?”

“I’d like to borrow it,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s an easy robbery. I thought about it even before you began to work for a supermarket.”

“Really?” My heart began to thump.

He shrugged, and then he reached under the seat and brought out a pistol. I thought all the breath left my body. It was one thing to shoplift—some of my friends back in Ohio actually thought it was a game—but a gun!