A few nights later, Jack, Ivy, and I drove to Harlow’s to check out the store and plan some things. Jeremy couldn’t come with us. He’d had an asthma attack during sixth period at school, a pretty bad one, I guess, because an ambulance came for him and took him away.
Ivy texted him around dinnertime. He said he was home but still feeling weird and not breathing normally.
And Manny . . . we couldn’t find him. He didn’t answer his phone. We had no idea where he was.
A wide asphalt driveway leads up to Harlow’s, which sits on a low hill overlooking River Road. The front of the store is all glass, a big window. There’s no window display, except for a few neon beer signs. You can see the aisles inside the brightly lit store. A red neon sign above the glass entrance reads: Pic ’n’ Pay. No checks accepted.
Ivy and I followed Jack in. Mr. Harlow was leaning over the front counter, reading a newspaper. He glanced up as we entered and nodded hello. He’s pretty old, maybe in his fifties or sixties. He has silvery hair, tanned cheeks with lots of little crisscross lines in them, and dark eyes that only half open, like he’s always drowsy or something.
It was a warm spring night, but Harlow was wearing a checked flannel shirt, red and black like a lumberjack shirt. Everything else he was wearing was hidden behind the counter. “Let me know if I can help you,” he said. He has a warm, friendly voice, with just a touch of a southern accent.
We made our way to the long beer display refrigerator that runs the whole length of the back wall. A small black radio on the shelf behind the front counter was playing a baseball game. Harlow had his head down, studying his newspaper.
“I see two security cameras,” Jack said in a low voice. He motioned with his head. “One above the back wall, one over the front counter.”
Ivy and I followed Jack’s gaze. “Don’t all look at once,” he scolded. “Do you really want to look like you’re casing the joint?”
“You’re right,” I murmured. “We’ve got to be subtle.”
We moved farther along the beer display. A chill came off the glass. A gray cat watched from an aisle opposite us.
My heart was pounding. No reason to be nervous. We were just checking things out. Jack tapped my shoulder. “See the back door? It leads to a small parking lot. We can park back there, avoid the bright lights up front.”
“Do you believe this?” Ivy called loudly. She held up a package. “Carrot Cake Oreos? Are they kidding?”
“They make a lot of flavors now,” Harlow said, raising his head from his newspaper. “No one likes them.”
Something happened in the baseball game. The sounds of the crowd cheering rang from the radio. Harlow shook his head unhappily. “The O’s just blew another one.” He slammed his newspaper shut. “You guys ever been to Camden Yards? It’s a nifty little park.” He sighed. “Deserves better than this.”
“My dad is a baseball fan,” Ivy told him, replacing the Oreos on the shelf. “But he roots for the Pirates.”
“National League.” Harlow said the words as if they were curse words. “They make the pitchers bat.” He turned to Ivy. “Where’d your dad grow up?”
“Franklin Park,” she said. “I was born there, but we moved to Shadyside when I was four.”
As they talked, I moved toward the back of the store. I passed the long display racks of chips and salsa, and I thought, Why don’t we just tear open a few bags of chips, pull out some beers, and have a nice friendly talk with the guy we’re going to rob in a few days?
Of course, the whole thing wasn’t that weird since Jack planned to let Harlow in on it and rehearse the whole thing with him.
“We need to get Manny here,” Jack whispered to me, his eyes on the headlights rolling up in the front parking lot. “He needs to get an idea of the layout since he’ll be the video guy.”
“I’ll try him again,” I said, pulling out my phone.
A young couple entered the store, greeted Harlow, and made their way to the coffee machine.
I spotted a narrow door in the back wall and walked over to investigate it. I found myself in a small back room. A single fluorescent ceiling bulb cast gray light down over shelves of what looked to be cleaning supplies. An old soda dispenser lay on its side on the floor. Four large metal trash cans lined one wall.
Nothing interesting back here, I thought. I was so busy studying the cluttered shelves in the gray light that I didn’t see the tall, skinny guy in the middle of the room until he called out. “Hey.”
Startled, I gasped.
He leaned on the handle of a wide push-broom. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt and very baggy jeans. He had dark, scraggly hair, a mass of it falling over one eye. His silver nose ring gleamed under the fluorescent light.
It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. He stared at me, both hands wrapped around the broom handle, and didn’t say a word. He had funny eyes. They didn’t stay still. They kind of danced around.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t see you.”
He didn’t reply. Just brushed the wave of hair off his eye.
“I thought this was the bathroom,” I lied.
Why didn’t he say anything? He was seriously creeping me out.
“Do you work for Mr. Harlow?” I asked. I backed up toward the door.
He nodded. “My name is Lucas,” he said finally.
“Oh. Hi. Hi, Lucas.”
He stared at me, leaning on the broom, the strange eyes doing somersaults in his head. He appeared to be about my age, but I’d never seen him at school.
“Well . . . sorry,” I said. “Hope I didn’t startle you.” I backed up a few more steps.
And the door slammed shut behind me.
I gasped and spun around.
I’m shut up in this room with this creep.
He leaned the broom handle against a shelf and took a step toward me. His crazy eyes were locked on me. I felt . . . invaded. Like he was trying to see more than he should.
“The door—” I started.
He moved closer.
I could feel cold panic rising up inside me, freezing me in place. “The door—”
He moved quickly. A few inches from me now. And then he stepped past me and made his way with long strides to the door.
He shoved the door open. “It does that sometimes,” he said. His smile revealed crooked teeth. “Don’t know why. Maybe it’s haunted. Ha.”
“Scared me,” I said. I forced a laugh. “I think I jumped a mile.”
He nodded but didn’t reply.
I was starting to feel more normal. I stepped past him, back into the store. “Bye, Lucas. Sorry to interrupt you.”
I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away. He called after me, “No problem, Poppy.”
I hurried to catch up to my friends. Ivy and Jack were waving good-bye to Harlow. I still felt tense. Something about that guy gave off very bad vibes.
Yes, I’d overreacted when the door slammed. But I still didn’t feel safe.
I was out in the parking lot, about to climb into Jack’s borrowed SUV, when the question finally dawned on me: Whoa, wait. Lucas . . . He called me Poppy. How did he know my name?
