Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
My life has become a predictable loop, a real-life version of Groundhog Day that I have no intention of trying to change. I’m the personification of an alternate ending where Phil accepts that he’s stuck listening to Sonny & Cher every morning until the end of time.
If you’d have asked me years ago if this would be my future, I would’ve laughed in your face. Me? Kennedy Reagan Garfield? I was destined for greatness.
I’d been named after a pair of iconic presidents. My mother, the idealistic liberal, and my father, a strict conservative, never saw eye-to-eye on much… except for me. They never agreed on healthcare or taxes, but they were both convinced their little oops baby would be somebody.
And here I am—somebody, all right. Assistant Manager Somebody at Piggly Q Grocery in a ‘blink and miss it’ kind of town in upstate New York. Thirteen dollars an hour, forty-plus hours a week, with a full benefits package including (unpaid) vacation days.
Not that I’m ungrateful. I’m doing better than a lot of people. My rent is paid every month. My electricity hasn’t been cut off. I've even got overpriced cable! But deep inside, I know this isn’t the kind of greatness my parents envisioned for me.
“Assistance needed on three!”
The high-pitched voice squeals over the loudspeaker, drowning out the music. My gaze scans the register area, waiting for someone else to respond, but nobody does. It always falls to me. Shaking my head, I stroll over to lane three, to the young blonde girl running the ancient register, ringing up an older woman’s groceries.
The cashier, Bethany, looks at me, dramatically pouting as she wiggles a can of chicken noodle soup in my face. “It’s coming up a buck and a quarter but Mrs. McKleski says there’s a ninety-nine cent sign back there.”
It’s $1.25. I know it is. Even Mrs. McKleski probably knows and just wants to make a fuss about something. I smile, though, and override the register, giving it to the woman at the discount.
I step away to let Bethany finish ringing up the groceries as Mrs. McKleski asks, “How’s your father doing?”
I don’t have to look to know she’s talking to me. I start straightening up the candy rack near the register. “He’s hanging in there.”
“Thought about baking him a pie,” she says. “Does he have a favorite? Apple? Cherry? Thought it might be pumpkin, or maybe pecan.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate whatever you make,” I say, “but he’s more of a chocolate cream pie guy.”
“Chocolate,” she mutters. “Should’ve known.”
The radio moves on to Lisa Loeb’s Stay, and that’s about when I decide I’m done with this day. I stroll to the front corner of the store, to where Marcus, the manager, hangs out in an office tucked behind Customer Service. Marcus is tall and slim, with brown skin and black hair that’s starting to show signs of impending gray.
“I’m going home,” I tell him.
“Now?” He glances at his watch. “It’s a little early.”
“I’ll make up for it,” I say, clocking out.
Marcus doesn’t argue. He knows I’m good for it, which is why he gives me leniency.
“Actually, I know how you can make up for it,” he says. “I need an extra shift worked, if you’re willing to pull a double on Friday. Bethany asked for the day off but there’s no one to cover.”
I want to say no, because I hate running registers, but I’m too nice for that. We both know it. I don’t even have to say a word.
“Do me a favor,” he says. “Stop by on your way out and tell Bethany I’m approving her request.”
“Will do,” I say, walking out before he can ask me for anything else. I stroll down the cereal aisle on my way through, snatching a box of Lucky Charms off the shelf. Bethany stands at her register, skimming through a magazine she grabbed from the rack beside her.
I glance at it, rolling my eyes.
Hollywood Chronicles.
The epitome of trashy tabloids.
I set my cereal down on the conveyer belt and pull out a few dollars. Bethany closes the magazine and tosses it down in the bagging area before ringing me up.
“Marcus approved your day off,” I tell her.
She squeals. “Really?”
“He told me to tell you.”
“Oh my God!” She shoves my cereal in a white plastic bag. “I didn’t think there was anyone to cover my shift.”
“Yeah, well, I could always use the overtime.”
Bethany squeals again, reaching across the lane to grab ahold of me, squeezing me in a hug. “You’re the best, Kennedy!”
“Special day?” I guess when I pull away, holding the money out to her before she can even tell me my total, hoping she’ll take it instead of hugging me again. Alanis Morissette’s Ironic is coming on, and if I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose my sanity.