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instantly he knows something is off. “What is wrong with you?”
    “Long week,” I say, but I try to give him a smile so he doesn’t ask questions. He leaves me alone while I pry open boxes and stock the fridge shelves with soda and energy drinks. Given the rising heat outside and the lack of real air-conditioning in the store, being back by the fridges is welcome. Every time I slide open a door, the chilled air glides across my face and down the front of my shirt.
    I’ve always liked hiding back here. The supply room is dark and cooler than the front of the store. From behind the fridge units, I can see through the cans and bottles into the shop aisles. Now and again, I catch glimpses of Amjad playing his sudoku games at the counter.
    But mainly, I like when people come into the store. I like watching them. It’s not like being stuck at a party where people can see me lingering alone in a corner with a drink I won’t touch. Here, they won’t notice me at all. Sometimes it’s fun to watch people when they don’t realize they’re being watched. I don’t do it long enough to be considered creepy or anything—just for a few seconds at a time. It isn’t uncommon to see kids from school, either. Truthfully, I probably learn more about them and their families here than I do from sharing classes with them.
    I’ve learned bad-boy Tommy has a girlfriend from an all-girls Catholic school who calls him “teddy bear” and he goes to church with her every Sunday, after which they stop by the store to share a cherry slushie. I’ve learned Aaron Biggs and his brother live not just with their mom but also their grandmother, who is hard of hearing and always insists on coming inside with them to pay for their gas. Patrick Maloney, Aaron’s best friend, has come in a few times, always with different girls hanging on his arm. Chris Christopher started coming in the day he turned eighteen and could legally buy cigarettes. Just like he did at the party, he always smells like pot.
    People are different outside of school. But if they saw me, they would try to keep up appearances. Makes things awkward.
    A couple of people come and go while I’m in back during the afternoon rush, when everyone is stopping to get gas on their way home from work. By the time I’m done stocking, things have slowed down and I feel safe emerging again to put product on the shelves.
    Amjad eventually asks, “Is it a girl?”
    I nearly drop a box of Lay’s snack-sized chip bags all over my feet. “W-what?”
    “Bothering you.” He peers at me from behind the counter, pointing in my direction with his pen. He always insists real sudoku players use pens. “Some girl break your heart?”
    A wry smile twists at my mouth. “No.” Not exactly, but I don’t want to explain the truth to him.
    He huffs. “Girls! They’re headaches. But wonderful. Whatever you did wrong, you go apologize. Make it right.”
    “It’s n-not a girl,” I say with amusement.
    “Then what is it?”
    Deep breath. I stick a few bags of Doritos in their designated place. “Have you ever…been accused of s-something you didn’t do?”
    Amjad opens his mouth to speak, pausing when the door chimes. He holds up a finger as though to say hold that thought while the boy who just entered goes immediately to the back of the store. I duck my head and focus on getting the chips put away. He walks past me with two six-packs in hand, which he places on the counter, and offers Amjad a twenty. Amjad looks at it, at the beer, then at him.
    “ID, please?”
    The blond guy grins, spreading his hands. He can’t be any older than me. “C’mon, man. I left it at home.”
    Amjad smiles back at him. He taps the placard on the counter that states that ID is required for anyone who looks under forty. The guy’s bright demeanor fades quickly, darkening to a scowl. He crams the twenty into his pocket and walks out, muttering about terrorists as the door swings shut.
    Terrorist : a person who