Starstruck Read Online Free PDF Page B

on the wall behind the register. If you need anything, we’re upstairs. Just pick up the phone and dial one. Okay?”
    I’m about to turn around when I realize that the entire lower half of his face (which is all I can see) has turned a little red. Is he blushing or choking on a piece of gum? Then his mouth opens and he says, in a tiny, fragile voice, “May I have a cupcake?”
    May I have a cupcake? It’s so childish, like something I’d expect a preschooler to say. Or Oliver. I can’t help it: I burst out laughing.
    He tilts his head to the side, obviously wondering if I’m having a convulsion.
    “I’m sorry. Yeah. You can. And there’s milk and juice in the fridge case. Help yourself.”
    He reaches into the case and pulls out a chocolate-frosted cupcake. Then he shoves the entire thing into his mouth, and in one swallow, it’s gone. I can almost see the outline of it traveling down his throat, like a mouse being devoured by a snake. I gag. “Um, you can have another. Human bites, though, this time. Don’t want to have to call 911 on your ass.”
    I laugh—it’s almost a snort, but I catch myself in time—and realize that the whole “calling 911 on your ass” thing is entirely too cool for the normal Dough Reilly to say. I usually sound stiff, like a walking dictionary. I think I’m feeling emboldened by his goofy “Can I have some more, sir?” impersonation.
    He takes a second one and is still chewing when he opens his mouth and says, “Thanks.”
    Seeing that he has kind of green teeth—and what’s that? A pimple on his chin?—gives me even more courage. He’s not scary at all, just a regular pussycat. I’ll definitely be laughing this off by next month. “So, you’re not from around here,” I say, leaning over the counter.
    He shakes his head and swallows, then goes over to the fridge. I expect him to expand on that, but he doesn’t. He just looks out the window again, toward the Dumpster.
    I figure I can have a conversation with myself, then. I’m used to being my own company. “I knew that. We don’t get many new faces around here.”
    He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m from out west.”
    Wow, first time he offered up information about himself. However, considering that we’re on an island on the East Coast and just about all of the United States is out west, I can’t say this is very revealing. “Cool. You mean, like, California?”
    He shrugs. Scintillating conversation.
    Still, he’s a pussycat. A cupcake-loving little pussycat, I remind myself as I start to consolidate the donuts onto as few trays as possible, which really does not need to be done. “Anyway, you can do this, if you want,” I motion to the trays. “Then put the trays in the back. The bakers wash the morning ones, but you’ll have to wash all the rest after we close. It helps to keep things neat.”
    Suddenly, I’m aware that he’s completely invaded my personal space, because I can feel his breath on my ear. I stand stick straight and swallow. “Does it matter where a person comes from,” he hisses, “when they’re never going back?”
    Then he moves away and plucks another cupcake from the tray. I take a deep breath, and the guy goes right back to being Mr. Scary.

7
    “M OM,” I SAY BEFORE I’ve even opened the screen door to the apartment, “can you please explain to me why you thought it would be a good idea to leave your innocent daughter alone with a potential serial rapist?”
    But then I realize that I’m talking to an empty room. The ledger is out on the kitchen table, and the ceiling fan has blown some of the bills onto the linoleum floor, but the plastic chair Mom usually sits in, whining and moaning, is empty.
    I figure she’s probably gone to the bathroom to get a tissue to blow her nose, but as I walk farther into the room, I hear it: giggling, coming from her bedroom.
    If you know my mother, you know that she is the most non-giggly person on Earth. She stopped