The keys clinked as I typed in the cost for each item. Working in a back woods tourist town grocery store really sucked. The looks the adults gave me as I type in the price off each jar of mustard and each bottle of ketchup were killer. I liked it best when the rich boys came in. You could hear their sports cars squeal into the parking lot like it was race day. They never bought condiments. And this guy, standing on the other side of my register, was the hottest one yet this summer. I tossed my hair nonchalantly as I hit the big total button. I looked at him, square in the face.
“That will be four dollars and fifty cents please, oh and your phone number.” It did it to all the boys that came in. He looked me up and down once and said.
“Sure thing toots.” He grabbed a five dollar bill from his wallet and scribbled a number on it. “Party at the Weston house tonight,” He said as he handed me the marked bill. “Call me if you need directions.” He gave a wink and was gone.