It was Sunday afternoon when Mrs. Krimble and her children arrived home from mass. Willow insisted on preparing her family an old fashioned Italian feast. She borrowed a recipe book from Mrs. Fiora and was looking forward to making a pesto sauce she had tasted at Razzel’s house one summer evening. She had already prepared meatballs with Razzel the previous night, after they finished their museum assignment.
“The sauce and pasta should only take about 20 minutes to prepare,” Willow assured her ravenous brother. She opened the spice cabinet and cringed. “Oh, man, I forgot. I used up the last bit of olive oil to fry the meatballs last night.”
“Let’s have at those meatballs,” said Wyatt. “I’m feeling faint.”
“Wyatt, cut it out,” said Mrs. Krimble.
“I have an idea,” said Willow. “You guys boil the pasta so that when I get back, I can throw the sauce together and we can eat right away.”
“Get back from where?” asked Mrs. Krimble.
“I’ll just run to Kresh Fruits,” said Willow. “Be right back. Keep him away from the meatballs.”
Wyatt sighed.
Willow cut through Shashaw Park, as usual, and glanced at the children running, jumping, climbing and shouting. She wondered whether she would ever run into the little girl she helped. What was her name again? Alison?
Willow exited the north gate and could see the sign for Kresh Fruits across the street. She entered the crowded store and spotted Mr. Kresh. He looked furious as he argued with a man holding a clipboard.
"I told yous guys before, them bananas is already too ripe when they gets here. I wants 'em greener next time, er I'll find another vendor; ya got me?"
Willow felt sorry for the man with the clipboard. He was just trying to make a delivery, and Mr. Kresh could be quite intimidating.
She made her way down aisle three - the spice aisle - in search for extra-virgin olive oil. When she reached her destination, she recognized a familiar face, albeit not a friendly one. The redheaded boy with the ponytail, who was her cashier on her previous trip to the market, was now stocking shelves. He was placing jars of tomato sauce on the top shelf with one hand while holding a large portable CD player in the other. Willow was surprised to see such an obsolete piece of equipment. She noticed gray electrical tape holding together the band on the large set of headphones around the boy’s head, which was bobbing to the rhythm of whatever he was listening to.
Willow needed to reach under the step-stool the boy was standing on in order to reach the olive oil. She made eye contact with the boy and smiled at him. Much like their previous encounter, he did not return it. Willow considered asking the boy to kindly move aside, but thought better of it. She stretched her arm under the stool and grabbed the first bottle her hand made contact with. She extracted the bottle and examined it. Regular olive oil … no good; she needed extra-virgin. She was very particular with her cooking and she learned from Razzel's father that extra-virgin olive oil was the best for flavor.
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Willow looked up at the boy, who appeared to be in his own secluded world. She noticed he only had a few jars left to shelve. As soon as the boy finished, Willow would seize her opportunity to obtain her ingredient.
The boy stepped down from his stool and as soon as his foot touched ground, at least a dozen jars came crashing down to the floor shattering all over the aisle, some spattering Willow on her shirt. Several customers poked their heads into the aisle, curious to see who or what had caused such a raucous.
Mr. Kresh came running down the aisle, a look of horror on his face. His eyes darted back and forth several times between his nephew and the mess of red-coated glass. He didn’t seem to notice Willow. He placed his hands on his balding head and gasped, as if he was trying to speak, but couldn’t. He did this for a few seconds until finally, "YOU!" he bellowed pointing to the boy. "I TOLD YOUS YESTADY, THIS HERE SHELF STOCKIN' WAS YER LAST CHANCE! OUT! GET OUT! YER FIRED! I DON'T GIVES A DAMN WHO YOUS RELATED TO!"
Willow expected the boy to look indifferent; he never came across as someone who was happy to work in his uncle’s grocery store. She was surprised to see that he actually looked disappointed as he removed his headphones.
"It was an accident," he said, apologetically.
"Hiring yous was an accident!" barked Mr. Kresh. “Clean up this here mess and hit da bricks.”
Willow couldn’t understand why she was about to lie, but just as Mr. Kresh turned on his heel and began to storm away, "It was my fault, Mr. Kresh!"
Mr. Kresh stopped dead in his tracks and quickly spun around. He and his nephew stared at Willow, both with the same dumbfounded expressions.
"Yous made this here mess?"
"Yes, sir. You see ... I needed to get to the olive oil and rather than wait for your nephew to finish, I reached in impatiently and knocked into the stool he was standing on and, well … he must have knocked into the jars to regain his footing. I'm just glad he didn't fall and hurt himself."
Mr. Kresh surveyed his nephew suspiciously.
"Hmm … lucky fa him."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Kresh. I'll clean it up and pay for it, of course."
Willow felt a wave of anxiety flow though her as Haskel Kresh scrutinized her. She was never on the receiving end of his wrath and she never imagined she would be. After several tense moments, however, Mr. Kresh forced a smile.
"Ah, feget about it, doll. These things happen, right? Tell yer motha I says 'hello.’" He turned to his nephew. "You clean this up and start shelving them canned peaches that came in today."
Mr. Kresh stomped away shaking his head, mumbling, “At least cans can’t shatta.”
"You know, he didn't buy a word of that,” said the boy, “but since he can't call one of his loyal customers a liar ... I really owe you one."
"Don't mention it," replied Willow, as she quickly grabbed her olive oil of choice, replacing it with the initial bottle she grabbed in haste. She had placed herself in an awkward situation and was anxious to make her exit.
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Willow turned to leave.
"What's your name?" the boy called to his rescuer.
"Willow."
"I remember you. You were here my first day on register. I screwed up the dollar amount. That wasn't the last time, by the way. My uncle thinks I've been stealing from him which is why I'm on stock duty now."
"Okay, well ... see ya," said Willow, turning and walking away from the scene as fast as she could. Why couldn't she speak to him? Brusque people never intimidated her before. Hell, her best friend was Razzel Fiora!
Next Chapter
“The sauce and pasta should only take about 20 minutes to prepare,” Willow assured her ravenous brother. She opened the spice cabinet and cringed. “Oh, man, I forgot. I used up the last bit of olive oil to fry the meatballs last night.”
“Let’s have at those meatballs,” said Wyatt. “I’m feeling faint.”
“Wyatt, cut it out,” said Mrs. Krimble.
“I have an idea,” said Willow. “You guys boil the pasta so that when I get back, I can throw the sauce together and we can eat right away.”
“Get back from where?” asked Mrs. Krimble.
“I’ll just run to Kresh Fruits,” said Willow. “Be right back. Keep him away from the meatballs.”
Wyatt sighed.
Willow cut through Shashaw Park, as usual, and glanced at the children running, jumping, climbing and shouting. She wondered whether she would ever run into the little girl she helped. What was her name again? Alison?
Willow exited the north gate and could see the sign for Kresh Fruits across the street. She entered the crowded store and spotted Mr. Kresh. He looked furious as he argued with a man holding a clipboard.
"I told yous guys before, them bananas is already too ripe when they gets here. I wants 'em greener next time, er I'll find another vendor; ya got me?"
Willow felt sorry for the man with the clipboard. He was just trying to make a delivery, and Mr. Kresh could be quite intimidating.
She made her way down aisle three - the spice aisle - in search for extra-virgin olive oil. When she reached her destination, she recognized a familiar face, albeit not a friendly one. The redheaded boy with the ponytail, who was her cashier on her previous trip to the market, was now stocking shelves. He was placing jars of tomato sauce on the top shelf with one hand while holding a large portable CD player in the other. Willow was surprised to see such an obsolete piece of equipment. She noticed gray electrical tape holding together the band on the large set of headphones around the boy’s head, which was bobbing to the rhythm of whatever he was listening to.
Willow needed to reach under the step-stool the boy was standing on in order to reach the olive oil. She made eye contact with the boy and smiled at him. Much like their previous encounter, he did not return it. Willow considered asking the boy to kindly move aside, but thought better of it. She stretched her arm under the stool and grabbed the first bottle her hand made contact with. She extracted the bottle and examined it. Regular olive oil … no good; she needed extra-virgin. She was very particular with her cooking and she learned from Razzel's father that extra-virgin olive oil was the best for flavor.
___________________________________
Page 58
Willow looked up at the boy, who appeared to be in his own secluded world. She noticed he only had a few jars left to shelve. As soon as the boy finished, Willow would seize her opportunity to obtain her ingredient.
The boy stepped down from his stool and as soon as his foot touched ground, at least a dozen jars came crashing down to the floor shattering all over the aisle, some spattering Willow on her shirt. Several customers poked their heads into the aisle, curious to see who or what had caused such a raucous.
Mr. Kresh came running down the aisle, a look of horror on his face. His eyes darted back and forth several times between his nephew and the mess of red-coated glass. He didn’t seem to notice Willow. He placed his hands on his balding head and gasped, as if he was trying to speak, but couldn’t. He did this for a few seconds until finally, "YOU!" he bellowed pointing to the boy. "I TOLD YOUS YESTADY, THIS HERE SHELF STOCKIN' WAS YER LAST CHANCE! OUT! GET OUT! YER FIRED! I DON'T GIVES A DAMN WHO YOUS RELATED TO!"
Willow expected the boy to look indifferent; he never came across as someone who was happy to work in his uncle’s grocery store. She was surprised to see that he actually looked disappointed as he removed his headphones.
"It was an accident," he said, apologetically.
"Hiring yous was an accident!" barked Mr. Kresh. “Clean up this here mess and hit da bricks.”
Willow couldn’t understand why she was about to lie, but just as Mr. Kresh turned on his heel and began to storm away, "It was my fault, Mr. Kresh!"
Mr. Kresh stopped dead in his tracks and quickly spun around. He and his nephew stared at Willow, both with the same dumbfounded expressions.
"Yous made this here mess?"
"Yes, sir. You see ... I needed to get to the olive oil and rather than wait for your nephew to finish, I reached in impatiently and knocked into the stool he was standing on and, well … he must have knocked into the jars to regain his footing. I'm just glad he didn't fall and hurt himself."
Mr. Kresh surveyed his nephew suspiciously.
"Hmm … lucky fa him."
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Kresh. I'll clean it up and pay for it, of course."
Willow felt a wave of anxiety flow though her as Haskel Kresh scrutinized her. She was never on the receiving end of his wrath and she never imagined she would be. After several tense moments, however, Mr. Kresh forced a smile.
"Ah, feget about it, doll. These things happen, right? Tell yer motha I says 'hello.’" He turned to his nephew. "You clean this up and start shelving them canned peaches that came in today."
Mr. Kresh stomped away shaking his head, mumbling, “At least cans can’t shatta.”
"You know, he didn't buy a word of that,” said the boy, “but since he can't call one of his loyal customers a liar ... I really owe you one."
"Don't mention it," replied Willow, as she quickly grabbed her olive oil of choice, replacing it with the initial bottle she grabbed in haste. She had placed herself in an awkward situation and was anxious to make her exit.
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Page 59
Willow turned to leave.
"What's your name?" the boy called to his rescuer.
"Willow."
"I remember you. You were here my first day on register. I screwed up the dollar amount. That wasn't the last time, by the way. My uncle thinks I've been stealing from him which is why I'm on stock duty now."
"Okay, well ... see ya," said Willow, turning and walking away from the scene as fast as she could. Why couldn't she speak to him? Brusque people never intimidated her before. Hell, her best friend was Razzel Fiora!
Next Chapter