Reusable table cloth
Plastic cups
“It’s for an outdoor picnic,” I say quietly.
“What?” Leo asks.
I point to his scanner. “They’re going to give us a bonus if we can correctly guess what kind of event the shopping list is for. It’s an outdoor picnic.”
My mind rewinds to spring semester sophomore year when Buckley texted me to meet him at a nearby park. I had just gotten done with a really stressful final when I saw him sitting on a large beach towel with hoagies and a gallon jug of sweet tea.
I wonder what happened to that Buckley because this Buckley, leering at me while dropped down in a lunge across the room, is not him. Maybe getting his ass kicked in this competition will show him that messing with me was the wrong move.
The countdown times out. Alexia fixes her ponytail and throws me a withering smile. “Good luck, guys,” she says, then adds under her breath, “You’re going to need it.”
“Welcome back toMadcapMarket,” says Pat Crumsky directly into the camera. On the monitor, he looks larger than life. “Before we parted, we said goodbye to Team Artichoke. Now, Team Salmon Sliders and Team Eggplant are prepared to go head-to-head in the shopping list challenge. We’ve staged our store with a multitude of fun tricks and tests for our competitors to overcome. Who will go on to the finale? Let’s find out! Contestants, are you ready for someMadcap Mania?”
Buckley and I throw thumbs-ups to the cameras as we approach the doors. Our first carts are greased and ready. I grip the handle as if it were a luxury sports car and I were about to drag race my way to fame.
“Better stay out of my way,” Buckley says snidely while smiling for the cameras. We were told there’s no audio recorded in this room, so no one will hear our trash-talking.
“That won’t be a problem because I’ll be so far ahead of you,” I say. “Try not to choke on my dust.”
“On your carts, get ready,” Pat announces. “Shop!”
Twenty-Four
Four and a half minutes later, I’m desecrated.
Whipped cream glops down the side of my face. The front of my sweatshirt is soaked with lemonade from a sample stand I accidentally knocked over and then fell into. But heaven knows I won’t let a little mess stand in my way of winning that prize.
Leo and I performed the penultimate handoff, and now I’m racing toward the tablecloths. I have to remember: the lowest cart total wins the money.
Buckley is only marginally in the lead. He’s taken a shortcut through the chip aisle only to be greeted by the lemonade spill. The wheels of his cart spin unprompted, rolling away without him while his arms flail and he falls into the table.
God, how has nobody died doing this before?
I shake away the morbid thought as I ditch my cart so I can army-crawl beneath a sign that is hanging from only one chain, blocking most of the aisle. I hope the audience at home is having a good laugh because this is far less fun from the inside. I feel like I’ve been put through the ringer. I still need to grab the tablecloth, get it into the cart, and get the cart over the finish line.
My body protests—fully pushed to the max—but I must press on. For me. For Mom.
Leo’s encouraging voice cuts through the store, “You got this, Holden!”
For Leo. Sweet, deserving, hopefully-going-to-be-my-boyfriend-when-this-is-all-over Leo.
Finding my strength again, I stand and begin scanning the shelves. My eyes gravitate toward the red-and-black-checkered fabric cloth with the shiny SALE tag beneath it that reads: 50% off with Club Shopper Card.
I can’t remember for the life of me if we collected that one in the previous rounds or not. Unzipping the fanny pack they gave me, I quickly skim through the coupons I’ve clipped and our various winnings. I’m not seeing the Club Shopper Card, but after doing the quick mental math I know this tablecloth will end up being cheaper than the budget plastic tablecloth by at least a dollar if we do have it.
This game can come down to pennies. We can’t bear that extra dollar.
The Club Shopper Card is probably in the pack. I’m just too stressed to see it like Leo was too stressed to notice he grabbed the wrong Animal Crackers.
Risking it all, I scan the cloth and rush back to my abandoned cart.
Of course, as soon as I return, my cart isn’t where I left it. I crane my neck down the nearest aisle and, sure enough, Buckley’s playing dirty. He’s sent my cart off on its own, crashing into cases of Coca-Cola which topple with loud, fizzy splats much to the audience’s delight.
Ever the adult, Buckley sticks his tongue out at me.
