“I need a screwdriver and the key,” I announced.
“On it,” I heard Indy say.
“Key’s right here,” Jet said, reaching to the shelf under the register and pulling out a rectangular Tupperware filled with Sharpies, paper clips, baby binder clips, a couple bouncy balls and a pack of Bubblemint-flavored Orbit gum.
It also had a key, which she pulled out and handed to me.
I opened the top of the register and Indy showed with the screwdriver, so I also opened the plate at the base.
I pulled the top off, looked at the mess inside, made an immediate diagnosis and turned to Indy.
“From the looks of it, this has had approximately five hundred and twenty-seven coffees spilled on it. It’s a miracle it worked at all. However, the latest spill means it’s gasped its last breath. It’s a wash. You need a new register.”
“Shit,” Indy muttered.
“You did all that math in your head?” Tex asked.
“I’m good with math. I’m usually good with this kind of stuff too.” I waved a hand to the register. “But at a guess, that was made in 1982. It was probably time to say good-bye two decades ago.” I turned my attention to Indy. “You should upgrade to a tablet-based POS system. Not only are they rad, they save tons of space, and have business, tech, data and environmental features you’ll like. If you still want the feel of a register, or deal in a lot of cash, they’ve got tablet-based with a cash drawer. I can do some research for you and help you set it up if you want.”
Indy, Tex, Jet (and I could feel it, everyone) were staring at me.
No one said anything.
And then Tex muttered (trying to make his lips not move, and failing) to Indy, “What does ‘POS’ mean?”
“Point of sale,” Indy muttered back.
“Gotcha,” he replied.
“Will you train us on it?” Indy asked me.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure.”
“She charges one hundred and fifty dollars an hour,” Gert called.
I shook my head at Indy trying to look like I wasn’t shaking my head at Indy.
She grinned at me and said, “We’ll work something out.”
“Seven times forty-two,” Tex threw out at me.
“Two hundred and ninety-four,” I told him.
“Check that, Loopy Loo,” Tex ordered Jet (he called her Loopy Loo, I had no idea why, but it was cute). Then to me, he shot, “Two hundred and ninety-four minus eighty-two plus one hundred and twenty.”
“Three thirty-two.”
“Three thirty-two times thirty-two.”
That one, I had to give a second.
Then I answered, “Uh, ten thousand and um, six hundred and twenty-four.”
“Holy crap,” Jet breathed, looking up from her calculator. “She’s right.”
Tex grinned a maniacal grin (that was kinda cute too). “Fuckin’ A, smarty-pants, I’m impressed.”
I shrugged again but felt my cheeks heat, not with embarrassment, with pride.
That feeling was a first for me.
And it far from sucked.
“Got me a girl who’s been hiding her light under a bushel, which can’t be easy, since she’s naked most the time she’s in my joint,” Smithie said.
Oh man.
I slowly turned my gaze to Smithie and caught myself from biting my lip, because soon, I would not be naked in his joint at all.
He looked at my face and then he screwed up his face and looked at mine harder.
Uh-oh.
“You’re quitting,” he accurately deduced.
“Smithie, it’s just that I want to go to school and—” I began.
He lifted his hand my way and I stopped talking.
“You’re quitting?” Hattie asked, sounding freaked.
“I knew she’d quit,” Pepper said to Ryn.
“Mm-hmm,” Ryn said to Pepper.
“Smithie—” Lottie started.
“No. Nope.” He shook his head and dropped his hand, still scowling at me. He turned to Lottie. “I know men like this. All’s said and done, I won’t have any girls left. So I do not give any of these matches my blessing. Hear me?”
“Smithie,” Lottie said softly.
“I like these ones,” Smithie declared, throwing an arm out to encompass all of us girls. “If I have to get new ones, I might not like ’em.”
“Smithie, you like everybody,” Lottie reminded him.
“I don’t like you right now,” he retorted.
She smiled at him. “Big, softhearted liar. You want them all to be happy. You’re just gonna miss her. Admit it.”
“I’ll come and visit,” I called.
“You will?” Hattie asked hopefully.
“Totally,” I told her. “And I’ll arrange a…a game night at Danny and my place. We’ll play Dungeons and Dragons.”
Lottie, Ryn, Pepper, Hattie, nor Roxie, Shirleen, or Sadie (who was also hanging out in the seating area, another Rock Chick, this one married to Hector) looked fired up about D&D.
Smithie turned on me. “You movin’ in with him?”
“We already live together, Smithie.”
“Because you were in danger of being kidnapped,” he returned. “That’s how it goes. Bitch is in distress, man moves her in, covers her ass—”
“Then keeps her there, marries her and fills her with babies. You’ve been through this nine times, Smithie,” Lottie told him. “It’s time to get with the program.”