The Boyfriend Thief - By Shana Norris Page 0,3

about anything, but I detected a slight red tinge to Tara’s cheeks. What exactly had I walked in on?

Molly never supported my theory that relationships were a waste of time. She had let her hormones take over her common sense. She didn’t even realize how much she needed me around to protect her.

“So,” I said as I returned Bob to the closet where he was stored, “you two seem very friendly these days.”

“I’m a friendly guy,” Elliott said.

I’d bet he was. “I’ll be sure to tell Molly how friendly you are. You remember Molly? The girl you follow around drooling over every day?”

My words didn’t have the effect I hoped for. Elliott smiled at me and reached for the broom to sweep the floor.

Okay, there may have been one thing I hated more than Giant Hot Dog Day: Elliott Reiser. Ever since that summer after seventh grade, I’d hated him almost as much as I hated my mom. But I couldn’t tell Molly about that incident unless I wanted her to drop me like last week’s shriveled hot dogs.

Somehow I had to make her see the light and get rid of his sorry butt.

“Everyone ready to go?” Mr. Throckmorton asked as he walked into the kitchen. He looked at his watch and clapped his hands together. “Come on, let’s get moving!”

I followed Mr. Throckmorton back to his office, trying to figure out the best way to ask for a raise. He jumped a little when he turned around.

“James, what did I tell you about sneaking up behind me?”

“Sorry, Mr. Throckmorton,” I said, twisting my hands together. My eyes darted around his office. Towers of boxes and paper leaned precariously throughout the room, mixed in among various signs, a few old takeout bags, and a couple of sweat-stained shirts tossed into one corner. My fingers itched to spend a few hours in there organizing everything, but Mr. Throckmorton would have a gigantic conniption fit if I moved even a paperclip out of place.

I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets to keep them from wandering toward the old tax records nearby. “I wanted to talk to you about a possible raise—”

Mr. Throckmorton held up one hand. “Stop right there. You know I can’t give you any more money. Your yearly evaluation isn’t until July.”

July would be too late. I didn’t plan to be stuck at Diggity Dog House for another summer come July.

“I know, but I thought maybe I could get an advanced raise?” I said, trying to sound as sweet as possible.

“It doesn’t work that way.” Mr. Throckmorton shuffled through some papers on his desk. He studied one for a moment, then tossed it toward a pile to his left. The paper flipped a few times through the air before fluttering to the floor. “It wouldn’t be fair to the other employees.”

I forced myself not to look at my boss’s inadequate filing system, trying to shut up the voice in my head that screamed, “FILE CABINET! For the love of argyle socks, use the freaking file cabinet!”

“Then could I get some more hours each week? I’ll do anything.”

He shook his head. “Sorry, James. I’m working you as many hours as I’m legally allowed already. I have nothing else to offer you.”

I suppressed a frustrated sigh and forced myself to smile. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Throckmorton,” I said as I turned to walk out of his office.

When I pulled my car to a stop in my driveway twenty minutes later, a light shone through a single window. The kitchen, exactly where I’d expected them to be. Dad and Ian always sneaked in a late night snack whenever I wasn’t home. Usually something greasy and extremely fattening.

I found my dad and younger brother trying to sweep the remains of chili cheese fries into the trash as I entered the room.

“Hi, sweetie,” Dad greeted me in an overly enthusiastic voice. “Have a good day at work?”

“Sure,” I said, raising an eyebrow at them. “Have a good day clogging your arteries?”

Dad’s mouth dropped open and he tried to look indignant. “I have no idea what you mean—”

Ian let out a loud, rumbling burp. “Excuse me.”

“Nice,” I told him as I sat down at the scratched wooden table. “Can’t you stifle your bodily functions until you get to your own room?”

“If it has to come out, it has to come out.” Ian was thirteen and still stuck in that phase in which he thought bodily noises were the most hilarious things in the world.

“Ian, stop tormenting