Chapter 14August—October 1995
“She doesn’t let us talk about you,” Orla told me one quiet afternoon when work was slow and the shop was empty. “Ever. If anyone mentions you, she has a shagging aneurysm.”
She was sitting on the counter, her long bare legs crossed and swinging back and forth. If Dennis had been there, he would have spent the whole afternoon yelling at the top of his voice about how unprofessional it was to have half-naked girls drinking slushies loitering around the shop, but as it was I had barely seen our manager since June, and Lee, my supervisor, was generally too stoned to care. For all intents and purposes Orla might as well have taken up a job in Blockbusters that summer, much as she didn’t exactly need one. She was there for almost every single one of my shifts in
