Unzipped? by Karen Kendall Page A

car with the packages while she went in and bought him some basic workout clothes in dark and neutral colors. She added white socks to the mix and then went and got him. “I can’t just buy the cross-trainers and running shoes for you. You have to actually come in and test them for comfort.”
    She got him into this last store, stuck him on a vinyl bench and brought him several pairs of gym shoes. Then she drilled a rule into his head: Thou Shalt Not Wear Running Shoes With Jeans.
    “Why not?” asked Hal.
    “Just repeat after me. ‘I, Hal Underwood, will not under any circumstances pair my running shoes with jeans or any other slacks.’”
    “What about sweatpants? Shorts?”
    She sighed. “How about, ‘I, Hal Underwood, will only wear running shoes with sweatpants or shorts.’”
    “I still don’t understand why.”
    “Just promise!”
    “What about cross-trainers?”
    “Those are okay with jeans in extremely casual situations. But try to avoid that look. We’re aiming for cool elegance.”
    “Suave School sucks, you know that? Gym shoes are comfortable. These lace-up things are not. If my little toes stay numb and eventually fall off, I’m suing you for replacements.”
    “Fine.”
    They at last agreed on one pair of trainers and one pair of running shoes. While the salesperson boxed them up and ran the total, Shannon patted Hal’s shoulder. “This bill won’t be so bad. You can even keep your eyes open. I’m just going to run out to the car for a sec, okay?”
    He eyed her suspiciously.
    “What?” she asked, all innocence.
    Hal squinted.
    She widened her eyes. Then she turned and walked out to the car. Keeping an eye on him through the large plate-glass window, she found the bag thatcontained his old clothes and shoes. She waited for him to look down and sign the credit card slip. Then, bag in hand, she sprinted for the Dumpster in the corner of the parking lot.
    “I knew it!” he shouted, running after her. “You’re evil!”
    She picked up speed. The spike-heeled boots didn’t help, but this was her only shot.
    “Give me that bag!” Hal yelled, his footsteps getting closer and closer.
    Crap! She was five feet from the Dumpster and closing. She looked over her shoulder. His blue eyes blazed at her, less than a yard away.
    Shannon used her back heel as a springboard and leaped forward. He lunged at the same time and caught her by the back of the sweater and one silver leather belt loop.
    She twisted, yanked and heard a disturbing rip—the sound of stitching giving way. Her pants! He was ruining her four-hundred-dollar designer pants!
    Furious and more determined than ever, Shannon vaulted forward and up, slam-dunking the bag of clothes into the filthy Dumpster and hanging from it by the armpits.
    A sickening smell assaulted her nose just as Hal grasped her around the hips. “You—you—you! I can’t believe you just did that!”
    There was a half-gnawed potato skin under her left arm, and her right hand had landed in what looked like the remains of a chicken sandwich, garnished with rotted lettuce. “I can’t believe I did, either.” But she saw with satisfaction that the bag containing his awful clothes had spilled during flight, and the contents lay scattered in a deep, stinky central crater.
    She relaxed, intending to drop backward into Hal’s arms. Mission accomplished!
    Except…his hands weren’t easing her down as she’d expected. No, they were— Oh, God! Oh, no!
    Hal was boosting her upward. And forward. And—
    “Help! Nooo!”
    “Gosh,” he said. “I seem to remember yelling that word, too. But it didn’t do any good.”
    “Nooo!” she yelled again, scrabbling among paper drink cups, oily wet wrappers, a bag of lawn clippings and a rusty hubcap. The potato skin and the chicken sandwich had only served to grease her way forward. Oh, dear God— Was that a…? No, if she touched that she would just die.
    A scuffling sound toward the left corner of the Dumpster