Progress into the depths of the store is slow, cautious: a nervous, furtive animal searching unfamiliar territory.  Past banks of CDs - beneath garish displays - through crowds of kids - then, finally, down a specific aisle, side-to-side flicker of attention, eyes darting across dust jackets and labels.  A gutterpunk - two-hundred dollar boots, shaved head, pockets full of spare change - starts to slip a CD under his jacket while Enid's back is turned.  With the same sixth sense granted to teachers that allows them to decipher just who threw tha spitball, the yellow-haired girl turns around and tell him, "You're _so_ gonna put that back, 'cus I'm not gonna buy it back off of you when you bring it by next week."