“This is such a moment,” whispers Cooper. “I need this on my feed.”
Wes pivots in Cooper’s direction. “Hey, do you think maybe the store needs a social media page? An Instagram? Maybe a Twitter account?”
“Bro.” Stars explode in Cooper’s eyes. “Yes! Hell yes. Do you know that’s the first thing I asked about when I applied for the job?”
Wes isn’t surprised.
“Mrs. R said the store had a Tumblr.” He makes a sour face. “But this place needs more.”
“Do you want to…”
Before Wes can finish, Cooper shouts, “Uh, are Goo Goo Dolls the greatest band of the ‘90s?”
“No, they’re most definitely not.”
Again, Wes isn’t shocked by Cooper’s statement. Two days ago, they argued Blind Melon’s place in early ‘90s alternative rock canon—Wes for, Cooper against—so he’s lost all trust in Cooper’s musical ear. But Cooper’s already absorbed by his phone, his tongue between his teeth.
“Coop?”
Cooper raises his head with an eager smile. He’s such a puppy.
“Do you know a guy named Manu?” Wes rubs the back of his head, trying to contain his nerves. He hasn’t been obsessively thinking about Manu since the pier, but he’s crossed Wes’s mind once or twice. Sometimes, Wes is a realist. It’s good to have a backup plan. Life’s a fifty-fifty gamble. So he’s aware that this Nico thing might not fall in his favor.
And Manu was cute and interesting and seemed to be into Wes.
“Manuia?”
“Yeah.”
“Manu is awesome,” Cooper says, almost as enthusiastic about him as he is about anything involving a hashtag. “Dude always leaves the nicest comments on my posts. His cousin, Devon, is sweet too. You know she’s going to be the starting setter on the Irvine women’s volleyball team. She’s seventeen, Wes. What a dream.”
“Wow.”
“Manu’s dope,” Cooper continues. “Devon’s dope. All my mutual followers, including you, are dope.”
“Uh, I met Manu. The other night on the pier. He seemed—”
“The best?”
“You could say that.”
“He’s most def someone you should hang with. I support this,” says Cooper.
Is Cooper slyly trying to make a love connection? Or is he just eager for all his friends to be friends with each other? Wes can’t decide.
He chooses his next words carefully. “He also mentioned you and Devon are in some kind of secret group? Or maybe, like, an after-school arts and craft community?”
Cooper tenses, staring down at his phone.
Wes shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of his business. It’s just that Cooper’s become this weird little brother that Wes feels protective of. That’s Wes’s problem—he gets too attached to people and things. He wants to make sure Cooper’s not involved in anything illegal or harmful or, say, a teen drama fandom where all the actors are twenty-eight and playing high schoolers.
“You don’t have to, like…” Wes paces around his words. “I think that’s cool if you’re part of a supportive group or whatever.”
“They’re so supportive.” Cooper scrolls through his phone. He turns it around for Wes to inspect. “It’s this book group for ace teens.”
Wes blinks, eyebrows raised high.
“So, like,” Cooper glances around the bookstore. It’s practically empty. Ella’s in a daydream, staring out the window. A few people graze the aisles. Mrs. Rossi’s office door is closed. “So, I’m aroace.” He bites his lip, whispering, “Do you know what that is?”
“Of course.”
“Oh. Cool.” Cooper nods too many times. “Well, that’s me. I don’t really talk about it because, like…” His voice dies as if someone’s cut his vocal cords.
“People don’t respect who you are. Or they don’t understand, so they pretend it’s not real? They have no concept that there are more identities other than just straight, gay, and lesbian?” Wes offers.
“Exactly!” Cooper’s eyes are wide and glassy. “It happens everywhere. All the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
Cooper shrugs. “Don’t be. That’s what this group is for.”
Wes examines Cooper’s phone. His group has their own Instagram page: an entire feed of teens sitting on the beach or in coffee shops or in bookstacks sharing laughter and joy. There’s a picture of Cooper, in front of a volleyball net with an orange, yellow, white, and blue flag draped across his shoulders. Next to him someone waves a gray, white, and purple flag. Dark, wind-wrecked hair hides most of her face except for her giant, infectious grin.
Wes points to the photo. “Devon?”
“My demi ride or die.”
Wes continues to a photo of Cooper standing in front of a parade, flanked by two older people with his crinkled blue eyes and matching T-shirts. “Your parents?”
Cooper’s shoulders relax. He drags a hand through his hair, but it doesn’t lose its epic shape. “They’re the best.” He rotates his phone to stare at the image. “They didn’t get it at first either. I’m not sure they fully understand now, but they’re super supportive. They spend a lot of time on Google, then ask me questions when they think I’m okay to answer them. That’s the best part—they don’t force me to explain things. They make it casual, which is nice.”
“That’s great.”
Blushing, Cooper lowers his phone. “I know I’m lucky because not everyone in our group has that at home. I feel bad about that.”
“Don’t,” Wes says. “They have you. They have this group. That’s important too.” He raises his hand, then waits until Cooper nods his consent before dropping his palm on Cooper’s shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Coop.”
“You’re Wes Hudson.” Cooper’s still red-faced. “Heir to the Savannah Kirk throne. King of Great Comic Book Land. The Bookstore Savior. Defender of—”
“Okay, thanks, Coop,” Wes interrupts, laughing. He turns back to the comics corner. “Dreams” by the Cranberries floats through the store with its euphoric vocals and bass-heavy melody. He taps his foot to the drumbeat. Then, over his shoulder, he says, “Do you think maybe you could send me Manu’s IG handle?”
“Consider it done.” Cooper’s eyes lower as he taps away.
Exhaling, Wes allows his shoulders to sink.
A backup plan, that’s all Manu is.
It’s 2:15 p.m.
Wes only notices because his phone chimes with a message from Leo. He ignores it. He hasn’t even thought about the fact that Nico will arrive in forty-five minutes.
Today doesn’t feel like The Day.
Wes is almost finished reorganizing the comic book shelves when he collides with someone. Not someone—Lucas, who apologizes repeatedly under their breath with their head lowered.
“No. It’s my bad,” Wes says, smiling even though Lucas isn’t looking. “House rules—always apologize to the cool people for nearly giving them a concussion.”
Lucas’s head jerks up and their mint green eyes grow round.
“You okay?” Wes asks.
Those forehead wrinkles and teeth pulling at a chapped bottom lip don’t sit right with Wes. He can smell the anxiousness pouring off Lucas.
“Uh.” He pivots back toward his corner. “Lucas, right?”
“Ye-Yeah.”
“Do you wanna help?” Wes offers.
“Me?” Lucas’s voice is a bit of a squeak, a broken noise.
Wes extends an arm toward the comics. “Why not? You probably know the best ones anyway.”
“No way,” Lucas says, awed. “You’re here all the time.”
“Which also means I get in my own head too much about what’s cool and what not.”
Lucas pffts, and it’s the first time Wes has seen a slice of their personality.
He likes it.
“Save this holy place before I wreck it, please,” Wes insists.
Slowly, with their head still partially lowered, Lucas follows Wes.
It takes ten minutes before Lucas mellows. They still talk more to their shoes than Wes, but a couple of dad jokes and letting Lucas take the lead opens things up. Eventually, they find a groove. Lucas fixes something. Waits for Wes’s opinion. Wes gives a thumbs up, a mild suggestion, then they move on. It’s hard to relinquish control over the spacing and shelving and placement, but Wes knows he needs to.
Of course, Wes deducts twenty cool points because Lucas is absolute trash for Marvel characters, but the way Lucas fawns over the last Wonder Woman issue earns a few checks in the good column.
“Who’s your favorite?” Lucas asks, carefully rearranging the Spider-Man titles.
Wes appreciates the meticulousness. “John Stewart.”
“The Green Lantern?”
Plus three points.
“Yup.”
“He’s badass,” Lucas concurs “Much cooler than that Hal guy. Ryan Reynolds ruined that for everybody.”
“Word.”
Lucas isn’t little, but they’re definitely undersized. Wes easily reaches over their head to adjust a stray Runaways graphic novel. He steps back to admire the spread of Superman issues Lucas has just worked through. He nods approvingly, enjoying the way the freckles across Lucas’s cheeks and nose stand out like dark constellations against the spreading crimson blush.
“You hang around here a lot,” Wes observes, softly.
Lucas shuffles their dirty Nikes over the carpet. “Is it weird?”
“Nah. I did the same thing before I started working here. Me and my best friend.”
“That guy?” Lucas does a poor impersonation of someone skateboarding.
“Yeah, that guy.”
Lucas digs the toe of their shoe into the carpet. Blond fringe hangs right into green eyes. Shoulders taut again, Lucas exhales through their thin nose. “Freshman year wasn’t what Netflix made it out to be.”
Wes can relate. High school on television looks so much easier than it is.
“It’s bad enough I hate science and history, but then I didn’t really know anyone,” says Lucas. They tug on the tassels of their hoodie, making one side of the string longer than the other. “And the people I knew… changed.” Lucas’s mouth is somewhere between a pout and a frown; their green eyes are shiny. “I guess I did too, but not like them.”
Wes remembers that evolution from sharing one class with the same faces for years to being shuffled around to a different room every fifty minutes with a new set of strangers. Freshman year, he didn’t have a single class with Nico. And the kids he knew the year before were too busy trying to survive to acknowledge Wes.
The thing about high school is, everyone’s trying to fit in somewhere. They’re either trying to stand out or blend into the walls; they become something else. That survival instinct kicks in and people become cruel. Sometimes, it means they taunt others so no one else notices their flaws. Wes was no exception. It was difficult enough with all the questions he’d get— “Where are your parents from? No, I mean, where’s your dad from?”—anytime someone saw Calvin. Coming out junior year did him no favors.
“Hey.” Cautiously, Wes rests a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. The tension gradually retreats under Lucas’s hoodie. “You’re welcome here anytime, okay?”
Lucas is five-foot-seven-ish, so they tip their chin to look Wes in the eye.
“Anytime,” Wes repeats with a heap of assurance. Under his palm, Lucas’s shoulder rises and falls with their easy breathing.
“We’re not gonna, like,” Lucas peeks around the store, “talk about our feelings now, are we?”
Wes barks a laugh so loud, Ella jumps.
“Because feelings are gross.”
“So gross,” Wes concurs, pulling his hand away.
“Lucas?”
Wes peeks over his shoulder. Standing in the bookstore’s doorway is a short woman with brown hair turning gray at the roots, faint shadows under her eyes, and Lucas’s round face. She has on wrinkled pink hospital scrubs; her small hands clutch a purse and a shopping bag.
“Hi, Mom.” Lucas waves weakly.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Lucas’s mom gives Wes a quick, curious look. He grins in that nonthreatening way. He figures, the way Lucas talked about school, she’s extra protective of them for good reasons. “We have our appointment,” she says to Lucas.
The corners of Lucas’s mouth inch up. Lucas twists halfway around to Wes, cup their hand around their mouth, and stage-whisper, “Codename: therapy,” in the geekiest way possible.
Wes can’t restrain his laugh.
“Also,” Lucas’s mom lifts the shopping bag, “I got, uh. You know.”
Wes isn’t prepared for the tiny squeak that leaves the back of Lucas’s throat. Their eyes bunch up; their full, endless smile shows their teeth and the true roundness of their cheeks.
Lucas says, under their breath, “My new binder.” They’re a full shade redder than Wes thought was humanly possible.
“Nice,” Wes says, fist-bumping Lucas.
Before Lucas bounds over to their mom, Wes says, “Hey.”
Lucas turns around; their eyebrows hide under their fringe.
“I could use some help with this.” Wes flags a hand at the comic book corner. “We can do this again. Same time next week.”
Another squeak crawls out of Lucas’s throat. A new sheen of wetness brightens their eyes when they blink. “Seriously?”
“Be here,” Wes says, the way Mrs. Rossi did when she first hired him.
Lucas fist-pumps, then scampers to their mom, talking excitedly as they disappear out the store.
“Aww.” Ella stands a few feet away, arms crossed, smirking. “Wes, have you gone soft? You never let anyone play with your toys.”
“It’s true, bro,” says Cooper.
“Ugh. Don’t agree with me,” Ella demands. “People might think we’re friends.”
“Aren’t we?” Cooper’s voice cracks.
Ella rolls her eyes, but her acting range is limited. Wes can spot the tiniest of grins trying to fight past her thundercloud expression.
Wes stares at the empty doorway. Warmth circulates through his veins. He must ween Lucas off their love for Deadpool and Fantastic Four, probably introduce them to the magnificence that is Static, but he’s okay with that.
It’s one more reason Wes needs to save Once Upon a Page. For kids like Lucas who need it as much as he does.
Chapter Eleven
From: Leo
Leeann said you’re going dress shopping tomorrow. Thanks!
Received 3:40 p.m.
From: Dad
English? They have Introduction to Graphic Fiction!
[link attached]
Received 4:16 p.m.
In Wes’s mildly unbiased opinion, Venice at sunset is one of the dreamiest views in the world. The sun splinters behind the horizon, stretching its fading rays into the sky, dyeing it a fiery tangerine pink. To Wes’s right, the ocean echoes its evening lullaby. Crashing waves sing like a choir. A warm breeze carries the tune all the way to the boardwalk where a carnival of musicians and joggers and peddlers create a flotilla Wes navigates through.
He’s halfway to Muscle Beach with no destination in mind. Leo lives nearby, in an apartment tucked into a quiet neighborhood. Wes contemplated stopping by. It’s the considerate thing to do, right? But Leeann’s at work, and that means it’d just be Wes and Leo and the television doing all the talking for them. No thanks. Plus, Wes’s already seeing Leeann tomorrow for dress shopping. She bribed him with Mexican food and smoothies, not that Wes required the extra incentive. He loves Leeann-time, especially when it doesn’t include his brother.
Wes roams the boardwalk with one earbud in and his phone pouring out the perfect soundtrack of mellow guitars and introspective lyrics—Red Hot Chili Peppers’ anthemic Californication. 1999 isn’t his favorite year in music, but this is one gem he can appreciate.
His mind is on a constant loop of, “How can I save Once Upon a Page?” and he needs a way to escape the deluge.
Left and right, people on bikes and skateboards maneuver around him as he strolls. He glances at his phone. He responded to Leo’s text with a thumbs-up emoji an hour ago. Wes still doesn’t know how to reply to his dad.
Thanks?
Okay.
Do they offer a Can’t Figure Out How to Talk to My Parents About My Future course, and what are the prerequisites?
Wes locks his phone. In times like this, maybe not responding is the best response? Avoiding things has worked out for him so far. Kind of.
“Springsteen, anyone?”
In the sea of artists selling original works and activists shouting about a better future, a white man stands hugging a beat-up acoustic guitar. A beanie sits lopsided on top of his wild hair. Smears of dirt cross his cheeks and forehead. Friendly blue eyes look out on the decent-sized audience he’s acquired. In a throaty voice, he says, “Any requests?”
Wes pauses to watch.
Songs are shouted from everywhere, but one clear voice yells, “What about ‘I’m on Fire’?”
The man adjusts his guitar. His faded green army jacket nearly swallows his thin frame as it flaps with the breeze. “I knew you were a good group.” His warm smile is minus a few teeth, but that only makes Wes want to shuffle closer.
It’s a slow, moody song. The man’s voice is hypnotic. Every lyric comes with a deepness that says he’s fought too many wars. He’s lost more than he’s won.
Wes doesn’t know much about Springsteen except that, when Calvin maneuvered through the kitchen, singing while working through new recipes to roll out at the restaurant, his phone always rested on the counter, playing Springsteen. Wes loved hiding around the corner, listening as Calvin tried to imitate Bruce’s growl about being born to run. He loved the smell of herbs and the sizzle of oil and the music.
As the man’s broken voice hits a peak, Wes’s heart thump-thumps to the melody. It’s the magic of Venice. Every night’s a free show. Everyone walks around here with their issues on display like an exhibit. It’s a gallery of scars.
The Summer of Everything Page 11