by Karina Halle
I know I can be worthwhile to people too, though maybe not always the right people and in the right way. All you need to do to know how people really feel about you is to turn off your ears and read their body language. It goes beyond the expression on their face, even though the eyes will rarely lie, and it starts to become something almost metaphysical. It’s all vibe. It’s instinct.
In other words, if a girl says she loves you and she’s not looking you in the eye, it means she doesn’t. Or she has intimacy issues. Or she’s cheating on you. Either way, it means she’s not flying halfway across the world to live with you anymore, that long-distance relationships aren’t worth it, and you have a sad little problem on your hands.
So it’s pretty easy to tell that my classmate in Writing 200, and my current writing partner, Amanda Newland, hates my bloody guts.
And, for once, I have no fucking idea why.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I have some idea why. Because I don’t particularly like her either. It’s become something of a chicken or the egg situation. Her obvious dislike of me has led to my dislike of her, and my dislike of her has led to me, well, trying to get a rise out of her whenever I can.
It’s a great way to pass the time in an otherwise boring class, even if I do feel like I’ve resorted to being an obnoxious teenager at times. But poking fun at how uptight she is and how she takes class—and I’m guessing everything in life—way too seriously is completely different than having to work with her. It’s not that I have a lot of vested interested in this class or my final grade, but I do want to pass—no I need to pass—and get my bloody degree over with. Something that once seemed easy looks to be a whole lot harder.
As soon as class was over, I saw her make a beeline for our teacher. I knew she was trying to get out of it, but I’m pretty sure the professor has it in for me. More than that, she’s stubborn and won’t budge. So I let this be Amanda’s battle while I resigned to having her as a thorn in my side for the rest of the semester.
In fact, knowing how seriously Amanda takes the class, and herself, I know she’s going to be a total control freak over the project. That’s fine. More control for her, less work for me. I guess the only good thing is that whatever we end up writing, I don’t think it will be romance. What I’ve noticed from Amanda’s writing in class is that she veers toward darkness, raw reality, and a lot of fantasy that’s just one step away from playing World of Warcraft in her parents’ basement and attending Comic Cons so that she can stalk her favorite wizard from a long ago cancelled TV show.
Of course I’m just guessing. I don’t know much about her, but I’m also in no hurry to find out. The only appealing aspect of this girl is her hair and her arse. Her hair is the color of cayenne pepper and cinnamon, and her arse, well I wouldn’t mind coloring it that way with my palm. It might take a few smacks, but they would be worth it. She’ll pretend to be too virginal and stuck up to try it but I’ll wear her down with the promise of my big dick. Not that I’ve ever fantasized about this scenario.
I’m about to text my friend Heath and ask if he wants to grab a drink at Spinnakers, my favorite pub (and thankfully not the same pub the Nair-wielding wench works at), when I get a call from my father asking me if I can pick up my stepbrother Kevin from school and drop him off at the shop.
I say yes, even though every time I step foot in my father’s store, I end up running the cash and closing. I know my dad is prepping me for when I take over the business, and even though I’m pretty much getting my business degree just to keep him happy, I still have mixed feelings about the whole thing. It’s like I haven’t quite come to terms with the way my life is going, and I don’t dare even think about it.
Kevin’s elementary school is near the university, so I get in my Challenger (black, 1972, nickname: Mr. Mean), turn up Jack White’s “Missing Pieces,” and pull up to the usual spot. I smile broadly at the moms walking past, and even wider for the MILFs who ooze desperation and pent-up sexual frustration. They all know I’m Kevin’s stepbrother by now and not some pedo, though I’m disappointed that I haven’t been propositioned by any of them yet. Though there was that one time…
It’s not long before I spot Kevin, and unfortunately I get to see his face fall the moment he sees me. It’s not that Kevin doesn’t like me, but we’ve only really gotten to know each other this last year. Despite our age and differences, I think we get on like Donkey Kong.
But I’ve been picking him up more and more these days, either from school or his friends’ houses. My dad is always busy with the store, and because he’s on the verge of bankruptcy, he can’t hire any help. Angelica, my stepmother—Kevin’s mum—seems to always be working late nowadays. She’s a corporate lawyer who just made partner eight months ago, and even though her pay raise means my dad’s store can stay afloat for now, it also means more hours.
I’m not sure if the situation is helping them much, but I try and stay out of their relationship. My dad and mum divorced when I was young. I was born here in Victoria and when I was six my mum whisked me back to her hometown of Yorkshire, England. I’ve been here a few times, and Angelica and Kevin have made it to the UK once, but until recently I wasn’t exactly close with any of them, my father included.
“Hey, Blake,” Kevin says to me as he opens the door, sounding like a despondent twenty-something stoner instead of a nine-year-old kid. Though with Kevin’s long dark hair and his penchant for wearing a cape to school sometimes, he could pass the part.
“Hey, loser,” I tell him, reaching over to muss up the top of his head. He wrenches away from me with a look of disgust. “You know, you think you could sound happier about being picked up from school in the world’s coolest car.”
He glares at me, so sullen. “It’s not the world’s coolest car. It’s the world’s oldest car.”
I bristle. “Well it’s better than your friends and their lame minivans.”
Good one, Crawford.
“No,” he counters with a haughty scowl. “Jill Carroll’s mom drives a Porsche Cayenne. That’s a Porsche. That’s expensive and way better than this piece of shit.”
“Hey,” I snap at him. “No car is better than Mr. Mean. I bet Jill Carroll’s daddy bought the car as a present, saying he’s sorry for shagging the maid.” I pause, Kevin’s eyes widening as he takes this new information in. “Also, don’t say shit. It’s bad and I don’t want another lecture from your mother about how your language is going downhill over the last year.”
He flops dramatically against the seat, his head lolling on the headrest. “Whatever. She doesn’t care enough about me to even notice.”
Ah, fuck. The little bastard has a way of cutting deep.
“She cares, Kevin. A lot.”
“Then why isn’t she here?” he mumbles.
“You know she’s working.”
“She’s always working.”
“Well, maybe she’s trying to buy a Porsche Cayenne of her own so you don’t have to ride in this ancient piece of shit with me.” I grin at him, hoping he’ll return the favor.
“Maybe,” is all he says, staying just as sullen as before. I start the car and we drive off, and I don’t even have to look to know that Mr. Mean’s engine is turning the heads of all the MILFs in the parking lot. Take that, Jill Carroll’s mum.
“How is Fluffy?” he suddenly asks me.
My grip tightens briefly on the wheel and I exhale. “Fluffy is fine.”
“Not giving you any trouble?”
“No,” I say, then mutter under my breath, “thank god.”
“Have you given him lots of cuddles?”
I laugh and give him a pointed look. “Kevin. You know I’m not the cuddling type. No exceptions for family or pets. Or girls for that matter.”
“I used to cuddle him all the time. Till mom got mad.” He looks at me, his features softening so much that I’m suddenly aware of how much he’s aged over the last year. It’s like he’s been hit with the frying pan of adulthood wa
y before his time. “Thank you so much for taking care of him. I swear, Mom will let him back at home at some point.”
“No problem, kid,” I tell him. “Though I’m pretty sure she wanted him out because you cuddled him too much. Ever hear about Lennie in Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men?”
Kevin’s look tells me no.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ll read it in high school.”
“Aren’t we going home?” he asks me when I take a left and start heading toward downtown Victoria.
“Your dad wants me to bring you to the store,” I tell him.
“Paul,” Kevin says, that ever-present edge to his voice whenever he says his name. “I don’t call him dad.”
Even though he’s been your dad since you were four years old, I think, but I don’t voice this to him. After all, Paul is my actual dad and my relationship with him is just as complicated. Who am I to talk?
Downtown Victoria isn’t too far, especially as all the traffic on the Pat Bay Highway is heading away from the city, and pretty soon we’re pulling up to Crawford’s Books on Government Street.
Right. So my father owns a bookstore. It’s been in the Crawford family for generations, basically since the city of Victoria was founded in the late 1800s. It’s something of a local treasure, a spot that historians fawn over and tourists fall in love with. But at the end of the day, it’s still a business trying to make money, and for the last five years the store has been taking a hit. Some, like my father, blame self-publishing and the rise of ebooks. Others, my mother included, blame the fact that my father never had a logical or business-minded bone in his body. Even the best intentions from the most passionate people can fail if they don’t have a sound mind at the helm.
That’s where I’m supposed to come in. I’m the supposed sound mind. My father, for a bunch of reasons he hasn’t yet voiced to me, wants me to take over while I’m still young, but only when I have a business degree. He hasn’t quite admitted that his lack of business and management skills have led to the store’s demise, instead putting all the blame on the rising rent and real estate prices in the city and all the other things I’ve mentioned.
The store is one-of-kind, however, and that’s the main reason why it’s still running. Though the big commercial chain, Chapters, is up the street, those giant megastores seem to focus more on selling throw blankets, stationery, and prissy candles than books. People come to Crawford’s Books because the store itself is an experience. At least that’s what I gather from the hushed approval of the seniors that visit.
I park Mr. Mean on the street and pay the meter before we head into the store. The shop closes at 7pm, so I know I won’t be working all night, but even so, the pub is still calling my name. I need a pint or two something fierce, especially after that class.
Despite Kevin’s pouting earlier, he perks up when he sees the store. Kevin is completely obsessed with fantasy books and could—and has—happily spent days here huddled among the tall cedar shelves, reading everything he can get his hands on.
The bookstore itself is like one big giant room with a cathedral ceiling and a loft at the back that houses some of the rare editions. The floors are dark polished wood and everything is extremely orderly with each genre getting its own section—fiction and new releases at the front, history and non-fiction and local travel guides in the middle, fantasy, sci-fi, and young adult at the back. The only genre we don’t carry is romance, which I think is yet another poor business decision on behalf of my father. Not only do women come in here all the time looking for romance, but from the research I’ve done, it’s one of the biggest selling genres.
But dad is a literary snob—it was hard enough to convince him to stock more sci-fi and fantasy—and even though the books would sell, he won’t even allow Fifty Shades of Grey in the store. I’m looking at this purely from a marketing perspective. Sex sells and we need more sales. We need more money coming in, period. But since he says smut and filth will lower our standards, it’s just another smart idea that won’t happen at Crawford’s Books.
“Son,” my dad greets me as Kevin and I step inside, Kevin making an immediate beeline to the back of the store, his cape flowing behind him. Did I mention my stepbrother sometimes wears a cape and carries a stick of a polished wood that I’m sure is some kind of magical staff?
My dad watches as he goes and then turns to me, shaking his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose. My dad has always had a youthful appearance, a baby face that probably accounts for the way he used to win people over. You want to trust him, to believe him. But ever since I moved here, it’s like he’s aging before my eyes, faster than Presidents do once they get into office, all grey hair and deep lines and loose skin.
“Did you know that I caught him painting his nails the other day?” my dad says to me in quiet reproach, putting his arm around me and leading me over to the cash register in the middle of the room.
I raise my brow. “Pink?”
“No,” he scoffs. “Black.”
I shrug, not too concerned. I faintly recall trying on my mum’s high heels when I was young, but I don’t dare voice this to him. “Kids like to experiment.”
“He’s nine,” he says as he smiles at a customer walking in, lowering his voice to me. “He’s too young for that. And that damn cape. He’s too old for that.” His eyes drift to the back of the store. “Maybe it’s my own fault. He’s so wrapped up in fantasy books and those medieval video games we keep buying him for his iPad. You know he asked me if I’d take him in a couple of weeks to this event of sorts? A camp? A renaissance fair? I don’t know, some place where kids and adults run around pretending to battle while wearing costumes.”
“He wants to go LARPing?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“LARPing?” he repeats.
“Yeah, it’s an acronym for Live-Action Role Playing,” I explain. “It’s pretty much what he’s doing on the computer. If Dungeons and Dragons is the gateway drug to World of Warcraft, then LARPing is pure heroin.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “Then I’ll definitely not be taking him.”
I sigh, glad Kevin can’t hear our conversation. As nerdy and weird as it is, I know being able to indulge his inner geek with likeminded nerds would really cheer him up. That’s probably why he’s retreating into the fantasy world so much. It’s become so much more preferable than reality. I know after Rachel broke up with me, I dove into my work-in-progress like I was under fire in a foxhole.
“I can take him, if he asks,” I tell him.
“Just like you’ve taken over Fluffy? Blake, I’m glad you’re getting to know your stepbrother, but there’s a difference between being a brother and being an enabler.”
I narrow my eyes briefly. My father doesn’t know me well enough to make that assumption. In fact, that sounds like something that Angelica would say. I can hear her influence in him all the time, which isn’t a good thing since Angelica isn’t my biggest fan.
The thought of my stepmother and how hard it’s been to win her approval reminds me a bit of Amanda, and once again I’m hit by how annoying the next six weeks will be. At least when school is over, I can concentrate on work and what I have to do to get this place out of the red.
While I take over the cash, doing transactions with a handful of regulars, my dad goes around tidying the shelves and dusting the books. He does this at the end of every day, like putting the books back in the right order will put his life in the right order. It’s therapy without much outcome.
I’m thinking of closing a little early—not for the sake of the shop this time but because Heath just texted me wanting to grab a beer—when a stunning brunette strolls in. She’s tall, almost my height, with lean limbs that glow with a tan she obviously didn’t get here.
She’s perusing the new releases at the front, her fingers tracing over the covers, looking every bit the casual browser.
I waste no time.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I approach her, shooting he
r a grin. I notice her fingers are resting on top of Stephen King’s latest. “Fan of the King?”
“Huh?” she says, and then quickly looks down and shoots me a sheepish smile. “Oh, no. Actually, I’ve never read him.”
I keep smiling at her even though my brain is detracting a point for that. But my brain also notices how perky her tits are, and that she’s eyeing me with a kind of shy carnality that suggests I can take this as far as I want to.
“You know, he doesn’t just write horror,” I go on. I tap the book. “Finders Keepers is the second book in his crime thriller trilogy. You should start with Mr. Mercedes.” I tap the book next to it, a paperback marked at twenty percent off. “It’s witty, entertaining. I think you’d really enjoy it.”
“Really?” she asks, looking back at the cover warily.
“Tell you what,” I say to her, taking a step closer so that just the table is between us. “You buy Mr. Mercedes and read it. If you don’t like it, I will not only give you a full refund, but I’ll take you out for dinner.”
I can sense my dad is somewhere behind me. His derisive grumble rolls through the store like a freight train.
“Oh, that’s pretty smooth,” the girl says, though the gleam of interest in her eyes is growing.
“I can be rough too.” Another grin.
This time she giggles and looks away coyly. “Okay, well, I was actually hoping to find another book. Do you have anything by Sylvia Day?”
I wince. Day is a prolific romance writer (with one hell of a rack). “No, sorry.”
She shrugs, as if embarrassed she asked. “That’s fine. I guess Stephen King it is.”
I do an internal victory dance.
I pick up the book and hand it to her. As her delicate fingers take it, I hold on, refusing to let go. “But you have to promise to be honest.”
“I will.” She chews on her candy apple lip for a second, staring up at me through her lashes. “What happens if I like the book? Can you still take me to dinner?”