Josh’s eyes lit up as he thumbed through the book. “It’s crazy that this book almost didn’t exist.”
“I’d give anything to see that gold leaf page. Some people even say that it’s an actual door to Winterbrook.” I wanted to gush more, but I restrained myself.
“I never read the book, only saw the movie,” Josh admitted. “I should pick this up. You seem to like it a lot, so it has to be good.”
I wanted to pinch myself because I was sure I was imagining this wonderful conversation. “The movie didn’t do it justice. It left so much of the good stuff out.”
Yeah. That was perfect. Insult him. That was better than a pinch.
Josh shifted his feet nervously. His face said it all: he wasn’t sure if he had insulted me or not, so I tried to fix my blunder by saying, “I love the movie too.”
His shoulders relaxed, and he sighed in relief.
I continued, “I just love the book more. My mom used to read it to me every night. I still have a copy too; it’s a beat-up mess. She used to say that one day I’d find the first edition. I keep thinking I’ll find it here. You see, look . . .” I gently took the book from Josh and opened it to one of the beginning pages. “‘Fate had brought Olivia to the front doors of The Hidden Corner bookstore. It had called to her in her dreams, and she knew that everything she had ever wanted was inside its walls.’ Still gives me goosebumps.”
Josh showed me his arm, and sure enough, he had goosebumps too. “Makes me feel better about working here. You think Rachel named the place because she’s a fan of the book?”
“I thought that too when I first started working here, but when I brought up Gateway to Winterbrook to ask her, she just got really angry and told me not to talk about ‘nonsense books.’” My face burned at the memory. I had hoped it would be a bonding moment, but it was obvious that Rachel had named her store The Hidden Corner for entirely different reasons.
Josh looked back down at the book. “So you think it’s your destiny to find the first edition here?”
“That’s the dream.” And it was. One I wished would come true someday. Maybe the golden page would be a door.
Josh glanced at the stacks. “You will. I have a feeling.”
Rachel appeared, as if she were a ghost that apparated in front of us. “Josh, I need you at the side entrance to help with some boxes. Jeraline, finish this up later and go to the counter.”
“Of course,” Josh said, then gave me a small smile and headed toward the side entrance.
And for once, Rachel looked at me as if she wanted to say something more, not in anger, but something thoughtful. She must have decided better of it because she shooed me toward the counter. Viewing the store and its lack of occupants, I decided to go grab my sketch pad before I went to the cash register.
Emma appeared next to the cart and slow-clapped in appreciation. “You did it. A real conversation.”
Olivia materialized next to Emma. “You’re welcome.”
I smiled at that, then feeling pretty good about myself, I placed The Gateway to Winterbrook in its slot and headed toward the back room.
Carefully unlocking the padlock, I opened my backpack and pulled out my sketchbook, avoiding the sweater-wrapped gun as much as possible.
Zipping up the pack, I shut the locker, secured the padlock, then hurried to the front counter before Rachel discovered that I wasn’t there yet.
I made it to the cash registers without incident, placing my sketchbook on the counter and thumbing through its pages. A loose piece of paper fell from the pad and floated to the ground. Picking it up, I examined it closely.
Oh yeah.
Ugh.
The flyer for the Cassiopeia Design School contest.
Emma was back and looking over my shoulder at the rogue piece of paper. “What is that?”
I sighed, staring at the page with longing. “It’s an amateur fashion contest. The winner gets a scholarship to Cassiopeia Design School. I really want to go, but we don’t have enough money, and I’m too scared to take out loans that I may never be able to pay back,” I answered her, not wanting to admit out loud that I was just too scared to enter.
Emma seemed to sense this as she leaned forward. “Jeraline, this is your chance. Your designs are beautiful. Look at that dress there. If I were a bolder woman, I’d wear it myself, and that’s saying something considering my impeccable tastes.”
“What if they hate them?” I voiced my deepest fear.
“Then they’re complete morons, and we’d both know it. You’re going to do this. No arguments. You’ve got to enter soon because the deadline is tomorrow and the pop-up runway is on Thursday.” Emma pointed to the printed information on the flyer.
“I waited too long. I can’t do this.” Why didn’t everyone see what I did? I wasn’t meant to enter.
Emma nodded to the sketchbook full of designs. “You’ve done the work. You have the time. You haven’t missed the deadline. No excuses.”
In a huff meant to make her point to me, Emma disappeared.
I stared at the flyer.
Could I?
Should I?
But the real question was would I?
As Josh headed my way, I hid the flyer and the sketchbook under the counter. He jumped behind the second cash register with a friendly wave. “Not many customers today.”
Oh no. Small talk. I was terrible at that. Truthfully, I was terrible at all conversation, but small talk was at the top of the list.
“Yeah.” See?
But apparently Josh was determined. “So, what made Jeraline Arnold decide to work at a used bookstore?”
“What made you want to?” Ooo, deflecting. I was good at that.
Josh took it in stride as he laughed. “I’m a writer?”
“You say that like it’s a question.”
“It kind of is, honestly.” Josh sat down on one of the stools behind the counter. “I mean, I love writing. I just don’t know if it’ll ever be more than a hobby, you know?”
I did. I felt the same way about my designs. “You don’t think you’re any good?”
“Maybe? I really don’t know. I haven’t shown anybody. I guess I figure if I don’t let anyone read it, I still have a chance. Stupid, right?” He looked at me with a smile, but his eyes darted slightly.
“No. It’s not stupid. I’m the same way,” I confessed.
“You’re a writer?” Josh perked up.
I shook my head, hating to disappoint him. “I sew things.” Yeah, that sounded awesome. I explained further, “I want to be a designer.”
Josh cocked his head to the side, curious. “Really? You have so much passion for books I thought for sure you’d be a writer or some kind of book critic or something, especially working here for . . . how long?”
“Three years.”
“How old are you?” Hearing I worked here three years seemed to pique his interest.
“Twenty-two,” I said, marveling at the fact I was functioning in this conversation.
“Me too.” Josh leaned back further on the stool so that his back leaned against the counter. “So you’ve been here since you were nineteen? That’s crazy.”
“I’m not a writer, but I do love books. Sometimes I think I like books more than I like humans.” Oh God. I hoped he didn’t think I was talking about him.
But he laughed. “I get that. That’s why I started writing. I considered book characters better friends than my real friends, not that I have many of those either.”
How was that possible? How could someone so perfect like him not have a ton of friends? Then it hit me. Grandma was going to be so proud of me! This was conversation number two. Two!
Oh. I was supposed to respond.
I didn’t know what to say.
No.
Awkward silence.
I was ruining the moment.
He said he didn’t have many friends, and I was just staring at him.
Help!
Finally, words sp
illed out of my mouth. “I’m the same way. I talk to book characters all the time like they’re real.” Literally. Hopefully, he wouldn’t think I was a psychopath. “It helps me process . . . stuff.” Ah, the elegance.
Josh smiled and stood up from the stool, moving closer to me (well, the main cash register, but for a second I thought he was going to walk right up to me, and my body was on the verge of collapse). “I really love that,” he said with such sincerity I was shocked my body didn’t collapse.
Rachel walked up to us with her usual look of disgust. “Jeraline, you can finish shelving those books now. Josh will stay at the counter with me.”
Discreetly, I grabbed my sketchpad and headed toward the abandoned cart amongst the stacks. I didn’t look to see if Josh or Rachel had noticed. I hid the pad on the bottom shelf of the cart so I could put it away later. Mindlessly, I began shelving the books back in their rightful places. As I reached the Thriller section, the corner of a piece of paper poked out from under a shelf. Thinking it was garbage, I pulled it out from underneath and saw that it was a photograph. Rachel, at least ten, maybe fifteen years younger, was kissing the cheek of a fourteen-year-old boy. I didn’t know what shocked me more: the fact that Rachel seemed so happy and carefree or the fact that the boy looked almost exactly like Josh. The scribbling on the back read: “My beautiful boy Kent.”
Kent.
Whoa.
My suspicions had been correct. Rachel had a son. Doing the math from a guesstimation of Rachel’s age put Kent around the age of twenty-five? Maybe a little older, maybe a little younger. I wondered where he was. Why he didn’t visit. The fact that Rachel had been compelled to hire a look-alike and make him Employee of the Month was both sad and creepy. I wasn’t sure how to process it. One thing was for sure though: I didn’t want to be caught with this photo. So I did what any normal person would do and stuffed it back under the shelf without a single corner of it poking out.
Filing the picture away as another mystery that was Rachel, I spent the rest of the day shelving the books. Time passed as if I were in some kind of vortex, because it was closing time again.
Grabbing the garbage bag from the back, I opened the fridge, snatched Hank’s meal, and left toward the dumpster.
Hank’s eyes twinkled as I handed him the paper bag lunch while tossing the garbage inside the metal container. “Hey, Hank.”
“Hi, Jeraline. Thank you, and tell your grandmother the cookies were delicious.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. She put in a couple extra.”
Hank’s face lit up, and he tipped an imaginary hat in thanks. “You are too kind to an old man.”
“Hey, Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you’ll ever paint again?” I didn’t know why I asked, but I suddenly wanted to know.
His expression turned thoughtful. “I do. Someday.”
“I could bring you some supplies: paints, brushes, a canvas? I’d love to see your work.” After talking to Josh earlier about what we wanted to do with our lives, seeing Hank made me want to help more. He never saw his dream come true. I knew how much sewing and creating helped me. Maybe it would help him?
But Hank shook his head. “No, Jeraline. I’m not ready for that. I appreciate it though.”
“Are you sure?” I desperately wanted him to say yes.
“I’m sure. Besides, where would I put it when it’s done?” He cast his eyes down, looking away.
“It would be for me. I’d be giving you the supplies in exchange for a painting for my apartment. Please?” In that moment I’d never wanted anything more.
Hank tilted his head, pondering. “You don’t even know if you’d like it.”
“If you paint it, I’ll like it. Please, Hank? Don’t say no.” I held my breath as he stood there, thinking.
Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Of course. You’ve been feeding me for years. I would be honored to paint you something.”
Elation flooded through me, and my head was giddy. I hugged Hank tightly.
I nearly choked from the smell, but I couldn’t let him hear that. It was so strong that I was afraid my gagging would be involuntary, so I pulled back with a big smile. “Thank you, Hank.”
Hank looked positively shocked that I had embraced him. “It’s been a long time since anyone has hugged me.”
Oof.
My chest ached.
Hank was such a good human who deserved to be hugged daily, but because of something stupid like money, he was here, waiting for a stranger to bring him food.
But I wasn’t a stranger.
I was his friend.
“I better get back in. I’ll bring the supplies tomorrow. I’m really excited.” And I was. I couldn’t wait to see what Hank would create.
Hank’s head was a little higher, his body a little prouder, and in a confidence that said it all, he replied, “I’m excited too. Thank you, Jeraline.” And with that, Hank took out one of Grandma’s cookies from the bag and bit down with delight. “These are the best.” He walked away with a laugh.
I still smelled a bit of Hank’s stench on me, but I figured it would air out as I walked home. Steering clear of Josh or Rachel, I slipped into the back room and unlocked the padlock, taking out my backpack. Cautiously, I surveyed the area once more and then peered inside. The sweater had shifted a bit so the gun’s nose peeked out.
Edmond Dantès appeared next to the locker, staring down at the gun. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”
“I have no idea.” I really didn’t. I had a freaking gun in my backpack, at work. What had I been thinking?
“Your grandmother said she’d take you to get lessons. You don’t know how to use it. Why wouldn’t you wait to learn properly?” Edmond crossed his arms with a grunt.
“I said I don’t know!” I snapped. At the imaginary book character from The Count of Monte Cristo.
I was seriously losing it.
But Edmond was still there, as real to me as anyone else, as he said, “You could hurt someone, including yourself. This was completely reckless.”
“Leave me alone.” I shoved the door open and rushed out of the room.
I smelled, I had a gun, I just wanted to go home, take a shower, shove this revolver back under my bed, and never think of it again.
Test day over.
I knew with certainty that I was not a gun person.
Before Rachel stopped me, or worse, made me do something else, I waved to both her and Josh. “Good night! See you guys tomorrow.”
Unlocking the door and pushing it open, I didn’t hear any arguments.
With one last look to the both of them, I waved slightly, then shut the door, locking it behind me.
All I had to do was get home in one piece.
Easier said than done.
I sighed in disgust at myself. Racing out of the store wasn’t my best move, but I needed to get home.
The bulk of the gun rested against the small of my back from inside the backpack. I couldn’t wait to stuff it under my bed and never look at it again.
I tried to comfort myself in the fact that I had two real conversations with Josh today, and I was excited to gush about it to Grandma. It was a big night for her too, and I wondered how her date had gone with Buster. Most likely amazing, considering how they were with each other. It was something out of a fairy-tale book. Love at first sight. My parents always claimed it had been the same for them, and like the sap I was, I believed it. I still believed it. And seeing Buster and Grandma together only reaffirmed my faith in the idea. After all, when I’d first laid eyes on Josh, I had felt some kind of energy rush through me, something deeper than simple attraction. And today’s conversations only solidified it for me. I had no idea how Josh felt about me, but I wasn’t as scared when thinking about talking to him.
That was something, right?
Almost home.
Approaching the alley, I instinctively tightened my grip on my pack.
I had conquer
ed a fear today by talking to Josh, so I knew it would be out for blood.
A dog barked from inside the darkest depths, then turned to snarling as my steps brought me closer and closer to the blackened walls of brick. The darkness inside swirled like fog ready to suck all the light out of the world. I wondered how a place like this existed without the neighborhood wanting to tear it down. But I knew the answer to that question. Something like this couldn’t be torn down, it had to be defeated. And my gut told me I was the only one who could, because somehow all my fears had created it in the first place.
My senses sharpened as I slowed down in fear. Halfway past, I searched inside the darkness, and footsteps headed toward me, loud and close, just like the night before.
Someone was in there.
Again.
And they were coming out.
A champion for the alley to finally materialize and take me down for good.
Maybe it was a good time to have that gun ready.
As I kept walking, I pulled the straps off my shoulders and began to unzip the backpack.
Almost past.
A man materialized out of the alley right next to his Wanted sign plastered to the side of the brick building. His expression matched that of the picture, cruel and hard, and his name had been torn off at the bottom.
This was the moment.
The alley was finally fighting back.
My biggest fear coming to life.
What happened to my parents was about to happen to me.
Every nightmare I’d imagined all wrapped up into one man.
And he was coming for me.
Moving fast now, I barely cleared the alley as I searched frantically inside my bag for the gun, but my hand kept hitting my sweater and sketchpad.
The sharp point of a blade pressed against my back, not enough to cut but enough for me to stop in my tracks.
“Give me your backpack,” he demanded, his voice eerily gravelly.
You mean the backpack with an enormous revolver in it? My hand shook, still inside my bag.
“I said give me your backpack, bitch!” he yelled in my ear, and this time the tip of his blade punctured my skin.
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