The Tattered Gloves

by J. L. Berg

  I nodded, remembering her bringing it up during our initial tour of the town.

  “It’s why I met with Mr. Shepherd in the first place. He owns several of the businesses in town, and I was trying to convince him why my salon would be a good fit for the open storefront next to the bookstore.”

  Shepherd.

  The name sounded oddly familiar.

  I remembered the boy just then, the one who had smooth-talked the ladies at the front desk while Allison snuck around the corner. I’d seen him around school and I think I even have a class with him. His last name was Shepherd, wasn’t it?

  Was she speaking of the same family?

  “But Mr. Shepherd won’t budge,” she continued. “He feels that, since Sugar Tree already has an established salon, there’s no need for another one. So, he’d rather leave the storefront empty than lease to me, but maybe something good can come from that meeting.”

  I could see the disappointment in her eyes, and at that moment, I realized how important this was to her — the realization of her dream.

  I’d heard of such things, people having aspirations and goals in life. Reaching for the stars and all that. But I’d never been able to dream bigger than my tiny bedroom. Until last week, my biggest aspiration was to make it to my eighteenth birthday, so I could walk out of that apartment, away from my mother, and never look back.

  I looked down at my fingers, covered by worn red yarn. I guessed, in a way, these gloves and everything they represented had achieved that dream for me.

  Too bad there wasn’t enough of me left to enjoy it.

  “Look, I think it’ll be good for you,” my aunt said, bringing me back to the here and now. “To do something outside of school. And this is the best solution I could come up with for…” She hesitated.

  “What?” I said, wondering what she was getting at.

  Her eyes met mine. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, but after that first day you arrived, I haven’t had a single client here before school.”

  My heart rate quickened.

  “And I’m not going to,” she clarified. “But it requires a bit of rescheduling. I’m going to need to work later into the evening hours, which means there will be clients here.”

  I remembered that feeling — the helpless, frozen feeling I’d had when I awoke to discover I wasn’t alone in this unfamiliar house.

  I finally understood the need for a job, why she’d jumped at the chance for me to take shifts at the bookstore in town. She knew I wouldn’t be comfortable with strangers in the house.

  And, for once, she was right.

  So, it was a choice between being trapped at home with my aunt’s random clients moving in and out of the house or being trapped at a boring old bookstore for five days a week.

  It was a no-brainer really.

  “I’ll take the job,” I said. “When do I start?”

  I HONESTLY HAD no idea what to expect the next day as I walked to Page Turners, the bookstore I was now supposed to report to right after school. Summer and fall were still battling it out for supremacy over September, and the daily temperature would fluctuate from sweltering to almost bearable. As I made my way down the street toward town, I took a deep breath, enjoying a rare crisp breeze I hadn’t felt in months.

  This was normally right about the time of year when I’d start to panic, that first chill running up my spine.

  Winter was coming.

  I didn’t know how many Januarys I’d spent huddled under a jacket too thin or too small because my mother had blown every cent she had on a new dress — or worse, on a guy. Some of my worst winter memories were when my mother found herself a new boyfriend. She’d spend her last dime making herself over from head to toe, believing she’d finally found the one, only to be devastated once again.

  Sometimes, I felt for her and how hard it must be to be rejected over and over. Most of the time though, I was just too cold and hungry to care.

  Thankfully, the distance between school and my new job was less than ten minutes. Finding the storefront wasn’t hard with its large sign. After all, this was Sugar Tree. The whole town reminded me of an old movie set. It just didn’t seem real. Every building had its own unique history and had probably been standing there since the signing of the Declaration. The modern cars parked in front of the old brick buildings almost felt out of place, like seeing a Corvette in the middle of a Western movie.

  Reaching the ornate glass door, I turned the old brass knob and pushed. The door creaked open, announcing my arrival. I quietly looked around, wondering whom I might find.

  There was no one at first glance, so I took a moment to look around.

  I’d only seen the insides of bookstores on TV, and our school library back home was rarely used. Stepping into Page Turners was an experience for my senses. There was a distinct smell, like you knew you were walking into a place with history.

  Mothballs and leather maybe?

  It just smelled old.

  And there were books everywhere. New and old, every genre and age. There was even a huge section with graphic novels and comics.

  Unfortunately, the place was also dead.

  Like not a customer in sight.

  There also didn’t seem to be anyone working either, so that could definitely be the source of the problem.

  A braver person would have called out, hollered to see if anyone was around.

  Instead, I stood there… waiting.

  For what seemed like an eternity.

  “You’re late,” a male voice called out from the stacks.

  The deep voice nearly stopped me in my tracks. I’d been so surprised by the announcement of the job offer, I’d forgotten to ask whom I’d be working with.

  A tall, somewhat lanky boy appeared, carrying several paperbacks in his hand. I instantly recognized him as the smooth-talking, class-cutting heartthrob the ladies at the front desk had been all aflutter over.

  “Excuse me?” I managed to say.

  “You are my new hire, correct?” he asked pointedly.

  “Yours?”

  “I’m the manager here. Well, during the afternoons at least.”

  I remembered my aunt mentioning just who owned this store.

  “Must not be hard when your daddy owns it,” I said, surprised by my own words.

  Rather than get angry, he merely smirked, setting the handful of books down on the counter in front of me.

  “Tomorrow I’ll give you exactly ten minutes to get here from when the last bell rings. Otherwise, I’ll dock your pay. If I can get here on time, so can you.”

  I opened my mouth to protest or offer up another insult, but I was all out for the day, which only made his cocky grin grow wider.

  “Good. Now, why don’t you start by stacking these on the shelves? I’ll give you a lesson on the computer system later, but for now, you shouldn’t have much trouble finding homes for these.”

  Before I had a chance to ask for further instructions, he was gone, disappearing into the back, no doubt still wearing that damn smile on his face.

  “Stupid jerk.”

  “Heard that!” He laughed before a door shut.

  I stood on my toes, trying to figure out where he’d gone, but I only saw more shelves. Deciding I was on my own, I grabbed a couple of the books he’d left for me, making a quick inspection of the covers and spines. One was a teen romance, and the other looked like science fiction.

  I set out on my quest, enjoying the peace and quiet the store offered. Part of me wondered how a business so empty could stay afloat, let alone need an extra employee, but I was grateful for the silence.

  So, I went about searching for the science fiction section first. The store wasn’t huge, mostly compact and desperately in need of some serious organization. But I managed to find a location for the futuristic alien book and moved on to find the teen romance section.

  Looking down at the cover, I found myself rolling my eyes.

  Don’t Let Go.

  What a
lame title.

  Yet, before my eyes were finished making their final roll, I found myself cracking open the cover. I’d never been into reading. School was something I just did but never really thought about much after textbooks were closed and papers were written. Such luxuries weren’t taken when you were busy worrying about winter coats and just who was roaming your halls late at night.

  “You know, I’m not paying you to read.” Sam’s voice cut through the silence.

  I jumped, caught off guard by his sudden presence. I was usually more attuned to my surroundings, but for some reason, I’d gotten lost in the first couple of pages in that book.

  Looking up, I wanted to scream when I saw him leaning against a tall shelf, one foot over the other, like he had all the time in the world, that same wolfish grin plastered on his face.

  “And what do you get paid to do exactly?” I shot back.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he took a step forward, snatching the book from my hand and motioning for me to follow him. Knowing I’d probably already gotten away with my fair share of snide comebacks for the day, I decided to follow.

  Rounding a sharp corner, we arrived at the small teen romance section. It barely took up two shelves. He made an elaborate demonstration of putting the book on the second shelf, next to another book by the same author.

  “We do offer ten percent off for employees,” he said before walking off.

  My normally quiet nature seemed to take a backseat when it came to this guy. He made me angry, flustered, and… something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

  Annoyed maybe?

  No, that wasn’t it.

  “What is your problem?” I blurted out, chasing behind him.

  “My problem?” he asked, spinning around to face me.

  Suddenly, he was too close. I could feel his breath on my face, his presence looming over me.

  I took a step back.

  He seemed to notice the unease settle around me, and a bit of the edge he carried chipped away.

  His next words were said with a slightly softer quality. “Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but if the store doesn’t do well, it’s on me. My dad thinks it’s a waste of time.”

  “And you don’t?”

  I didn’t know what a rich, popular kid wanted with an old bookstore, but I kept my mouth shut.

  He shrugged. “We have nothing in this crummy town, not even a movie theater. Last month, I wanted to see the new Marvel movie, and my friends and I had to drive thirty minutes away just to see it.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Netflix?” I asked.

  “It’s not the same as seeing it on the big screen.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I replied.

  “What?” He grinned. “You’ve never been to a movie?”

  The way he said it was meant as a joke, but all laughter died when I shook my head.

  “Seriously?”

  “I mean, I’ve watched several on TV but never at a theater,” I answered, not able to meet his stare.

  “I thought you were from the city.”

  My eyes flew up to his.

  “Oh, so you really did think you were invisible. That doesn’t work around here, Mittens.”

  My brows furrowed as I tried to figure out what he meant until he pointed to my gloves.

  Mittens.

  Cute.

  “My name is Willow,” I corrected.

  Sam just kept smiling.

  “Word of advice, Mittens. The less you try to be invisible, the less interested people will be.”

  I let out a heavy sigh, snatching the remainder of the books from the counter.

  As he’d reminded me earlier, I wasn’t being paid to mess around.

  And I sure as hell didn’t need life lessons from an over privileged daddy’s boy.

  I hated this place.

  “YOU’RE LATE AGAIN, Mittens,” Sam announced.

  I nearly fell through the door, huffing and puffing from my quick sprint across town. I didn’t bother responding. He’d said the same damn thing to me every day this week.

  How he managed to beat me here, I had no idea. I was starting to believe he had superhuman powers.

  Giving him a death stare, I proceeded toward the back stockroom, intent on dropping off my backpack. Sam, of course, followed.

  “I need you to order a few things today. Oh, and some reshelving needs to be done also.”

  “Got it,” I muttered, trying my best to ignore him.

  In my new small world of Sugar Tree, Sam Shepherd had become the bulk of all things annoying and bothersome. Everything about that boy set my teeth on edge. The fact that he never, ever seemed to lift a finger in this place, instead disappearing into the back to do God knows what, made my blood boil. That stupid smirk he wore whenever he spoke to me. And then there was the nickname.

  God, I hated the nickname.

  Mittens.

  What was worse was the fact that the nickname had worked its way into my school life as well.

  During History, a class we unfortunately shared together, Sam had walked up to me, sly smirk in place, and asked, “Mittens, do you have notes on yesterday’s class? I was detained.”

  A couple of his buddies had snickered behind him.

  Detained?

  More like skipped class.

  Jerk.

  “You’ve got a real problem with me, don’t you?” Sam asked.

  I’d just dropped my backpack on the floor of the stockroom, ready to jump into the stacks of books that needed to be shifted around for today, when I found him still leaning against the doorframe.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think I should be the one offended here,” he responded, evidently picking up on my tone.

  Making a nonverbal shrug, I tried to ignore him, digging into the first couple of books with gusto.

  “No, seriously, I want to know. You’ve been nothing but rude to me since the moment we met, and I have no idea why. Did I offend you in another life?”

  Standing up tall, I met his dark green eyes.

  “Look, you’re just not my type of person, okay?”

  His face scrunched in a mixture of shock and amusement. “Really? And what kind of person is that exactly? Since you seem to know me so well.”

  I sighed, really hating this conversation. While Sam didn’t intimidate me like most male figures, I tried to avoid confrontation at any cost.

  Scratch that.

  I tried to avoid conversations or talking at any cost.

  “It’s not a big deal.” I tried to downplay my previous statement. “You and I are just complete opposites. We come from different worlds. And, believe me, I know your type; you don’t like me much either.”

  A flash of something blazed through his irises. “You know my type? That’s interesting. And how did you work this all out, oh wise one? From the handful of conversations we’ve had?”

  “I just know, okay?” I pressed on, my gloved hands running up the fabric of my shirt in discomfort.

  “Fine,” he said angrily. “I didn’t figure you were someone who made such quick judgments about others… but then again, that’s the tricky thing about first impressions; they’re usually wrong.”

  He stormed away into the sea of shelves, and those were the last words he said to me for the rest of the day.

  Seems like the only jerk in the store that day… was me.

  I’D BARELY SAID two words to Addy since I arrived home.

  Although I wasn’t known for being overly chatty, I had been loosening up a little in my new home. So, by nine o’clock, the silence had become evident.

  “Something happen today?” Addy asked as she sat on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, a hot glue gun in hand. She was working on her latest craft project — red and green felt roses that she was eventually going to turn into Christmas ornaments.

  I didn’t bother reminding her that Halloween was still a month away.

>   “No,” I answered shortly.

  “Why don’t you come sit by me and help me glue?” she suggested.

  I’d just finished wiping down the table after dinner, and I was itching to disappear into my room for the evening.

  Addy had made good on her promise and cleaned out the spare bedroom over the weekend. Half of the closet was still occupied with fabric, glitter, and other various art supplies, but for the most part, it was mine.

  It was the first time I had a space of my own that didn’t feel like a prison.

  My room back in DC had been out of necessity. If my mom could have found a way around giving me my own space, I was sure she would have. But it was a convenient place to hide the kid no one wanted to see.

  Reluctantly, I put the towel down on the counter and found a spot next to Addy. She turned the TV on, the volume so low that I could barely hear it. I’d watched her do this on several occasions as she worked on crafts. I thought she enjoyed the chatter because she hardly ever paid attention to any of the shows.

  A couple was shopping for a starter house on the screen while Addy taught me how to create a felt flower. It was amazingly simple really, and once I was finished, I was kind of proud of the little red rose staring up at me.

  “Good. Now, put a bit of glue on the bottom here.”

  I tried to follow her directions, but somehow, I ended up making a mess.

  Hot glue was stuck to my gloved fingers and the bottom of the flower. As I tried to yank myself free, the flower fell apart, unwinding into a large mass of felt on the table below.

  Looking down, I sighed, trying to pick off some of the glue that had accumulated on my fingers. But it was no use. Yarn and hot glue did not mix.

  I noticed Addy intently watching me before rising from her spot. She disappeared into her room down the hall before returning a moment later. In her hand was a pair of gloves, dark blue with tiny snowflakes on the back.

  “Here, try these,” she simply said before walking into the kitchen.

  I sat there, on the floor, slightly stunned, staring at those blue gloves.

  “You don’t have to use them,” she said, a warmth to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “But they’re yours to keep either way.”