Recommended for You

by Laura Silverman

  “Thank you, Shoshanna,” she says warmly, sipping her coffee, her eyes already trained back on the bookshelves. Ah, a girl after my own heart.

  The store is a mess. But there are only two hours left in my shift, and then Cheyenne will drive me home, and it’ll be time for Latkepalooza! I throw away trash left on display tables and scrape gum off the floor. Humans are disgusting creatures. I try to magic eraser a scuffed wall in the children’s section—Myra navigates her wheelchair with speed and precision and has on more than one occasion said if her employees employed a little more coordination like herself, they wouldn’t always be banging into and damaging her walls with the book carts. I then move from shelf to shelf, straightening books and picking up strays. There’s a tourists’ guide to Rome chilling on the sci-fi shelves because sure. I grab it and head to the travel section, which is where I find Jake, stocking the shelves with diligent attention.

  I clutch the Rome book and watch him for a quiet moment. His hands are steady and purposeful. His brown curls look soft, and I have the disturbing urge to rub my fingers through them. That spiral notebook is still rolled up and sticking out of the pocket of his jeans, jeans that fit quite nicely around his behind.

  I step toward him. I’m sure he’s actually an okay guy. He was overwhelmed on his first day, and I was leading orientation with 100 percent enthusiasm and 0 percent impulse control, and we got off on the wrong foot. I’ll apologize, and he’ll thank me for being so gracious, and everything will be great. I fluff my own curly hair before chirping out, “Hey, Jake!”

  No response. Maybe he didn’t hear me.

  Though, I’ve literally never had that problem before.

  “How’s your first day going?” I ask.

  He turns to me then, eyes meeting mine. “You mean before or after you announced to the store I don’t read?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I say. “Really.”

  He shakes his head as he picks another book off the cart. “I’m surprised Myra didn’t fire you. My other boss doesn’t put up with juvenile behavior.”

  “Juvenile.” The word hits a nerve, and my skin flushes. I square my shoulders as I reply, “I am not juvenile.”

  “Yes,” he says. “You are.”

  “Am not!” I shout.

  Jake raises an eyebrow.

  My cheeks flame red. “Look, just because—”

  “Shoshanna,” Jake says, and my heart suddenly thumps, because he says my name smooth and slow, the way someone says a name in a movie before that first, perfect, dramatic kiss.

  I bat my eyelashes. “Yes?”

  “I don’t care what you have to say. It doesn’t interest me. I’m going back to work.”

  I gasp. “That is just—you are just—” I narrow my eyes and step forward. Damn it, he smells delicious. Like freaking baked goods. How is that even possible? Does he have a croissant in his pocket? Is that a croissant in your pocket or are you just—

  Okay, focus, Shoshanna. “You, Jake,” I say, leaning even closer, “are not a nice person.”

  His eyes flicker, and I inhale sharply.

  But then he just shrugs and turns back around, shelving books he doesn’t even read. Adrenaline drains fast, and I feel more confused than angry, but then feeling confused makes me angry because Once Upon is my store, my happy place.

  And Jake is going to ruin it.

  * * *

  Cheyenne drops me off at four thirty when the sun is already close to setting because winter is the literal worst. I invite her to join us for Latkepalooza, but she has a cello lesson, so she says goodbye and drives off. Cold wind rattles leaves along the driveway and whips against my bare hands and cheeks. I give Barbra Streisand a loving pat and wonder if Eve had a chance to check on her.

  I head inside and find the house is empty, which is kind of weird. Mom always works until at least six, but Mama is usually home by now, out on the back porch painting or curled up on the couch with a book or her tablet games. I pull out my phone to check for missed texts but don’t see any, so I send one to the group chain asking when they’ll be home.

  Despite the long day at work, I’m fidgety from my last interaction with Jake. I have shpilkes, as my bubbie calls it—ants in my pants. So I throw my energy into Latkepalooza decorations. I have excellent decorating skills. Myra has seriously upped her window-display game since hiring me.

  I grab the Hanukkah paraphernalia from all over the house. Does any Jewish family keep all of their Jewish stuff in one spot? Doubtful. It’s like one of our commandments: Thou Shalt Not Keep the Menorahs and Dreidels in the Same Cupboard, and Thou Shall Not Have One Full Box of Hanukkah Candles When You Can Have Four Different Quarter-Filled Boxes Instead.

  It takes more than an hour of searching, decorating, and digging old candle wax out of the menorah to get everything in place, but eventually the white-and-blue tablecloth is on the table, the HAPPY HANUKKAH banner hangs on the wall, and my moms’ presents are carefully wrapped. Mama never turns down a good Sapphic romance, so I bought her a couple of recent releases. And I know Mom is going to love the boxed set of her favorite mystery writer. She’s a mass-market-paperback fiend, and I have to say, cracking a mass-market paperback spine is the single most gratifying pleasure on this planet.

  After I’m done with the gifts, I turn to the sack of potatoes sitting on the counter. Hmm. Shredding potatoes is usually Mama’s job, and Mom does the frying, but I’m still the only one here. I rock back on my heels as I pull out my phone. No new messages, and it’s six o’clock now. Mama should definitely be here, and Mom shouldn’t be far behind. I send out another text, and then, feeling a hint of worry, I go ahead and call Mama. It rings and rings, and I think the call is going to voice mail, when suddenly she picks up. “Hey, sweetie!”

  “Hey!” I say brightly. “Where are you?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. A teacher is out sick, and I have to pick up his classes. I’ll be home in a couple hours. You and Mom get started without me, all right?”

  “Oh.” My throat feels weirdly tight. “Um, Mom isn’t here either.”

  The line beats with tense silence. When Mama finally replies, she sounds funny—forced positivity like the time my elementary school music teacher told me I had a beautiful singing voice even though we both knew that was a lie. “I’m sure she’s caught up with work too!” Silence again. “I’ll see you in a couple hours. I love you!”

  “Love you,” I say, before ending the call.

  I put my phone down on the table, then twist my fingers together and look around the empty kitchen. It’s quiet. Really quiet. This has always been a loud house—dinners together every night, boisterous chatter and laughter, talking over each other to share our story or funny comment first. Loud and warm, just how I like it. But, standing here now, I actually can’t remember the last time we had dinner together, and my thoughts wander back to all of those muffled arguments.

  We love Latkepalooza. We cherish Latkepalooza. We’ve celebrated this night together my entire life. But right now I’m alone. And, strangely, I feel like crying. Which is ridiculous. No crying over fried potato pancakes. My moms will be home soon, and everything will be okay. They’re busy. And they’re just going through a rough patch or something. Everyone’s allowed to have a rough patch.

  I take a shaky breath, then head upstairs to my room and sit at my desk. I’ll work on my book until they get home. There’s something undeniably magical about creating. I love falling deep into my own world. I’ve been writing this book for more than a year now. I’m up to 107 pages of fantasy and romance and time travel, perhaps more than a little influenced by Time Stands Still. It’s my favorite series in existence and is about an entire town that gets magically sealed off from the rest of the world, and no one can leave, and no one ages. And now I’m at the scene where my love interests, Isobel and Henry, finally share their dramatic first kiss.

  After scrolling down to the bottom of the document, I rest my hands on the keyboard and stare at
the blinking cursor, imagining Isobel and Henry in the town square at dusk, all that romantic tension swirling between them. But as hard as I try, I can’t concentrate. I can’t lose myself in my fantasy world. All I can do is sit and listen, waiting for someone to come home.

  Chapter Three

  I wake up the next morning to light sounds from the kitchen filtering into my room, the kettle boiling and toaster popping. I roll over in bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Last night, Mama came home around eight and knocked on my door. She gave me a big hug and apologized and asked if I still wanted to make latkes. But it didn’t feel right with just the two of us, and I’d already eaten a microwave burrito because I am a picture of health. We still went downstairs and lit the candles and said the prayer. Then Mama kissed my head and said she’d drive me to work tomorrow before retreating to her room. Usually, I love watching the candles as they burn and drip down to tiny sparks of light, but last night I retreated back upstairs as well and left the menorah flickering alone on the windowsill.

  Mom came home another hour later. No knock on my door, no text, no anything. My parents missed Latkepalooza, our annual tradition, and Mom didn’t even apologize. A sick feeling sweeps over me as the smell of frying turkey bacon invades my room. What if the closed doors, the muffled voices, the missed dinners are more than busy schedules and dirty dishes?

  What if something is actually wrong?

  I climb out of bed and shove my feet into my mermaid-print slippers (I bought them for the delightful irony of mermaids having no feet), and then I walk downstairs into the kitchen. It’s quiet, no chatter about work gossip, no music playing with Mom singing along impressively in tune, only the low hum of breakfast preparation. Mama sits at the table with a mug of tea and buttered toast. Mom stands by the stove and glances up at me as I walk in. She seems to force a small smile. “Morning, Shoshanna. I’m sorry about last night. Work is crazy this time of year.”

  “Thanks.” I twist my fingers together. “I understand.”

  Mom flips her bacon, Mama flips a page of her magazine, and I rock back on my heels. The silence makes my skin crawl, and I realize, for the first time in my life, I feel uncomfortable in my own home.

  “I got you guys presents!” I say, making my voice more chipper than I actually feel. My phone, gifted to me a couple months ago when my old one kicked it, was my early Hanukkah present, so I’m genuinely not expecting anything in return. “Want to open them?”

  “Absolutely!” Mama digs a knife into the butter container, barely scraping out a small schmear. “We’re out of butter.”

  “And just about everything else,” Mom says. “Someone was supposed to go to the grocery store.”

  “Someone picked up two extra classes of teaching last night,” Mama replies, voice high and clipped.

  “Um.” I tug on my Star of David necklace. “I’ll go get your presents.”

  “All right,” Mom says as she slips bacon out of the pan and directly onto a stack of paper towels. “But quickly, please. I need to get to work.”

  When no one came home last night, I put the gifts back in my room. Now I rush to grab them, pulse racing as I run upstairs and then back down. Mom is already in the entryway, coat pulled on, bacon in one hand, and coffee thermos in the other.

  “Oh, here,” I say, awkwardly grabbing for her thermos and passing over her gift so she can hold it. “Um, oh, I can get that, too.” I grab the pile of turkey bacon. It smells like the dictionary definition of mouthwatering, but my stomach feels too constricted to take a slice like I normally would.

  Mom unwraps her present and gives a little happy “Oh!” that sounds a bit fake, like when my grandfather bought my grandmother a toaster for her birthday. Because nothing says I love you and respect you like a kitchen appliance. “Great,” Mom says, more warmly this time. “I love them. Thank you, Shoshanna.”

  I tuck a curl behind my ear and smile at her. “You’re welcome, Mom.”

  She puts the box set on the entryway table and then takes back her breakfast. As she’s about to walk out the door, she says, “Oh, Eve stopped by yesterday.”

  Hope wells in my chest. “Really? What did she say?”

  “She got Barbra started, but she’ll break down again soon without a replacement part. Eve will do the work for free, but the part costs nine hundred fifty dollars.”

  I hate that my eyes automatically fly to hers, seeking help. Mom shakes her head. “We don’t have the money. You’ll need to figure this out on your own.” She’s not being mean. I know we don’t have the money.

  “Well, we can help a little!” Mama calls out from the kitchen. I glance over to find her standing in the doorway, mug of coffee in hand. “How much was it?”

  “Nine hundred fifty,” I reply. “But, um, I can take care of it. I’m working double shifts, and—”

  “Yes, you can,” Mom says. “I don’t know why your mama insists on making me play bad cop.”

  “Alana, come on,” Mama replies. “I said we could help her, not that we would pay for the whole thing.”

  “Oh?” Mom asks, turning to her. “So you want to put no money toward our retirement this month? And then, what, depend on our daughter to take care of us? You don’t think long-term, Alex. You never have.”

  “Really, guys!” I say, my voice so high it almost cracks. “I can take care of it. No problem.”

  “Great! Good.” Mom sweeps forward and kisses me on the head, then leaves the house, the door shutting hard behind her.

  Pressure builds behind my eyes, but I push away the urge to cry. It’s a car. Just a car. And I understand we don’t have the money. I do. I can find a way to pay for the part: $950. It’s not a totally impossible number. I have almost $500 socked away in my little checking account, and I’m mostly working double shifts until Christmas. That would put me close, and then maybe I can pick up an odd job, dog sitting or something.

  But it’s not that—it’s not the car, and it’s not the money. It’s the fighting. Again and again. Over dishes and groceries and broken vehicles. Something is wrong, faulty. I’ve depended on my moms for my entire life, but now what has always felt solid feels like it might collapse beneath me.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Mama’s voice pulls me back. She’s still standing in the doorway, her hesitant eyes appraising me. “Is that my present?”

  “Um.” I clear my throat and tuck a curl behind my ear. “Yeah.”

  I hand it over, and she oohs and aahs as she opens it and then hugs the books to her chest. “I can’t wait to get into these. Winter is the perfect season for cozying up with a good romance, isn’t it?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I agree.

  “And I have a little gift for you.”

  “Really?” I ask, brightening a little.

  “Really, really.” Mama winks. “Follow me.” She beckons me forward with a crooked finger, and we walk through the living room and out back to the screened-in porch.

  It’s freezing out here. The space heaters are off, and I’m only wearing my pj’s and mermaid slippers. But there, on Mama’s easel, in gold lettering and a midnight-blue background, is my present, one of my favorite quotes from Time Stands Still:

  I fear I will need an eternity to express the vastness of my love for you. Thank goodness, an eternity is exactly what we have.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, hugging Mama. “I love it so much.” Her hair smells good, like her coconut sea-salt shampoo. Mama hugs me back tight, and I inhale.

  * * *

  I arrive at Once Upon early. The all-staff meeting doesn’t start for another twenty minutes, but I needed to get out of the house. Despite Mom leaving for work and Mama’s gift, tension clung to the walls. Maybe I can fix it, sweep away the small things stressing them out. Like the groceries. I make a note in my phone to run by the store after work. Yes, I’m budgeting to repair Barbra, but I’m a thrifty shopper, and I’m sure a stocked-up pantry will relieve some tension. I smile as I imagine Mama and Mom chatting over a fresh jar of ma
rmalade and a carton of blueberries. I hold on to that image as I walk back to the children’s section, the only place large enough for our entire fifteen-person staff to gather.

  Even though I’m early, Sophie-Anne and her boyfriend, Arjun, are already here. As always, they’re both dressed in a lot of black, metal, and fishnet. He’s leaning against a bookshelf, and she’s tucked into him, his arm cinched around her waist and playing with her chain belt. Sophie-Anne tilts her head at me and asks, “Why are you smiling?”

  I shrug. “I guess I’m just a smiley person?”

  She narrows her eyes. “It’s weird.” Then she glances back at Arjun. “Tell her it’s weird, honey.”

  “It’s weird,” he confirms with a nod.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Y’all have matching tattoos of Hello Kitty with fangs, and you’re calling me weird?”

  “Yes,” Sophie-Anne replies in all sincerity, seeing nothing odd about their taste in tattoos. From the neck up, Sophie-Anne reminds me of Mama, strawberry-blond hair and pale rosy skin. And her voice even has that sweet Southern drawl.

  But that’s where the similarities end.

  Sophie-Anne pulls out a silver Sharpie, grabs Arjun’s hand, and begins to draw what looks like a decapitated unicorn on his brown skin. Romantic. I turn away from them and snag a seat at one of the little tables as Daniel walks into the store. I wave him over, then smooth out my polka-dot dress and tug down the sleeves of my cardigan. Daniel gives me an easy grin as he sits next to me, his knees practically hitting his chin in the kid-size chair. “Coffee?” he asks, sliding his cup my way.

  “Yes, caffeine always.” I pick up the cup. “Is there cream and sugar in here?”

  “There is one cream and one sugar.”

  I wiggle my nose. “Gross. You know three of each is the minimal acceptable amount.”

  “Right, I’m the gross one.” Daniel laughs and takes his cup back. We chat about what we’ve been reading and the holiday rush and the ridiculously rude customer who had Daniel recommend her books for thirty minutes and then ordered them from a massive online retailer right in front of him. As more people arrive, Daniel glances up, directing his attention at someone else. “Hey, Jake!”