“I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” Dr. Echolls said.
Neither was I, not really, but I marched forward regardless. “In order to store OJ for long periods, manufacturers suck the oxygen out of the juice, which also removes the flavor. Then they add these flavor packets when they’re ready to bottle and ship it. Many companies base the flavor profile of their packets off the Valencia orange, which is why OJ has such a consistent taste, but at the end of the day, it’s all fake.”
Dr. Echolls nodded. “That’s very interesting, Ozzie.”
“Isn’t it?” I said. “But it’s messed up, too. I mean, what if the OJ companies slowly changed the profile of their juice so that eventually the flavor no longer resembled actual oranges? Someone who’d never tasted a real orange wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Okay, Ozzie,” Dr. Echolls said. “But I’m not sure what it has to do with this other boy. What was his name again?”
Tommy was the one who’d told me about the orange juice. He loved useless trivia like that. He had this whole conspiracy theory about how the government could replace the text of e-books without us knowing, the same way companies could replace the flavor in OJ. But I wasn’t planning to tell Dr. Echolls about that.
“Calvin,” I said. “And he’s like the juice because somewhere over the summer I think someone sucked all the flavor out of him and replaced it with something different. Similar to him, but not really.”
Dr. Echolls leaned forward. “People don’t really work like that, Ozzie.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“Okay, Ozzie,” she said, her smile wider that I thought possible. “I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t we pick this up again next week?”
I stood and smiled right back at Dr. Echolls. “Yeah, sure. Next week.”
6,089,050,000 LY
MRS. PETRIDIS LOOKED ONE ANNOYING CUSTOMER away from taking up a machete and hacking us all into quivering bloody chunks.
“Thank God you’re here, Ozzie,” she said when I walked into the bookstore and tossed my backpack behind the register. “A hundred times today someone’s asked me for this cookbook they saw on TV, but no one remembers what it’s called and they yell at me because I can’t read their minds. Do you know anything about it?”
“Eat Like It’s the End of the World,” I said. “We’ve got a box of them in the back.”
Mrs. Petridis stood with her hands on her hips. “Eat like what?”
“Eat Like It’s the End of the World,” I said again. “It’s based off the Apocalypse Diet. Dr. Ness recommended it last week. It supposedly teaches people to maintain a healthy weight by eating and exercising based on the type of diet and activity they’d be forced to adhere to during a zombie apocalypse. I ordered a bunch; we just need to put them out.”
Three different pens were sticking out of Mrs. Petridis’s messy gray hair. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in my life, and that includes leg makeup.”
I nodded, though I had no clue what leg makeup was, nor did I want to know. “Yeah, but I order every book Dr. Ness recommends, and we always sell out.”
“Idiots will buy anything.” Mrs. Petridis breathed in and out, her tension fading with each exhalation. “I should sell you the bookstore.”
“I’ve got about three hundred bucks. Think that’s enough?”
“After the day I’ve had, Ozzie, I might give it to you for free.”
Mrs. Petridis helped me bring out the new books, including the box of Eat Like It’s the End of the World, and helped me stack them on the front display. As I worked, I noticed Mrs. Ross sitting in the corner, reading.
“How long’s she been here?” I motioned at Mrs. Ross, keeping my voice low.
“How should I know? Do you expect me to keep track of every customer who walks into this godforsaken store?” Mrs. Petridis broke down the last empty box, added it to the stack, and picked them all up. “I’ll be in the back. I found a squirrel that’s going to make a perfect Scottie Ferguson.”
She disappeared into her studio, which meant I wouldn’t see her until she got hungry, frustrated, or the store closed, and I busied myself shelving books. My impending meeting with Calvin at three had amplified my anxiety to nearly unmanageable levels, and working helped keep me from bursting into flames.
I’d barely paid attention to my teachers during class, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Calvin cutting himself and Trent catching us together in the boys’ room and wondering what he knew about Tommy. He’d ignored me when I’d tried to talk to him during physics, but I was going to make him talk when he showed up later, even if I had to take him into the back and stuff him like one of Mrs. Petridis’s taxidermy animals.
As I worked—shifting books on the shelves to make room—I kept one eye on Mrs. Ross, though she hadn’t seemed to notice me. I lost sight of her while I was reorganizing the “Petridis Books Recommends” teen section. I’d made it my mission to highlight as many non-flavor-of-the-week books as possible. I’d written all the suggestion cards myself, but had used various aliases. “Liesa” loved books with superheroes, “Jamal” was passionate about books written by diverse authors, “Elisa” couldn’t get enough unlikable heroines, and “Anica” adored any book that featured characters who had dogs. I’d tried to recruit Lua to recommend books with a focus on music, but she’d never been able to commit to a book long enough to finish one.
I took a break to peek around the corner and check on Mrs. Ross. Her table sat empty, while Skip was still clacking away at his magnum opus. I hadn’t heard the doorbell chime, so she might have been in the restroom or hidden behind one of the shelves where I couldn’t see her, but my curiosity drove me to see what she’d been reading.
GED prep books, apparently—four of them—plus, a dictionary and a thesaurus. I picked up the topmost book and flipped through it. Mrs. Ross had never been shy about explaining that she’d dropped out of high school when she got pregnant with Tommy, but I’d never heard her express interest in getting her diploma. Tommy didn’t exist here, though, and I wondered why she’d dropped out of high school in the bizarro world in which I now lived, and why she’d decided to pursue her GED.
The doorbell chimed, startling me, as Calvin walked into the store. He didn’t see me and wandered toward the register.
“Hey,” I said, approaching from behind him. He didn’t hear me, so I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey,” I said again.
Calvin jumped, pushed his hood back, and pulled his earbuds out. His skin was splotchy, his eyes tired and bruised, and he was slick with a layer of sweat. He looked like he’d run straight out of a nightmare.
“You’re here.”
“Obviously,” I said. “I work here.”