“I guess I’m a very good actor.” Coffee Guy smiles again, and now it seems he’s saying three things all at once. The words he’s speaking out loud, the ones he’s practicing from under the counter, and the unspoken ones his smile can’t help but say, which is You’re welcome.
After Starbucks, I get shot down at the Gap, the pressed juicery, a gluten-free vegan bakery, and Namaste Yoga. I am almost ready to give up hope when I notice a tiny bookstore called Book Out Below! tucked next to a designer kids’ clothing store. No help wanted sign, but still worth a shot.
Immediately, the smell of books greets me, and I feel at home. This is what my house in Chicago used to smell like: paper. I cross my fingers in my pocket and say a quick prayer as I make my way through the stacks to the desk in the back. Normally, I would take my time, run my hands along the spines, see if there’s anything that catches my eye to possibly borrow from the library later. But what I need right now is a job, not more reading material. As it is, even without any semblance of a social life, I’m up late every night trying to keep up with homework and PSAT studying. And though I desperately needed the caffeine today, I couldn’t even buy a Diet Coke from the stupid Wood Valley caf. (SN was right. The credit card machines have a ten-dollar minimum. I have $8.76 to my name. I was going to ask my dad for money this morning, but Rachel was there, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her reaching into her wallet and handing me a twenty.)
“Can I help you, dear?” the saleswoman asks me, and seeing her face makes me realize that since moving here, I haven’t seen a single person with wrinkles until now. The women in LA all have taut skin, the kind pumped full of injectables that render them ageless, just as believably forty as seventy. This woman, on the other hand, has bobbed gray hair and crisscrossed lines at her lips and wears the sort of linen tunic they sell in expensive hippie stores. She’s probably the same age as Rachel, though they could be different species. Where Rachel is hard, she’s soft.
“Hi, do you happen to be hiring?” I ask, and hear Scar in my head: Channel your inner goddess. Be confident, strong, undeniable. Scar’s favorite word is “undeniable,” actually, which tells you everything you need to know about her. My favorite word, on the other hand, is “waffle.” Both a delicious breakfast food and a verb.
The woman eyes me carefully, takes in my Vans and my ratty scarf and my leather motorcycle jacket and my hair, which is pulled up into a messy loop on top of my head. Maybe I should have gone more professional, not that I own a suit or anything. I even had to borrow clothes from Scarlett for my mother’s funeral. Ruined her favorite blazer by association.
“That depends. Are you a book person?” the woman asks.
I put my bag down on the counter and open it. Take out the six books I checked out of the library last week. When we moved, I got my library card. Figured it was the one thing that was guaranteed to be free.
“This is what I’m reading now. ‘The Waste Land’ and Crime and Punishment are for school, but the rest are for fun.”
“You’re reading a nonfiction book about Nazi Germany for fun?” she asks, pointing to The Lost by Daniel Mendelsohn.
“I wanted to mix it up. It looked interesting. It’s about a guy trying to learn about what happened to his family.”
“Huh. Book three of an apocalyptic YA series, which shows you are willing to follow through. Oooh, and some old-school Gloria Steinem. I like it. Eclectic taste.”
“I’ve always been a reader. It’s in my DNA,” I say, and hold my breath.
“Here’s the thing,” she says, and I can already hear the apologetic start of a rejection.
No, I need this to go my way.
“Please. Listen, I don’t need a ton of hours, unless you need someone for a lot of hours, and then I can need them. What I mean is, I’m flexible. I’m available any day after school and on weekends. I love books, I love your store, even its punny name, though I’m not sure about the exclamation point, and I just think this would be a good fit. Me. Here. I have a résumé if you need it.”
I take out my pathetic résumé, which is filled with babysitting references and a short stint at Claire’s selling barrettes to snotty seven-year-olds and, of course, my illustrious two years at the Smoothie King. My after-school activities (yearbook, newspaper, photography club, Spanish club, poetry club), my GPA at FDR, and a short section titled Interests and Hobbies: Reading. Writing. Mourning. (Okay, that’s not on there, but it should be. I’m a champ at that.)
I had to change the font to 16-point Courier so my résumé would take up a whole page.
“Where do you go to school?”
“Wood Valley?” I say it like a question. Damn you, nervous uptalking. “I mean, I’m a junior there? I just moved?”
“My son is at Wood Valley too. He’s a senior. Do you know him? Liam Sandler?”
“Sorry, I’m really new. I don’t know anyone yet.”