“I like you,” she says, and her smile is the opposite of Coffee Guy’s. Reassuring, not self-affirming. “Let me talk to Liam. He’s been complaining that he wants more time off to practice with his band. If he wants to give up his hours, they’re all yours.”
“Thanks so much. My number’s on there, so just call me. Whenever.” I’m hesitant to leave even though it’s obvious I should go. My fate is now tied to some Wood Valley senior who wants more time to bang on his drums. I hope he wants to practice every afternoon and every weekend.
I want to move out of Rachel’s house and move in here, sleep under the stacks and make Cup-a-Soup from the water cooler in the corner. I want this gray-haired woman to talk books with me and help me with my homework. I want her to tell me I’ll do okay on the PSATs even though I don’t have a tutor twice a week like Theo does. I want her to tell me everything is going to be okay.
And if not all that, I at least want her to give me a discount.
I gather my books and walk toward the door, head down. Pull out my phone to text Scar.
Me: Send positive vibes. Perfect bookstore=perfect job. Me want it badly.
Scarlett: Better than making smoothies with your bff?
Me: Not even close. But if I must be a loner, best to be surrounded by imaginary friends.
Scarlett: Miss you, lady.
Her words make me feel lighter, and I find myself smiling at my phone. I am not alone. Not really. Just geographically isolated.
—
Don’t walk and text. That’s my first thought when I find myself on the floor of the bookstore, right on the threshold, holding my throbbing forehead. I see stars. Not the celebrity kind my dad promised when he tried to get me excited about moving to Los Angeles, but the cartoon kind that signal a concussion. I have no idea how I got here. Why it hurts to turn my head, or how my knees buckled, or why I feel perilously close to crying for about the millionth time since I moved to this place.
“Are you okay?” a voice asks. I don’t look up, not yet, because I think if I move my head I might throw up, and that’s the only thing that could make this any worse. Humiliation has not kicked in, and I’d like to stave that off for as long as possible, not compound it. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly,” I say, and suddenly I’m eye to eye with a guy about my age, who has squatted down to check out the damage to my face. He has longish dirty-blond hair and dark brown eyes and a hint of a pimple on his chin. A much better-looking version of Adam Kravitz: the boy next door. Sweet and distracted and probably smart and kind to his mother and will grow up to invent something like Tumblr. The kind of guy you’d probably want to kiss—especially if he made you laugh—and whose hand you definitely wouldn’t mind holding. I blink, notice his shaggy hair again. I know him from somewhere.
“What was that?” I ask.
“That was Earl.” He motions to a large object he is carrying on his back.
“Earl?”
“My guitar,” he says.
“Your guitar is named Earl?” I ask, which is probably the least relevant question to the matter at hand. I should have asked for some ice or a bag of frozen peas, at the very least a Tylenol. I can already feel a lump forming.
“Yup. Are you sure you’re okay? I whacked you hard.”
“I’ll live.” He puts out his hand and helps me stand up, and I find I’m more stable on my feet than I would have guessed.
“I’m really sorry. Totally my fault.” He pockets his phone—maybe he was walking and texting too?—and puts his guitar down against one of the stacks. There’s a WHVS sticker on his case. Ah, now I place him. Of course. He was witness to my very first, but not last, Wood Valley humiliation. The guy who interned at Google and traveled around India. He looks different in this context.
“Just thought of some lyrics and wanted to get them down before I forgot.”
“Wait, you’re Liam, right?” I ask.
“That depends on whether you’re planning to sue me,” he says. Now that I’ve put two and two together, I can see his mother in his face. The same generous grin. I wonder what kind of music his band plays. I bet it’s something folksy, and that they’re not half bad. Surely he should practice more.
“Nope.” I smile.
“Well then, what can I do for you? I clearly owe you one.”
I hear Scar loud and clear in my head: Be undeniable. And so I am.
—
“I got a job!” I announce when I get back to Rachel’s later. I’m so excited that I have to tell someone, even if that someone is my disinterested stepbrother, who would never lower himself to do something as mundane as work. I find him on his bed, playing with his laptop. “And before you throw another fit, it’s not at Ralph’s. It’s a place you and your friends will never, ever go. So don’t you worry.”
“I’ve never seen you so animated. It’s kind of adorable,” Theo says. “So where will I never ever go? Oh wait, let me guess.”
He puts down his laptop and puts his hands to his head, as if he’s thinking very hard.
“KFC?”
“Nope.”
“The batting cages?”
“Nope. But I like this game.”
“The ridiculously delicious pretzel place.”