Stress mounts in my chest. Closing my eyes, I inhale. I massage my temples as I will my mind to come up with something. I would do just about anything for this position, and I swear to God, if Margaret Stanley's prissy little ass gets this collaboration…I'll kill her. My eyes pop wide, my lips twisting into a sly grin. If ever I had an idea that may get Mr. Mercer's attention, it's this.
An hour later, I have the perfect story of murder and mayhem, all centered around Mr. Mercer himself. The plot: a begrudged student who didn't win his contest kills the one who does. Simple. Genius. Compelling. Because maybe he'll worry I'll actually do it if he chooses someone other than me.
After I send the email to Ms. Barnes, I sigh. Right now, I have hope, and that's a feeling I rarely experience. Hope for a better life, for something that will set me apart from the rest of the monotonous, humdrum American society. This feeling, it's why people take risks. It's like that moment when you're holding fifty Megabucks tickets, waiting for them to announce the winning numbers. As long as you have those tickets, you can still daydream about all the ways you would squander your fortune.
It's late evening, and I'm alone at work. The best thing about this bookstore—the Little Novel Bookstore off Fifth and Main—is it's hidden away in a crappy part of town. Hardly anyone ever comes in here. There's only a single small window at the front, and once the sun goes down, the store becomes dim and gloomy, the perfect place for me to lose myself in my books. No people and a nice little reading retreat—well, it’s the perfect place to work, isn't it?
The bell over the front door dings, prompting me to bookmark my spot in Mercer's The Dark Deceit. It's the fourth time I've read it, and it still makes my heart race as much as it did the first time. I peer over the cramped shelves. I see no one, but I hear the soles of their shoes padding over the tile floor.
I nervously clear my throat, pushing a bit higher on my tiptoes. My heart slams against my ribs as I frantically glance around to see who walked in and why they're hiding. I have a habit of letting my imagination get the better of me, as I’m told most writers do, and right now all I can think is that whoever just walked in is, at this very moment, pulling a wool ski mask over their nose as they slink around the self-help section. My pulse pounds harder with each beat because I’m now vividly imagining being tied up by this stranger and screaming for help just before he slits my throat open.
"Miranda?"
I spin around, trying to calm my ragged breathing.
Freckle-faced James stands in front of the counter, smiling. "Did my book come in yet?"
"Oh, um…" I shuffle through papers and invoices. "Um, no. Tomorrow maybe?"
He nods. "You doing anything tonight?"
"Working."
"After you get off?"
I hate talking to people. I'm not good at it, and I try to avoid it at all costs. That’s one reason I'm studying creative writing, one reason I choose to work at this run-down bookstore. I want as little interaction with the public as humanly possible because, in general, I don't trust people. Ninety-nine percent of them make me uncomfortable.
"After work I'm going home." I reopen my book to the marked page and begin reading, hoping he'll see I don't want to engage in conversation with him.
"Let me take you out or something."
"No." I don't look up from the page.
You see, this is what James does. He comes in once a week, orders some weird, retired title, then he tries to talk me into going out with him. He's quirky and ugly. His brown hair is always slicked back; his blue irises do nothing but accentuate how bloodshot his eyes are. And he always has this pungent odor. I think it's marijuana. At least that would explain the bloodshot eyes.
"Ah, come on, Miranda. I ask you out every week. Just go out with me once."
"Why, do you want to kill me or something?" I glare at him over the corner of page 172.
He rolls his beady little eyes. "No."
"You're strange, James."
"So are you." He runs his hand over his greasy hair. "Well, I'll come back tomorrow. For the book, you know?"
I nod, and a few seconds later, the bell over the front jingles as he leaves.
Some people give you that creepy Dahmer vibe, and James does that. Sometimes I think he's debating what herb best brings out the taste of human flesh: rosemary or sage. I'd go with rosemary.
An hour later, I'm halfway through chapter thirty when my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen but don't recognize the number. Maybe it's Ms. Barnes calling to tell me I'm the student Mr. Mercer chose…
"Hello?" I try to keep my voice from shaking.
"Baby," my mother slurs.
Closing my eyes, I exhale. "What do you need?"
"Some more money. I need some more money. The heater broke and…"
A man starts shouting in the background. Glass shatters.
"Can you help your momma out, baby?" She takes an audible drag of her cigarette. That noise alone makes the wretched smell of her Virginia Slims fill my nose. How do smells do that?
"I don't have any money. I sent you half of my last paycheck, and I told you I couldn't do that again."