Change can hurt but it leads to a road paved with better things.
“Any good?” Nico asks, focused on the salivating aliens charging toward him on the TV.
Wes scowls. Even the fortune cookie companies like to mess with his mind. “Garbage.” He crumples the shred of paper, then tosses it on the floor. He’s jet-lagged and so freaking, ridiculously over this night.
He wiggles back against Nico’s side. Nico kills more aliens. Wes thinks, Stupid fortune, tomorrow’s gonna be so much better, and falls asleep.
Chapter Four
Morning blindsides Wes. It hits him like a fist, but mainly because he couldn’t find a rhythm with his sleep cycle. Thanks, jet lag.
His phone’s alarm assaults his eardrums. Outside his window, the sun pokes at the sky until it’s pinkish orange. It’s nearly eight a.m., and Wes hates everything.
He has two missed texts. One is from Nico, apologizing for ducking out last night after video games. He had to be up early to babysit his sisters. Wes barely remembers Nico leaving or crawling into his own bed.
The second text is from his dad.
From: Dad
Film and Television?
Received 11:38 p.m.
Attached to the text is a link to UCLA’s School of Theater, Film, and Television. Calvin Hudson does this sometimes, sends Wes suggestions for possible college majors. It’s supposed to be helpful, but it’s really a reminder that Wes isn’t anywhere near the stage of certainty about his future that his parents and brother were at his age.
After closing the text, Wes finally climbs out of bed. His eyes feel like sandpaper. He nearly walks into a wall stumbling to the kitchen for a Pop-Tart and leftover, room-temperature Coke. He’s not functional enough to make tea, and coffee is a bitter, venomous sludge that Wes will have no part of.
He finishes off the Pop-Tart in three bites. He forgot to close the loft’s windows last night. The air is blanketed by the scents of surf and seaweed and cool breeze.
Wes can smell it—today’s going to be a good day.
He brushes his teeth, scrubbing the taste of sugar and flat Coke off his tongue. In the shower, he repeats, “You can do this; just tell him,” while washing his hair. Anticipation buzzes in his system.
It’s his first day back to work and, quite possibly, the day he wins Nico’s heart.
In the bathroom mirror, while lazily fixing his hair, Wes assesses himself. He’s wearing his very geektastic, lucky Green Lantern T-shirt. Last year at Comicpalooza, he won free passes to a new comic book movie wearing this shirt. So, today, Wes is going to get lucky, with his best friend. Maybe.
But he doesn’t have time to think about that. The bookstore opens promptly at nine a.m. daily. He needs to haul ass downstairs, set up the till, dust the shelves, and check on his favorite corner of the store.
Wes skids down the hall’s hardwood floors, passing Ella’s room. Well, it’s Leo’s former room, now occupied by Ella for the summer. Quickly, he peeks inside. She’s there, splayed out like an octopus and snoring at the ceiling.
He whispers to her, “Today’s gonna kick ass.”
Ella snores louder.
Wes shrugs, then runs for the door. He stops for his shoes, keys, and phone charger. On the way downstairs, he does a fist-pump that he’s glad nobody witnesses.
When Wes rounds the corner, he’s met by a grapefruit sky. It’s a cool morning, but he knows the heat rises quickly in July. For now, he soaks in the quiet calm wrapped around the pier. The wind shakes the palm leaves hanging high over Tongva Park. He lifts his phone to catch a good shot of Santa Monica leisurely waking up, and text it to Nico before opening his notes app.
Number Five—The SoCal Vibe
There’s a reason every movie and TV series doesn’t have to try hard to make LA look so damn cool. It just is. But it helps that every city has a bomb-ass vibe that can’t be replicated.
Downtown LA is obvi. That place is buzzing with so many people who want to make it big. But then there’s La Jolla with its sick beaches and surf community that I love—even though I drown more than I surf. The views in Malibu are kickass. My selfie game is strong there. Venice isn’t that far away and I 100% always live my best life down on Ocean Front Walk—all the music and faces and shops where you can get anything from clothes to art to weed.
Long Beach, Oceanside, San Diego… All great!
But Santa Monica is just so chill. I mean, it’s fair to say, since I’ve been to ITALY now, I’ve never experienced anything like SM. It’s more than the pier or the beach or the crazy-good restaurants everywhere. It’s more than Nico. Or my family.
Santa Monica is this secret that I haven’t fully unlocked yet. It’s the kind of place that, once you’re here, you never leave.
Wes pops his head into Brews and Views. He spots Kyra and waves.
“Welcome back, Crusher,” she says, tucking a few of her big, loose curls behind her ear. Kyra is one of the rare people who gets his name’s Star Trek reference.
Wes smiles apologetically, nodding his head in the direction of the bookstore.
“You’re late.” She wipes down a table. “You’re never late.”
“Jet lag,” he says as an explanation.
Kyra puckers her mouth. “You’re letting Ella influence you,” she says with just enough accusation to make Wes yelp.
“How dare.”
“Go open the store,” she says, shooing him away with her rag. “They’ve missed you.”
Wes sprints away without another word. It takes him a few turns of the key to jiggle the front door open. The lock has always been trouble. In his peripheral vision, the neon BOOKS sign shines like the North Star. Its pinkness makes him think of Mrs. Rossi and her vintage vibe, the one he fell in love with when he was eight years old.
Mrs. Rossi, like the bookstore, is some unrealistic version of perfect. She’s a second mom to him. Some weekends, he finds a way to her house for home-cooked meals. Occasionally, he stays late at the bookstore just to listen to her recount stories from an era he knows nothing about.
“Home sweet home,” he announces while flicking on the store’s lights.
Rows and rows of deep, red oak shelves overflow with paperbacks and hardcovers. Bookcases line the walls and stretch into the store, connecting like Legos in the center. An endcap display of novels, every cover a different color of the rainbow, awaits customers near the front. It’s a Pride presentation that Anna helped Wes with before he left for Italy. He grins at it as he passes.
He follows the thinning gray carpet toward the back. On the way is a showcase of all the latest teen apocalyptic-dystopian-fantasy sagas. Each one has a title that starts with “Shadow” or “Queen” or “Dark.” There’s a generic theme Wes isn’t commenting on.
In a back corner of the store is an office. The desk is a cluttered mess, one that only Mrs. Rossi can navigate. He unlocks the safe and grabs the till before exiting. Beside the office is a shoebox-sized bathroom and, thankfully, it doesn’t reek. Wes would hate to spend his first day back scolding Ella over that.
He pauses at another section of the store. Wes’s mecca, his Holy Grail, is the comics corner. It’s common law amongst all employees at Once Upon a Page that this is Wes’s territory. Do not touch. Wes has a system. He’s got a sixth sense if anyone’s messed with it. There might’ve been a mild tantrum—or five epic ones—in the past over people not respecting DC Comics domination.
His left eye twitches when he spots an Incredible Hulk comic overlapping a Green Lantern one. He almost drops the till. “Later, Wes,” he whispers after a deep breath. “Fix it later.”
He gave Nico one job while he was gone. One job.
Behind the front counter are a shelf stereo system and plastic bins filled with old compact discs, all the best stuff from the late ‘80s through the ‘90s. Outside the bookstore,
Wes listens to everything on his phone or laptop, but the employees have a strict policy: If it’s not on CD, it’s not being played.
Wes has enough time to grab the Blue Album by Weezer and press play. At promptly nine a.m., he props the front door open to inhale the summer scents. “My Name Is Jonas,” with its acoustic guitar intro, floats from the stereo into the street. Wes kicks his feet up on the front counter while checking his horoscope on his phone:
“There is a potential romantic interest in your life, Capricorn, and today is the day! Sparks are about to fly between you! This encounter could change your life.”
Wes doesn’t believe in horoscopes; he reads them for fun, but… Sparks are about to fly between you! Clearly, the universe is on his side. He smells clean, his hair is at least four-star-level Yelp-worthy, and he’s wearing his lucky Green Lantern T-shirt.
He says to no one, “This is going to be the awesomest of awesome days.”
By noon, Wes’s perception of awesome has decidedly taken a giant belly flop off Reality Cliff.
“How do you not have a copy of that book?”
“Sir,” Wes says through his teeth, “I’m sorry. We don’t carry—”
“But it’s the foremost research book on alien probing!”
Wes’s mouth flattens into a thin line; his eyebrows droop into a frown. Mr. X-Files—it’s what Wes is mentally calling this douchebag—is one of several customers who have royally ruined his morning. The universe, being the ultimate tease, gave Wes one very quiet customer during his first hour. Then the Hellmouth opened and in came the early lunch rush. Everyone needed his attention or a special order or, like Mr. X-Files, considered anyone in retail a personal punching bag.
“Oh, if you loved that series, let me introduce you to this one. Pirates, ships, and enemies-to-lovers-to-possible-enemies-again romance,” gushes Mrs. Rossi as she leads a woman through the aisles.
Mrs. Rossi arrived an hour ago in a blast of lily-scented perfume and charm. She reminds Wes a lot of Frenchy from Grease—the movie version, since Wes has never seen a live musical. Mrs. Rossi is bubbly, a bit spacy, and not-so-accidentally dyes her hair cotton candy pink just like Frenchy. While she entertains customers with jokes and wide-eyed excitement, Wes is stuck dealing with Mr. X-Files, whose breath smells of raw onions and desperation.
“Sir, would you like me to order it—”
“I need it now,” argues Mr. X-Files. “This research is vital.”
“Really?” Wes raises a curious eyebrow at this guy’s ‘It’s all good in the hood’ E.T. T-shirt. He’s not judging; just observing.
Mr. X-Files relents with a grunt. “How long will delivery take?”
“For this book?” Wes clicks around on the store’s semi-ancient desktop computer. “Ten business days.”
“That’s a millennium.”
Wes peeks past Mr. X-Files to his comics corner. A young teen with honey-blond hair, green eyes, and a healthy distribution of freckles across their cheeks looks undecided between a Deadpool graphic novel and a Harley Quinn one. Every inch of Wes wants to scream. That’s where he should be, instead of listening to this onion-breath monster’s ranting.
“Would you like the book delivered to the store or a home address?” Wes finally asks, watching as Mr. X-Files turns an unhealthy shade of red.
After paying, Mr. X-Files stomps toward the door. Wes shouts, “And have a page-turning day!” because Mrs. Rossi loves to torture her employees by demanding they use the store’s customary farewell for every customer.
He can’t believe this is his life on a Monday afternoon.
“You’re back!” Zay strides into the bookstore, greeting Wes with a fist-bump and a quick hug. Wes loves that about Zay—he has zero issues with showing affection with other guys, no matter their sexuality. In high school, Wes watched boys be casually demonstrative with each other, but if it ever got too physical, or there were too many eyes on them, they would always separate with a “that’s gay” and a laugh.
He hated that.
But Zay isn’t like those select assholes who ruined Wes’s perception of PDA. Zay’s still in high school. He’s starting his senior year in September. He’s got perfectly straight, white teeth, along with an awesomely soft, curly ‘fro, the dreamiest sepia eyes, and a tawny complexion that Wes swears has never seen a pimple.
“Nice to have more melanin in this place,” says Zay, jokingly.
This is another aspect of Zay that Wes loves. The one that doesn’t walk around Wes’s genealogy. Zay doesn’t shame Wes’s passing exterior because Savannah’s white and Calvin’s family is all very light-skinned. They both acknowledge Wes’s privilege as much as they recognize they share the same community.
Zay’s one fatal flaw is his poor choice in music, which he proves by cutting off Wes’s epic air guitar session to Weezer’s raucous “Holiday” and putting on Tracy Chapman.
“What the hell?”
“Wes, listen.” Zay tilts his chin up. “I’m trying to educate you on great music the way my moms have informed me.”
With Tracy Chapman? Wes is insulted on behalf of all the customers browsing the aisles. Zay’s lucky Wes is too jet-lagged to chastise him about the differences between quality music, like Nada Surf and the Offspring, and whatever mellow nonsense is currently assaulting his eardrums. Plus, Zay’s stupidly cute smile wins every argument.
In the teen fantasy section, a young girl stops to whisper-shout to her friend, “Fuck, he’s bae-material.”
On merit, Wes agrees. Zay’s straight, and Wes really isn’t into that whole turn-the-hetero-guy-homo thing he’s read about online. Also, there’s that Nico thing he’s currently navigating. Wes supposes it’s a bit hypocritical to pinpoint his one reason for not dating Zay being the straight aspect, considering he’s only about eighty-percent confident Nico’s at least bisexual.
Thing is, Nico’s been on dates with girls. He’s kissed guys. Well, a guy. Wes doesn’t vehemently hate Marco Carpenter for drawing Nico’s name during a juvenile game of dirty dice—which was really the junior, home arts-and-crafts version Lula Fuentes made by taping dirty dares on the sides of Monopoly dice—at a party when they were sixteen. But he’s not fond of the way Marco used his lizard tongue to attack Nico’s mouth or the way Nico bit Marco’s bottom lip. Their hands did a lot of moving too. It was kind of dark in Lula’s basement, but Wes has read a lot of comic books; that’s certainly given him partial X-ray vision by osmosis.
“Um, Wes?”
Wes blinks, then jerks out of his daydream—nightmare? —to stare at Zay.
“Wow,” Zay says, nodding approvingly. “The power of Chapman.”
“You should not be allowed near music.”
“I dunno, homie.” Zay points to the aisle between mystery and nonfiction. “Anna sure likes it.”
Wes would like to remind Zay that they both believe Anna’s part wood nymph. She has long, ash-blonde hair and large, rock-candy blue eyes. Freckles cover her fair skin. As she twirls, the hem of her peasant dress flutters. She’s twenty, a supposed future assistant store manager, and so Bohemian-hippie.
“Anna’s high,” Wes comments.
“Maybe,” Zay says, grabbing a stack of books that need to be reshelved. “But she digs it. The customers do too.”
Throughout the store, people browse while swaying or bopping their heads. One guy mouths the words to “Fast Car.” Traitors, all of them.
“Yikes. Scary.”
Once again, Wes startles out of a daydream, this time to find Anna leaning over the counter. Popcorn flowers are braided into a crown around the top of her head. “Okay, help me out here,” she says, tucking pieces of wavy hair behind her left ear to expose a sparkly line of piercings. “I have this customer looking for a funny book… but with aliens.”
Wes’s face pinches. It better not be Mr. X-Files.
“Uh.”
Although Wes has spent more time in the bookstore than his own bed, he’s not exactly the resident bibliophile here. That’s Ella. But he knows enough about books to reply, “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” without looking like a total novice. “Book’s better than the movie.”
“Aren’t they all?”
Wes snorts. Truth.
“And that is…?”
Sometimes, Wes forgets how new Anna is. He only spent two weeks training her before he left. After that, she was in the very incapable hands of Ella.
“Sci-fi.” Wes nods to a long wall opposite the front counter. “And if they really want a good book, tell them to get We Are the Ants also.”
“Thanks,” Anna says, skipping off with a smile too naïve for her to manage any portion of this store.
Wes settles onto the stool behind the counter. He’s not jealous of Anna’s situation. It’s not as if he has time to go for a promotion. Not with college.
But if I didn’t go to school…
No. Wes can’t entertain that thought. But the problem is, it keeps creeping into his mind—not going to college but staying here, in Santa Monica, and helping Mrs. Rossi run the bookstore. Maybe it’ll be easier to figure himself out in a place he knows than waste four years and end up in debt. And then what? A ridiculous amount of statistics show that most college graduates don’t end up working in their field. So Wes is going to dedicate years to learning a subject, only to end up doing anything other than whatever he decides to study? It makes no sense to him.
But, all around Wes, everyone has their future figured out.
Ella Graham. UCLA. Communication.
Xavier “Zay” Jones. Plans to attend UCLA. Music Performance.
Anna Wooten. Santa Monica College. Business.
Nico Alvarez. Stanford. Biology.
Wes Hudson. UCLA. Undeclared. Most likely majoring in Loserology with a minor in Confusedonomics.
His chest is tight. Every time Wes’s mind drifts like this, his vision goes mildly hazy. More than once, he’s bitten his lip bloody. He should’ve figured all this out in Italy. It’s as if Wes is the Chosen One, who’s supposed to step into this destined role of well-adjusted, college-bound adult and conquer the world at eighteen. But now he’s two months away from disappointing everyone in his life.
The Summer of Everything Page 4
