I pretended to ring up the first book—opening the cover, double-checking the ISBN, making sure the dust jacket wasn’t creased. Finally, Mr. Winston adjusted his tweed cap and fled into his office.
“He might be the best story in here,” Asher said.
“A bestseller for sure.” I grabbed the books and carefully replaced them.
Asher followed. “One question. Does Peter ever manage to become one with his shadow?”
I took six steps to the classics section and pulled out a new mint green and pale blue hardcover, displaying it proudly. “You’ll have to read it for yourself.”
The slow-moving, flat smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I may just do that. Maybe emo Peter has some good advice.” He leveled a wry look on a short huff. “You know, something literary and surprisingly profound.”
“You lost a shadow?” I asked, thinking of the scene where Peter first sneaks into Wendy’s bedroom window, searching for his missing half. And finds a girl to sew it back on.
“You could say that. Mine’s lying somewhere on Del Mar Heights Road.”
Oh. The accident. A shiver branched across my back.
But Asher already had his own Wendy Darling. London, with her sinuous body and hair like the shiny new pennies I gave to customers. If anyone was going to drag out a sewing kit and attach all his missing parts with needle and thread, it would be her.
Silly, silly, invulnerable me.
* * *
Not every girl gets to say she spent precisely twenty minutes as a platinum blonde. Tess’s wig du jour, chosen to complement my ivory top and light-wash jeans, hit just above the small of my back. The bangs also hung a tad too long on me, so I had to weave my eyesight through silky strands to see anything. After two minutes of fun with head adornments, Tess hooked me up with tea she’d accidentally brewed too long, plus three homemade snickerdoodles, which made up for the tea’s bitterness.
Good for her and Tops’ cash register, she stayed busy for most of my break. October meant Halloween wigs and regular customers coming in for the specialty masks she stocked every fall. Mr. Winston could take lessons from that kind of marketing move.
While Tess helped a group of college girls with rainbow wigs, I took a selfie in my new bombshell ’do and texted it to Marisol.
Marisol: Ooh, I like. You should buy that one
Me: Bite your tongue
Marisol: Ha. You check eBay? Bravo!
Me: Call. T’s working
Two seconds later, I answered Marisol’s ringtone with, “What about eBay?”
“I checked those items you listed. Darcy, two sold today with Buy It Now, and you already have opening bids on the other two auctions.”
“Seriously?” Currently, two Elisa B. pink lipsticks, one foundation set, and one eye shadow palette were for sale with Darcy-crafted descriptions and Marisol-snapped photos. I did the mental math and realized I might net close to a hundred dollars. And it was only my first week.
“I told you, new-in-box makeup moves fast. That means you need to pack up the Buy It Now stuff ASAP and ship it off. Info’s all in your email.”
Which I hadn’t checked lately. I took another bite of cookie heaven. “Gotcha. There’s a post office branch by the Feather. I can hide the shipment in my trunk.”
Silence on the line, except for background noise. I detected strains of a preschool cartoon theme song and two German shepherds barking out their harmonies. “Mari?”
“Still here. Sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking our plan might actually work.”
Whenever I thought of it—beyond the bold lipstick and blush colors, beyond the promise of quick money—the deception filled me like smoke. And that was before the worry crept in. Then the questions and endless tragic scenarios. “I’ve been trying not to think of it.”
“By just doing it?”
“Exactly.”
“Your mom hasn’t caught on, right?”
“Not yet,” I said. “She’s left those tubs alone, but it’s only week one.”
I heard Marisol’s short sigh. “Week one and a hundred bucks, D.”
After we hung up, I was still thinking. Feeling more of the dark, shadowed parts creep over the whole of me. Instinctively, I looked straight through the wigged mannequin heads along the side wall, visualizing the mass of books next door at the Feather. Weren’t there countless stories of characters who did the hard thing to survive? Heroes who lied to save themselves or a loved one? Revolutionaries. Risk takers who were also “just doing it” because it was all they really could do?
Or was I just fooling myself—trying to craft a rightful heroine out of a sneaking thief?
“What’s this, now?” Tess chirped. I hadn’t even noticed her approach. She hopped onto a stool and tugged at my wig. “I dress you in these golden strands of fabulous, and you muck them up with another Darcy-frown. A supersized one, too, like that beehive Halloween wig I just sold.”
I forced a smile. “Just a lot going on, but I’ll be fine.” Another cinnamon-dusted bite. “Your cookies help.”
“Sugar and carbohydrates usually do, Darcy-Diva. I’ll send you home with more.” She sipped her tea, which had to have gone lukewarm. “A while back you were going on about financial difficulties. And even I know good snickerdoodles can’t help you there, unless you’re selling them.”
I winked at her, nodding. “I think I’ve found a way to get through my snag.” By just doing it.
“Of course you did.”
But I barely heard her. I was paying more attention to the scene across University Avenue. A familiar white Volkswagen convertible pulled up in front of Mid-City Legal, top down. London Banks’s sixteenth birthday present, or so I’d heard from Bryn when she’d whined to Marisol about it. London released her hair from a ponytail, shaking out waves like a lion’s mane.
And then Asher emerged.
I was stealthy enough to sneak cosmetics from a hoarder, but not enough to fool Tess Winston. “She does that more often, lately. Picks him up,” Tess said. “Pretty girl he has there.”
“You’ve noticed?”
She shrugged, but her fuchsia-painted lips twitched a bit. “Flashy drop-top, flashy girl. Gets slow in here sometimes. I pay attention. Besides, I tend to notice good hair when I see it.”
“London never comes to school without a magazine-ready style. And if anyone ever compliments her, she always mentions her luck of being ‘just blessed with’ her natural color,” I said.
“Ha!” Tess snorted a laugh. “Natural? That’s not what I meant.”
“Huh?”
We watched Asher fold his long legs into the car and lean over to peck London’s lips. But the pair didn’t leave right away. What looked like a short, tense conversation ended with London shaking her head dramatically before putting up the convertible top.
“Darcy, London’s red is no gift from the Almighty. No, ma’am. A red like hers takes the careful blending of many tones and top colorist skills. You can’t get anywhere near that particular coppery auburn, which appears to be touched by unicorns and fairy dust, without help from a fancy-schmancy salon. Oh, she’s a natural redhead, all right. She’s just not that redhead.”
I drummed my fingers on the glass countertop, considering.
“Trust me, if anyone knows hair, it’s me.” A customer entered the shop, and Tess scurried away to help.
After three more bites of cookie, Marisol texted again.
Marisol: Word of the Day. Go
Me: Lushburg
Marisol: Hmmm...
Marisol: Someone who drinks too many margaritas and plows a ship into an iceberg. Titanic style
Me: Laughs
Marisol: Darn. Wrong?
Me: Sorry yeah
Marisol: What is it then?
Me: A counterfeit coin
Eleven
One Story-Filled Head: An Inside View
Things I hate: Grape soda. Endings. Beginnings. Peeling nail polish. Beach sand. Grape-flavored an
ything.
Things I love: Flip-flops. Pretty stamps. Cardigan sweaters. Sand dollars. Lemon drop candy. The number 6.
—Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler
Besides poems and advice, my Peter Pan book was filled with lists. Numbered or bulleted lists tucked into margins and crowded into the space between chapters. The hate-love list spun through my mind all day, drowning out my teachers and even Marisol’s cheery prattle. After school, I was still spinning with it, wanting to question this writer over an iced caramel latte. A girl who loved sand dollars, but hated sand? The laws of nature required her to trudge through piles of one—feet sinking, rough grains sticking in her flip-flops—to even have a chance at discovering the other. Was she trying to tell me some shells were worth crossing acres of sand?
Boots shuffled across the Jefferson auditorium floor. I grinned at Mr. Penn, Shakespearean scholar/janitor extraordinaire, when he said, “‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow...’”
“You get the source first. Much Ado About Nothing.” I pointed to the stage, where volunteers were hanging backdrop fabric from ladders. At his raised brows, I added, “‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow...than a man swear he loves me.’”
Mr. Penn tapped the center of his chin. “Could be a lucky guess. Let’s try, hmm...yes. ‘When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done...’”
“‘When the hurly-burly’s done...when the battle’s won,’” I answered immediately.
“Source?”
“Since we’re technically in a theater, I can’t say the name of this particular play, because everyone knows that superstition. So, your quote is from The Scottish Play.”
Mrs. Howard halted next to us, radio in one hand, script in the other. “Two questions. First, what was that business?” She looked pointedly at me. “And second, why aren’t you in my play?”
Mr. Penn tipped his mop handle toward me. “I give you Miss Darcy Wells, once again besting my vast knowledge of The Bard.”
I gave a hesitant smile.
Mrs. Howard frowned. “Here I am, trying to get my cast to convincingly orate an hour and thirty minutes’ worth of Shakespearean language, while you appear to have an entire storehouse of it already in your head? With that kind of ability, you’d shine onstage.”
“Been telling her that for three years,” Mr. Penn said, and left with a short wave.
“Thank you, but no. I’ll stick to reading the words.” On the Much Ado set, the four leads had just entered to block out a scene. “As much as I love Shakespeare, I’m not comfortable with the spotlight or big crowds.”
“Well. Our loss.” Mrs. Howard sighed at the notion. “On the other hand, your friend Marisol’s designs are going to add so much to the production.”
I smiled. “That’s actually why I’m here. She signed out early for the dentist, but said she left her sketches somewhere?”
“Jase found her notebook after rehearsal yesterday.” She pointed. “We left it in the back for safekeeping.”
I nodded my thanks and climbed the riser. After a quick look behind the side curtain, I found Marisol’s book and sent her a quick text.
I needed to get to the post office for eBay, then over to Yellow Feather for my shift, but Jase and Alyssa were in the middle of a high-stakes scene between Benedick and Beatrice. I gave myself a few moments to watch the dialogue I loved come alive, feeling the tension and suppressed emotion. Mrs. Howard’s words replayed in my mind, but I still reached the same conclusion.
No. My world was already too much of a stage, twenty-four hours a day. Enough of a real-life drama with an overstuffed set.
* * *
With the bliss of Mr. Winston away on errands, I locked up, hung a Be Right Back sign on the door, and toted three letters across University Avenue. The last two numbers in our address were the same as Mid-City Legal’s, just reversed. Simple mistake by our mail carrier.
Today was my first time pushing through the center’s dark green door. Dropped acoustic ceilings made the space seem more like a stuffy, cramped shoe box than a waiting room. Fake potted plants brushed against buttermilk-white walls. Rows of fluorescent light tubes jiggled and buzzed, shrinking me like a hamster in a too-bright cage. Sounds of hammering and classic rock music drifted through a temporary plastic construction barrier, echoing down the short, dim hallway.
I marched up to the reception counter, but found it unmanned. I was about to leave the letters when a female voice called from the rear, “Hold on, please. Be right with you.”
They likely had a video camera. Wise. And I had a few moments to wait, so their mail would stay secure—also wise, from what Asher told me about this place. From my spot, I could still watch Yellow Feather’s front door.
“Sorry about that.” A curvy blonde with a deep tan and overgrown roots emerged, wearing a black floral wrap dress. Her name plate read Hannah. “It’s never this quiet in here, so I was tidying up the supply closet. I don’t recall any appointments—”
“Oh, no, I’m not a client,” I said, and handed her the mail. “I work across the street and we got these by mistake.”
“Thanks. At the bookstore? Asher likes visiting over there.” Hannah wrinkled her nose and arced one hand. “I’m sure you can tell why.”
The used books. The quiet. Mr. Winston’s comfortable chairs. No other reason.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, it’s cozy.” I turned to leave, but stopped, noticing a little girl just down the hallway. She sat alone on a narrow bench, holding a stuffed bear and a snack bag. Her skinny legs swung back and forth to the driving beat of the music. I looked back at Hannah, brows furrowed in a silent question.
“Her name’s Olivia,” Hannah explained. “She’s only six and she’s here a lot. Her mom is with an attorney, but I can’t say anything other than it’s a sensitive situation. I usually bring her paper and my highlighters.”
My attention strayed back to the Feather, but my heart latched on to the child with golden, light brown skin and a tight ponytail trailing brown ringlets. She wore a cheery yellow sundress, but her features slumped with shadows. She looked as bored as this place felt.
“Would it be okay if I said hello?” I asked. “Just for a couple of minutes?”
Hannah considered, then said, “I don’t see any harm.”
I approached cautiously, but didn’t sit. Olivia popped a cheese cracker into her mouth and eyed me warily.
I smiled down at her. “Hi, I’m Darcy. Hannah said your name’s Olivia?”
Hearing the two familiar names, Olivia relaxed her shoulders. She nodded and hugged the fuzzy bear to her chest.
I leaned in. “I bet this place is really boring. If you want, I know a story you might like?”
The hammering in the back stopped. “But you don’t have any books,” Olivia said.
I sat on the bench, still eyeing the bookstore through the front window. “I have all kinds of books, right here.” I tapped my head. “Have you ever heard the story of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble?”
Olivia shook her head.
“Well, it’s one of my favorites. I work at that bookstore across the street, and we have a copy with pictures. But what you can do now is listen to the words and imagine the pictures in your mind.”
She ate another cracker and nodded.
I recited the whole story for long minutes, watching Olivia imagine her way through the text, a smile tickling the corners of her bow-shaped mouth. When I reached the end, clapping filled the room, but not from Olivia. I turned; Asher stood behind us, midway down the hall. Warmth poured into my head, under my cheeks. How long had he been standing there?
I jumped up, nodding once at Asher. “I need to get back to the shop. It was nice to meet you, Olivia.”
“Bye, Darcy,” she said with a wave.
Asher caught up with me. “Hey, I was just heading your way for my break.”
He guided us into late afternoon and a California-cloudless sky. S
unlight streamed, bouncing between metal window frames and car windows. I shielded my eyes and slowed my natural gait to match Asher’s as we crossed University and entered the bookstore.
Today, the shop smelled less of paper and more like pungent molecules of lemon wood polish. And maybe so did I, since my earlier Darcy-Do list had included a solid hour of dusting and conditioning Mr. Winston’s beloved antique credenzas and tables.
I expected Asher to take his usual break time seat on the burgundy club chair, but he didn’t. He didn’t hit the used books corner, either. When he followed me to the cashier counter, I noticed the other thing he wasn’t doing.
“What about your tea?” I asked.
Asher clasped his hands and leaned the entire top half of his frame on my counter. My space. “I didn’t feel like stopping today.”
“Didn’t the doctor suggest drinking herbal tea daily?”
“I’ll drink some later.”
“It’s only a block. You could run over and...”
He shook his head. I tracked a swallow down the length of his neck. “Why are you talking about tea and ignoring the gigantic elephant you left back at Mid-City?”
“Huh?” is all I said, and even that came out half-voiced and fully squeaky.
“Darcy, what was that back there?”
“You mean with Olivia?”
“I mean, how you happen to possess an entire picture book inside your head?”
I shrugged. “I have a lot of books, or book parts, in my head.”
“Not like most of humanity does. Now it all fits,” he mused around a hint of smile. “What Bryn was talking about at the party. Way more than just a huge vocabulary.”
It felt like he was looking right into me. Nerves fluttered like moth wings beneath my skin. I tried to exhale them away.
“So I can read words ten times faster than you can,” he said. “But you never forget the words you read?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I don’t have a true photographic memory. I’ve just...uh, spent a lot of time reading.” A lot, a lot. “And my mind holds on to certain parts of text that affect me. Like, emotionally. My brain kind of takes pictures for me to look at later. I can’t explain how. Also, if I have to memorize text, I can do that easily and quickly.” I shifted my eyes toward the children’s section. “My mom used to read me Sylvester and the Magic Pebble a lot.” Until she didn’t.
The Library of Lost Things Page 10
