by Tif Marcelo
Gritting my teeth, I round the corner and come upon Teddy. He’s chatting with a customer in the free library, a couple of books under his arm, like time is as plentiful as snowflakes.
How long has he been standing here?
And in my area?
Okay, so the free library isn’t my area, technically—I’m not paying rent—but I am in charge of it. And the unstated rule is that I’m the one who reshelves and stocks the books.
An unknown force draws me to Teddy and this customer, though neither look up at my approach. On the way, I pick up discarded items on the floor and almost trip on a stuffed animal of Dot, Estelle Mendoza’s cat and the film’s prankster.
By the time I reach their side, the heat of my impatience has shown itself through beads of sweat at the nape of my neck.
“Teddy.” My voice is sharp, and I glance quickly at the customer, trying to keep my professional face in place. “Hello there.”
“What’s up?” Teddy’s voice is all relaxation and ease.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Uh, okay. It’s great to meet you.” He nods at the woman, who has brown hair and skin, with a bandana tied like a headband around her head. She doesn’t look familiar to me, but my delight at a new library visitor is dampened by my frustration at Teddy’s inability to follow directions.
“Great to meet you. Can’t wait to see what you send.”
Send what? I frown. “Do you see what I have in my arms?” I ask him once the woman walks away.
“Yes. Looks like a bunch of touristy junk.”
I level him with a glare. “Not junk—product. You were supposed to be keeping the floor maintained. Part of the job is picking up and putting things where they belong.” I push the items into his arms.
“I was talking to a customer,” he says belligerently.
“Library customers aren’t paying customers. Gift shop customers are. And gift shop customers appreciate pretty displays.” I gesture to the sad pile of corgi bobbleheads, which Teddy moved into a different corner.
“Those were in a precarious place anyway. If I build it back up, someone else is bound to run into it.”
I open my mouth to rebut, then shut it again. He’s right—I actually said the same thing to Ms. Velasco when the shipment came in last week. But that isn’t the point. “Just please, set it up like it was before.”
He shrugs. “Fine.”
“Great,” I grumble, and move past him to the books in the library that are clearly out of place from the day’s rush of customers. I smile at this auspicious sign—people have been in my library! So I reshuffle them into their proper spots, wiping away the last bit of dust on the shelves.
A bright purple cover catches my attention as I straighten the books on the freestanding table, a catchall for discarded books or new donations. I fish it out—it’s unfamiliar, titled The Book of Holiday Surprises. The cover shows a girl holding books close to her chest, surrounded by a weird glow, with lockers behind her that are decorated with wrapping paper.
It was published five years ago, and yet it’s the first I’m hearing of it. I scan the first paragraph, consuming words like the Inn’s snowplow after a storm.
In the background—in my real life—I hear the faint jingle bells of the back door, but I mentally bat away the distraction.
A shadow darkens the page, and I raise my head. It’s Ms. Velasco.
The sounds of the gift shop rush back, and suddenly it’s so bright. “Oh, hi.” I straighten, embarrassment and heat rushing through me, an explanation at the tip of my tongue. I feel like my twin brothers after I find wrappers of chocolate-covered marshmallows on their bed. “Um…I was just putting things away.”
“Oh, what? Of course.” Ms. Velasco’s expression is harried. Her gaze darts around the room, as if taking in the status of the gift shop in one swoop. “Lila, thank you for stepping in here like you did.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“You did a great job training Teddy. It looks like he’s getting the hang of it.”
Behind her, Teddy is building the bobblehead display on the windowsill—not where it’s supposed to be.
I press my lips together to keep the objection from flowing from my lips. This is Teddy learning? It’s more like him objecting and resisting. “Thank you…yeah…though I’m not sure he did the same kind of retail? He could use a few more days of training.”
“You’re right. And this is our busiest season, which means that we need our best on the floor.”
“Exactly.” I nod.
“Like you.”
My words fly out before I can stop them. “Yes, like me! Any shift. Any day.”
This is my in. And Teddy is out.
A grin blossoms on her face. “I’m glad you agree, because while I was in the middle of the plumbing emergency, I was thinking…since you were looking for more hours, how do you feel about training Teddy? You’d simply jump into three of his shifts and guide him through my checklists. He starts next weekend, in fact—just in time for your winter break. That would free me up for other duties, which I desperately need to tend to.”
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. While the hours would be great, it’s not worth the headache if all Teddy does is fight me.
Ms. Velasco seems to clock my hesitation. “Just…think about it, okay? You can let me know at our staff meeting next week. I think it’s a good fit. You’re a natural leader.”
“I’ll…” My voice croaks, so I try again. “I’ll think about it.”
The last of the customers in the gift shop shuffle toward the register, the sound capturing our attention. At fifteen minutes to nine, closing time, only a handful are left in the shop.
“Why don’t I take registers with Teddy and you take the floor,” Ms. Velasco says quickly. “Start the cleanup for closing?”
I nod, eager for space. Starting from one end of the store, which is the worse for wear, I fold T-shirts and set them back on tabletops, clean display cases, and return products to their rightful places. At the register, Ms. Velasco assists Teddy. For her, he smiles and feigns interest. He nods without a question when she corrects him.
So it’s just to me that he’s such a jerk.
I end my shift in the library area. As I clock out, Ms. Velasco hands me the book with the purple cover with a pensive smile.
It’s a small extra reward for the night with Teddy, but I’ll take it.
My sister, Irene, is starfished on my bed, my comforter bunched around her, when I arrive home. She’s got one of my graphic novels held above her, so engrossed that she doesn’t notice when I pad inside.
Not until I swipe it from up top.
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself.” I raise an eyebrow, which gets her moving.
She scrambles to sit up and crosses her legs under her. She has a sheepish look on her face, so I toss back the graphic novel. Enabler, I am.
“I’ll remake your bed, promise.” Under her breath, she adds, “Even if it makes no sense, since you’re going to sleep soon.”
I toss my keys onto my desk; I notice that my laptop, though closed, is not where I left it earlier today. “Irene. You know my rule…”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mess with your things.”
I spin and lean on the desk. “Like my laptop.”
“I was just looking stuff up.”
“Does Mom know?” I narrow my eyes. My parents are still sticklers for internet rules: school research only, no social media, and supervision while watching YouTube. In Mom’s words, I trust you, but not the Internet. And she means it with a capital I, as if it were a specific being. Though years have passed since the tree branch incident, the HelpFund, and the harassment, they are far from forgetting it, even if the rest of the world has moved on.
As the ate, I’m beholden to remind Irene of these rules. Mom’s fears aren’t superficial—I, of all my siblings, remember what they went through the most.
Even if I carry the simmering guilt that I’ve been breaking their rules for a couple of years now.
“Yes,” she hisses. “I have a project for school due.”
“All right. But next time, ask me.” I gesture at my sister’s phone, facedown on my bed. “There is such a thing as texting.”
“I get it already,” she huffs, cheeks blown out so they’re taut.
It takes all of me to stifle my laughter. Even if I tried, I can’t stay angry for long, not at her. Sisterhood is a constant push and pull. Truth is, despite our outward differences—that her hair is markedly curly and mine is straight, that she will be far taller than me once she’s through puberty, and that no, she never makes her bed—on the inside we’re so much alike.
We planners; we’re both curious. She loves books—and book people are really the best people.
“What were you looking up?” I relent, sitting on my chair.
“Paint colors.”
Inside, I beam at my inadvertent catch. “Sooo…not for a school project.”
“I mean.” Her cheeks turn a darker shade and her eyes dart all around me like she’s tracking fireflies. She starts to mumble. “Well, first what I did was—”
Her reaction is enough of a lesson, so I take her out of her misery. “For paper or walls?”
“Ha…” She breathes out, chest caving in with relief. (Note to self: Tell Carm about this later.) “Walls. For when you leave.”
“Geez.” I cross my arms. Okay, so maybe I should have let her suffer more. “You’re already calling it your room when I haven’t even left.”
“You have the room with the biggest closet. It’s not personal.”
I snort out a laugh. “It’s not?”
“Nope. It’s all about space planning.” She throws her arms out wide. “Mommy told me that this is a ten-by-ten room. That’s one hundred square feet I get to do anything I want with.”
She explains her plans, and my gaze migrates around the room to all of my personal touches. The pictures taped up above my bedside dresser. The tapestry hanging on the wall behind my bed, because Dad is convinced anything heavier than that is bad luck. The rosary Mom tacked up above my light switch. My room isn’t a Wayfair catalog. My stuff doesn’t match; my decor is a mesh of my various interests. But it’s full of things I love.
My tummy drops at the thought that this room won’t be mine for much longer, though I try to push it away. It’s silly, because I’ll be going someplace new and exciting, a blank space, with so much opportunity. But there’s this niggle of something I can’t explain. That all of this effort, this sense of ownership, can be erased with a coat of paint.
Suddenly I see Teddy in my mind and think of his abrupt invasion in my life. No, he isn’t like Irene, who’s been waiting for her turn the last few years. Teddy doesn’t seem happy to be here. He should feel lucky that he found a job in Holly’s number one tourist destination.
Irritation rises up inside me, and I wait until Irene pauses in her description of her plans for the room. “Whew. These are great ideas. But I’m ready for some shut-eye,” I say.
“I wasn’t even done with my sentence.” Her eyes narrow, and she slides off my bed. “Something’s up with you.”
“Do you mean besides having a little sister that can’t take a hint?” I spin her by the shoulders, shuffle her out of my bedroom despite her objections, and close the door.
The silence that descends is both a relief and a bummer.
Only one thing can take me out of this funk. I pull out The Book of Holiday Surprises from my backpack, settle myself onto my bed, and turn to the second page, where I left off at the gift shop.
My unease dissipates as I dive into the story. Teddy, college fund money, Irene redecorating—all of it fades. My body relaxes; I breathe easier. I let the story scoop me into a magical sleigh and take me away, into the book’s setting.
Three hours later, at almost two in the morning, in a jumble of emotions, I finish. I tuck myself into my bed and look up at the ceiling, at the singular dot of a remnant glow-in-the-dark star I put up my freshman year. My vision blurs; my eyes shut.
But sometimes, with a book that takes me in so quickly and doesn’t let go, I’m left with a feeling of emptiness. It’s like a low-level mourning that I’ve lost the experience of reading the book for the first time.
This is a book hangover.
I switch positions in bed, flip the pillow to the cool side, push the covers down to my feet, and then pull them all the way up toward my head. I look up at the ceiling once more.
It’s a sign.
I have to write about this book.
But The Book of Holiday Surprises is still nagging at me, not only because I know I have to post about it, but because of its title.
Holiday surprises.
I sit up in bed with a lightbulb moment.
Surprises. For my readers. I can do a giveaway of my most favorite books to start. And I’m going to write up lists of books of certain tropes. Like Top Ten Books About the Chosen One, or similar.
That’s how I’m going to step up the content this year.
I try to discern the sounds around me. Our house is cozy; the walls are thin, and Dad’s snoring stands out over the low roar of the furnace. Tiptoeing to my door, I peek out for signs of Irene’s sleepwalking, but it’s pitch-black except for the blinking tree lights that create starlike projections on the wall and reflect the ornament boxes that were pushed aside to be put away tomorrow. Mom is at work until morning.
All clear.
A grin makes its way to my lips. I plop into my desk chair and flip my laptop screen up. When it wakes, Ariana Grande’s trilling voice amplifies through the speakers—my sister’s playlist—and I all but pound on my keyboard to quiet it. My heart races. This is why I do most of my blog posts at the Inn; in this house, my privacy is never guaranteed.
I take a deep breath, turn down the screen’s glow, then head to my blog dashboard and type in my credentials.
The glimmering Tinsel and Tropes’s blog header, illustrated by Carm, greets me. I click on the New Post button.
TINSEL AND TROPES
A HOLIDAY BOOK BLOG
Title: The Book of Holiday Surprises by T.A. Jones
CATEGORY/GENRE: YA CONTEMPORARY WITH PARANORMAL ELEMENTS
*NOTE: read on after this post for a special announcement from Tinsel and Tropes*
When is the right time to say no?
I found The Book of Holiday Surprises in a pile of donated books, and it gripped me from the first page. You all know that I tend to judge and read books from the first paragraph rather than the back cover copy, and at a time when I wanted to get the heck out of reality, this book gave an escape.
Yes, it’s been that kind of a week.
But back to the book and our protagonist.
Magic seems like a gift at a time when our protagonist needs it most. She just moved to a new school before the holidays (now that is a lump of coal!), and her fellow classmates are predictably unwelcoming.
Later on, we find out that her classmates aren’t who they portray themselves to be. That’s right—this won’t be a spoiler if you read the back copy—it is, in fact, a school filled with kids who have supernatural abilities, and in her discovery of her own powers through a book she finds in the locker she’s been assigned, she uncovers their plot to overthrow the human world. And let’s just say, that while the school breaks for the holidays, the characters in this story are far from lazing around eating cookies.
Told you it was good.
On top of that, we’ve got the villain’s brother, who rejects magic out of principle and therefore is hesitant of our pr
otagonist. She’s wary of him because of his lineage and…
Yes, dear readers, my favorite trope: slow burn, and, on that note, opposites attract (read it and you will agree), in addition to The Chosen One.
It works out in the end. That’s not a spoiler! The back cover already spills this. But there’s a lot of drama in this book’s journey, and heartache too. The story is well written, the plotting is tight, but it does make me question if our protagonist should have chosen magic. Would it have been better for her to have lived a simple life? To have averted her attention, to look elsewhere for answers or fulfillment?
Then again, she wouldn’t have met a certain someone, and she wouldn’t have discovered how powerful she truly is.
So, does that make all the pain worth it?
Choices are never easy to make; there usually seems to be an easy, safe route and a riskier choice. One that involves stretching yourself. Probably reaching for areas unknown. The payoff? It could be great. But it’s not without its bumps and bruises.
What would you choose?
Pros: While this is a romance, there is so much friendship in this book too. And self-discovery, which hit the spot for me.
Cons: Could have been a little longer. I really liked the villain in this story. TBH, I hope that the next story is the villain’s!
Recommended for: Anyone looking for an escape. Once you start…just clear your calendar!
Rating: 4.75 stars
***
Note from Tinsel and Tropes: Thank you for reading to the end of this post! A heads-up that our blog’s second anniversary is on January 2. Expect a special surprise!
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 18
“Someone’s moving slow this morning.”
I recognize my coworker’s voice without looking, and as I fill my Styrofoam cup with coffee, I quip back, “Someone is almost late.”
