The Holiday Switch

by Tif Marcelo

  My heart leaps. I have never seen this many people in front of my shelves at any given time. At most, one, maybe two people are drawn to this corner space.

  Right now, it really does look so pretty.

  This was the library’s goal. This is Tinsel and Tropes’s goal. To bring people together with books.

  But I spot the spine of a travel book next to a novel. A mystery next to a romance. All of the books are mixed together. Classics with travel, fiction with nonfiction, children’s with adults.

  KC’s words echo in my mind: Just breathe.

  “Surprise!” Teddy appears at my side, both hands on his hips and a satisfied, proud smile on his face.

  I, on the other hand, am frozen in place. “You did this?”

  “Yep. It was slow this morning, and so I thought why not? It’s such a good look.”

  “That is definitely a look. But.” Slowly, my reaction forms under my skin—it’s frustration. Anger. But customers and staff are milling about; I can’t blow up. With the steadiest voice I can muster, I say, “It’s all wrong. And you did it without asking me.”

  “I…I mean, yeah, it’s not alphabetical or by genre. But does that make it wrong? Look how many people like it. I thought you would too.” His tone is hopeful—it is quite the opposite of his smugness at Scrooge’s.

  He’s right; these people do love it.

  He thinks he’s helping me.

  But has he forgotten? He knows about my blog and he’s holding it against me to protect his own secret. Now he’s trying to encroach on my space.

  I take a deep breath and look away. To a T-shirt display that’s half empty. And to the box of lights sitting next to the registers—all tasks on Ms. Velasco’s to-do list. “You should be focusing on your own work, your own issues, not mine.”

  His eyes flash, understanding that I’m talking about more than these shelves. “Geesh. I’m sorry. I’ll fix it back,” he says quickly, leaning in as if we’re in cahoots. “I was checking out all the book bloggers on Instagram and so many of them had rainbow spines and—”

  “Shhh,” I snap, and look around for anyone within hearing distance. Doesn’t he know what it means to keep a secret? “Forget about it. I’ll fix it back.” Then, despite Teddy’s hurt expression—and why should I even care that he’s hurt—I spin on my heel and put space between me and him, before I can say anything else I might regret.

  * * *

  During the first half of my shift with Teddy, while I’m still brooding over the rainbow bookshelves, I try to instruct him on how to sort the hoodies against the back wall (customers prefer it when we sort by size rather than by color) and the importance of playing the movie playlist over the surround sound versus today’s popular music (we want customers to buy the CD from us). All to a myriad of Teddy’s objections.

  For the most part I’m able to keep my frustrations in check. Through gritted teeth, I dig deep to unearth my holiday cheer that Teddy somehow smothers whenever he is around.

  That is, until I see him rolling the T-shirts instead of using the T-shirt folder as instructed—and I turn into the Abominable Snowman. As soon as there are no more customers at the register, I stalk toward him with a roar building in my chest.

  “Let me guess, you have a problem with how I’m doing my job,” he says before I’m able to speak. “And you want me to use the T-shirt folder. But these T-shirts are on sale, and I’ve been back and forth twice today to stock it. Why not fit more by rolling a few and stacking them up?” He finishes what looks like a pyramid of T-shirts and presents it like a prize. “Voilà.”

  It’s a good idea. I know it’s a good idea. But Teddy neither asked nor did he communicate these changes to me or anyone else in the gift shop. Again. “Teddy, the way to a customer’s heart is through their eyes. And rolling the T-shirts makes them look like they’re only good enough to camp in. You can’t even see the graphic on the shirt.” I hold out the shirt-folding contraption to him.

  Two hours. A short two hours left in this shift, and then I can go home and tunnel into a book that will be an escape portal from these last couple of days.

  His expression hardens. “Seriously?”

  “Would it kill you?”

  “Would it hurt to try something new? I thought for sure you would be open to some creativity around here. The lists, the display. The library. Why isn’t there any give?”

  The question has too many layers to unpack. Where should I start? Because I’m simply enforcing the rules? That maybe, if it’s good enough, then don’t fix it? And who is he to make changes in the first place?

  But I don’t want to argue. I don’t have the space to argue. I can barely even wrap my mind around our conversation at Scrooge’s. So, instead, I shake the T-shirt folder in front of his face. “Please, use it.” I glance back at the register, where triplet girls have approached, each with the Inn’s signature ornament—a glass book. “Take it.”

  Finally, with a quiet and protracted sigh, he gently accepts the contraption.

  “Thank you. After you’re done here, we have a couple of things to do for the New Year’s Eve event. Ms. Velasco bought white Christmas trees to place at every corner of the shop. We’ll need to put all four up, along with lights.” I step away. Behind me, Teddy mumbles something indiscernible.

  I turn around, raise my eyebrows at him.

  He lifts his hands up, as if innocent. But by the look on his face, I can bet what he said wasn’t innocent at all.

  * * *

  At my and Teddy’s assigned break, I rush ahead of him to the break room so I can grab my book and coat for alone time outside.

  I kept it together most of the shift. After our T-shirt non-argument, which I won, we kept out of each other’s way. He’s gotten the hang of most tasks at the register, which gave me the opportunity to brainstorm my blog post for Menorah Mayhem while putting up two of the white trees.

  I mess with the lock of the locker and pull my backpack out. When I turn, Teddy is walking in, and he raises a finger and opens his mouth to speak, but I brush past him. “Not in the mood, Teddy.”

  I won’t let him occupy every bit of my life. It’s bad enough I have to worry about my secret getting out.

  Except by the time I settle into my chair, it starts to snow and flakes are sticking to my screen. I shut my laptop and, despite the cold, pull out my next read, the second book in the Hanukkah Hijinks cozy mystery series.

  Diving into a book, even for ten minutes, usually resets my day. Not only does reading calm me, but oftentimes books put things in perspective. Stories remind me that there’s more to my surroundings. Reading helped me through those out-of-control feelings when Dad lost his shop. I never leaned on my free library more than the time when we couldn’t afford books.

  But this time, when I look at the book in my lap, all I can think of is what Teddy said in the gift shop.

  I thought for sure you would be open to some creativity around here.

  I am creative, aren’t I? I write. I work on my blog design and change it up as much as I can. And I read. I read so much and get so immersed in stories that I sometimes think of characters as people—I hurt when they’re in pain and swoon when they fall in love.

  But the world isn’t made of creativity alone. There are rules, after all. And do I have to be creative all the time? Can’t I just enjoy this…work…separately?

  Finally, who is he to judge any part of me, my creativity, my secrets, when he has his own issues to sort through? I didn’t ask to be roped into his family drama. And now, somehow, I’m inextricably linked to Teddy when all I ever really wanted were more work hours.

  Anger pulses through me. It’s what I’ve been repressing throughout my shift.

  I’m on my feet before I can register my body moving. While I still have to protect my own secret, it doesn’t mean I should have
to keep silent about my discontent. I might have not objected after he trapped me into his secret, but I don’t have to make things easy for him. I throw the door open and step in, and the whoosh of warm air is a catalyst to my rising temper. When I enter the break room, I’m ready to tell Teddy off.

  I’m also ready to inform Ms. Velasco that her worst employee is her nephew.

  Teddy’s sitting at the table wearing earbuds, and his gaze lifts from his phone screen to me. He straightens and takes out an earbud. “Listen, Lila. Honestly, I didn’t mean to tick you off this badly.”

  “I…what?” I reel back, stunned. I was all prepared to let him know where he could stick his candy cane.

  “I feel like I need to explain more about…stuff.” He lowers his voice, his gaze over my shoulder, as another Bookworm Inn employee passes by. “Are you free tomorrow night, by chance?”

  “What more do you have to explain?”

  “About climb—”

  Ms. Velasco’s voice filters through the hallway, and she appears at the break room doorway, head thrown back in a cackle, with a person I don’t recognize.

  “Hi, you two,” she says in a singsong voice. “This is Kira Mahoney. She’s the PR rep for Jonah Johanson.”

  I do a double take. Someone from Jonah Johanson’s camp? “Oh my gosh. Nice to meet you.”

  Kira is a Black woman and is wearing a ribbed turtleneck with a puffy vest. Her short hair is trimmed into a layered pixie cut and iridescent sunglasses perch on her head. She, too, has a huge smile on her face.

  Suddenly everyone’s smiling, even Teddy.

  “Kira was just in town…,” Ms. Velasco starts.

  Kira continues. “I was driving through. My family lives in Rochester, and I thought, why not stop by and do a once-over of the place to prep for Jonah? Lou and I have been in communication for a while now.”

  “Months,” Ms. Velasco says.

  “Four months.” She glances at Ms. Velasco with a grin. “I’m glad we finally get to meet.”

  “Thank you for writing me back.”

  “Months, huh?” Teddy asks, right eyebrow wiggling. I see what Teddy sees: Ms. Velasco and Kira are standing close, and the darkened cheeks that I thought were from the cold look more like blushes.

  It’s a scene out of a rom-com, and it hits me like one. A giggle threatens to burst from my lips.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to introduce you all. We have a lot of things to cover. I’m showing Kira the grounds and the conference room,” Ms. Velasco says. “Have a good break, you two.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say as Ms. V and Kira exit, already deep in chatter.

  I bite my lip and turn to Teddy. He’s beaming. “Do you think?” I ask.

  “I don’t know?” he says. “It’s been forever since…”

  I’ve seen her with anyone.

  His gaze drops to the table just as I complete the sentence in my head. Ms. Velasco is mostly business, so sometimes I forget that she lives alone. She had a partner years ago, though their relationship ended by the time I started working at the Inn.

  “Well, I hope that she…” Except I don’t really know what I want to say. Ms. Velasco is the epitome of the kind of person I want to be—ambitious, successful.

  I’ve always thought that work makes a person. That working solves it all.

  But does it?

  Once again, my head is jumbled.

  My phone alarm rings in my back pocket, and it refocuses me.

  “Our break’s up,” I say, thankful for the distraction. I don’t want to spend any more time with a person who’s threatening to expose Tinsel and Tropes. I stuff my backpack into the locker and head to the front.

  TINSEL AND TROPES

  A HOLIDAY BOOK BLOG

  Title: Menorah Mayhem (Hanukkah Hijinks #1) by Liz Zimmerman

  CATEGORY/GENRE: COZY MYSTERY

  Is it really a secret if other people know?

  Set during Hanukkah, Menorah Mayhem is about a protagonist with a secret and an organization with a secret, all surrounding the mysterious disappearance of the town’s menorah sculpture. Told from the detective’s point of view, the book soon reveals that most everyone in the town was somewhat involved.

  It begs the discussion: What classifies a secret? So, I looked up the definition. According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, a secret means “kept from knowledge or view.”

  In this case, if everyone knows the secret, then where’s the conflict? And why would a reader want to hang on until the very last page when everyone seems to be in on it?

  Here’s your answer: Because it’s so well written! This book shows that while everyone’s keeping the same secret, their motivations for keeping the secret set them apart. It’s their motivations that conflict! And the tropes! Kidnapping, blackmail, and revenge are tropes that usually belong in a dark book. But cozy mysteries can balance between crime and humor. In this story, with Hanukkah added to the mix, this book skews more toward fun and celebration. I can’t say much more than that without spoiling it.

  One thing I will reveal: This book ends in a cliffhanger. If you are anti-cliffhanger like I am (see my About Me page here), then I am doing you a huge favor by warning you ahead of time.

  Cliffhangers should be banned.

  Still, you should read it. I certainly am now clamoring for the second book.

  Are you pro- or anti-cliffhanger?

  Pros: I really like the protagonist, and the cover is so pretty!

  Cons: Did we really need two hundred and fifty pages if it all ends in a cliffhanger? Cliffhangers shouldn’t be allowed.

  Recommended for: Those who are tolerant of cliffhangers.

  Rating: 4 stars!

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 22

  I wake up to about twenty-five comments on my last blog post, all on my lock screen notifications. After scanning them through bleary eyes and discerning they’re the usual suspects, I decide to respond to them after school. I never like to rush through responding to comments—bookworms always have such great things to say.

  I crawl out of bed, careful to avoid treading on Irene, who had another one of her vivid dreams. She can’t fall back asleep after she wakes up from one, and at least once a month she drags her blanket and pillow next to me, first on the bed when we were much younger and smaller, and now on the floor.

  Today is the last half day before school ends for winter break. I cannot wait to be able to sleep in.

  I pad into the kitchen, where I turn on lights and turn off the exhaust vent light—it’s our night-light for anyone who wanders into the kitchen—and make my oatmeal, start the coffee, and bring out cups for my parents, an automatic thing. It’s one of those lessons they taught us: bring out yours, bring out others’ too. Mom should be walking into the house soon from her night shift, and Dad’s probably in the shower.

  Sure enough, moments later, Mom pushes open the back door. The cold wafts in with her bright smile. “Iha. How sweet!” she says as she kicks off her clogs. After hanging her coat, she steps into the laundry room to get into her robe, which she keeps right at the entrance, and washes her hands so she doesn’t bring in germs from the hospital.

  “And timely.” Dad enters, smelling like his cologne, and kisses me on the forehead. His chin is smooth, unlike at the end of the day, when his five-o’clock shadow is as rough as pine tree needles. He’s wearing his That’s A Wrap polo, with a name tag lanyard blinged out with pins.

  “You’re tired.” Mom’s turn to kiss me, this time on the cheek. She examines me like I’m one of her patients. “You’re working too hard. What time did you come home last night?”

  “The Aguilers didn’t get back from their date until eleven. So I didn’t come home until almost midnight, and I couldn’t sleep until about one.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Aguiler are what yo
u call the young couple type. They have three kids under the age of five—Micah, Dustin, and Penelope—who I babysit about every two weeks. When the two go out, it’s not just for a quiet dinner—they party like they’d been caged animals in a zoo. They come home sweaty and red-faced, and the PDA is over the top and embarrassing. Who wants to see the people you work for nuzzle into one another? (Not me!) It’s so different from how my parents are, who are chaste in public and even around us kids.

  They love their privacy in all forms.

  “Thought I heard you typing on your computer late last night,” Dad says pointedly. He’s a light sleeper.

  I grit my teeth and brace myself for the next question.

  Mom holds her coffee cup to her lips. “I hope you didn’t spend all that time online. I don’t like it when you…what do they call it? Doomscroll?”

  “I wasn’t doomscrolling, Mom, and no, I wasn’t online.”

  Because technically I was working on my blog post offline before I cut and pasted it to the dashboard.

  “We know you’re eighteen, but—”

  “Mom. Please.” We’ve had this conversation countless times before, and it’s only seven in the morning.

  “Psht. Don’t talk back to your mother.” Dad takes a sip of his coffee with a grin.

  It’s the role we play. Mom lays down the law, and Dad pretends to back her up, when he’s really just trying to stay out of trouble himself.

  I mumble, “I’m sorry.” Because I am sorry that I got caught. Also, by apologizing, she’ll drop the subject. When I’m working my normal hours at the Inn, I can reliably write up my blog posts at the gift shop. But now my schedule’s a mess with Teddy’s training plugged in haphazardly. So, my room has to be it.

  Thinking about Teddy reminds me of his weird request, that we should get together to talk. Whatever that means.

  I feel a gentle pressure against my ear. Mom is pulling at my bedhead strands of hair and tucking them back. “I’m sorry. It’s just that we worry. It doesn’t mean we don’t trust you. It’s because I want to protect you. And online…it’s messy out there.”