Jake’s response: raising his eyebrows.
I’m about to bite back when a young voice cuts in. “Um, excuse me, miss.” I look to my left and see a young girl around eight wearing lime-green overalls. I ignore Jake and his attitude and his jawline and kneel down so I’m the same height as the girl. “Hi there!” I stick out my hand. “I’m Shoshanna. What’s your name?”
She shakes my hand with a funny grin, then shyly says, “Marissa.”
“Marissa! That’s an awesome name.” I glance back at Jake. “Isn’t Marissa an awesome name?”
I make direct eye contact with his stupid-beautiful brown eyes. A challenge. I bet he can’t handle a single customer interaction, especially with a kid. But he surprises me by smiling, and it’s a ridiculously good smile that makes me blush, and thank hashem he’s looking at Marissa and not me so he doesn’t notice. “Definitely an awesome name,” Jake agrees. He gives her a thumbs-up, and she giggles and gives him a thumbs-up back. Well, fine. Whatever.
“How can we help you today?” I ask Marissa.
“I want a book,” she says. “But I’ve read all the Princess Doctor ones.”
I smile approvingly. Princess Doctor is a series of early readers books about the Princess of Wynthrop, who gets a medical degree and goes around the world saving people. She’s a total badass. “Those are great books! Some of my favorites! You know, I can think of a few other stories you might like.…”
Marissa trails me around the children’s section as I pluck half a dozen books off the shelves for her. The stack is getting precarious in her small arms when her dad turns a corner and calls her name. She rushes over to him, and he looks aghast at the large pile of books clutched to her chest, but he nods and takes them up to the register. I give a satisfied sigh as they walk away. I seriously have the best job.
Then Jake asks, “So Princess Doctor is one of your favorite books, huh?”
I turn to him and narrow my eyes. “Your tone is quite judgmental. Your face is quite judgmental too.” His smile is all amused, and now it seems like he’s about to laugh. Jerk. “Princess Doctor is a fantastic series and feminist as heck. You’re missing out.” I cross my arms. “Why? What do you read? Great works of lit-er-a-ture?”
“I don’t read, unless it’s for school.”
My mouth drops. “I’m sorry, what? You don’t read?”
“Nope.”
I can hear my voice getting louder. “Then why do you work at a bookstore?”
He speaks the next words slowly and laced with condescension thicker than the philosophy thief. “Because I needed a job, Shoshanna.”
“Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t say my name like that.”
The dots are starting to connect. No wonder this guy is standoffish. He doesn’t read books. He’s not even one of us. And he’s talking down to me, treating me like I’m silly and naive probably because I like kids’ books and chipmunk-print dresses. And it’s even worse than that guy in the philosophy section because Jake works here. And here, Once Upon, is my second home, a retreat from the rest of the world, a bubble of comfort and security—an escape from closed doors and fighting parents.
And now, Jake threatens to destroy it.
My fingers twitch, automatically grabbing the walkie-talkie hooked to my dress.
“What are you doing?” Jake asks.
I press the PA button. The speakers crackle.
He takes a step forward. “Seriously, what is your problem?”
“Attention,” I speak into the radio. “We have a code purple.” Jake looks murderous as my voice booms out over the store. “The new hire doesn’t read books.”
Chapter Two
Did you really just announce that over the store speakers?” Jake asks.
“Do you really not read books?”
“I read books. I read them for school.”
“Yeah, but you don’t read for fun, so what are you doing at a bookstore?”
“Working,” Jake says.
“Hey, Shosh! That was an… interesting announcement.” I spin and find Daniel, my work husband, behind me. Daniel is Black and tall, and when he ran my orientation on my first day, we bonded over our bookish enthusiasm and belief in giving people zero shade for their favorite genre, even if that genre is Loch Ness monster romances. Yes, it’s a thing. No, don’t google it.
I’ve always had a little crush on Daniel because he’s a book nerd with biceps and I’m a heterosexual girl, but he’s been in a relationship since we met, and I can’t even begrudge him for it because his girlfriend, Lola, is both the coolest and the sweetest.
“New hire?” Daniel asks.
“Yup,” I pop out the word. “Daniel, Jake. Jake, Daniel.”
“What’s up, man?” Daniel asks. He leans forward and slaps hands with Jake.
“Not much,” Jake responds.
“Where’s your name tag?”
I bite back a snicker. Okay, I fail to bite back a snicker. Jake does not look amused. “Fine,” he says, then pulls the name tag out of his pocket and pins it on.
“Love that thing.” Daniel grins. “Peeta Pettigrew. Perfect Harry Potter–Hunger Games crossover.”
“Never read them,” Jake says.
“Ah,” Daniel replies. “So the announcement was true. That’s okay. I wasn’t a reader either until like ninth grade, and now I’m double-majoring in English and screenwriting.” He pauses. “With a minor in poetry.”
“Seriously?” Jake laughs.
Daniel nods. “Seriously.”
Guilt pinches my stomach. Of course it’s okay Jake isn’t a reader. I didn’t mean it’s not okay. Not everyone reads. I only meant it’s weird that he works here and doesn’t read, when there are like a million other stores in the mall.
Suddenly, Myra descends upon us. She zips forward in her chair with intimidating speed, and then stops short in front of me. “Shoshanna,” she says, voice firm. “Radio, now.”
“Okay, but—”
“Now.”
I swallow hard and hand over the radio. Myra presses the PA button. “Attention, Once Upon employees and shoppers, Shoshanna Greenberg has lost radio privileges. You’re welcome.”
“Now how is that fair?” I ask.
“Because I’m the store owner,” she replies. Then she glances over at Jake, who looks quite smug. “I apologize, Jake. I’ll have Daniel take over your training.”
“Thanks,” Jake says.
Daniel pats him on the back. “C’mon. Let’s start with the register.”
As he leads Jake off, I raise my voice. “Et tu, Daniel?”
He laughs. “Chill out, Shosh. See you later.”
Once they’re gone, I turn back to Myra. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That probably wasn’t the most professional announcement in the world.”
“Yeah, probably not.” She eyes me. “If you want PA privileges, you’ve got to prove you’re responsible enough for them.”
“I know.” Most employees earn PA privileges after three months. It took me six. For some totally unknown reason, Myra didn’t trust me with the power.
“And for the record,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “although I love a well-read employee as much as the next person, you don’t need to be a bibliophile to stock shelves and ring up customers. It’s the holiday season, and Jake came with a great reference.”
“But what if someone asks him for a book recommendation?”
“Well, then you can help them. Farshteyt?”
“Are you using Yiddish against me?”
“You’re the one who taught it to me, mamaleh.” Myra’s teasing eyes ease the tension in my shoulders. Yeah, she still loves me. “Go take your lunch and then come back and do what you do best.”
“Enchant people with my dazzling personality?”
Myra rolls her eyes. “Sell books.”
* * *
“Over there!” I shout, pointing to a table at the back corner of the food court. “Quick!”
“Take
my tray.” Cheyenne shoves her tray into my spare hand, and as I balance both our lunches, she sprints through the packed food court, diving and diverting around shoppers with dozens of bags and preteens moving in packs. She’s almost there when a man with a double stroller barrels her way, but she spins, leaps, and slides into the chair, shoving both her arms over the table. “Goal!” she shouts.
“Success!” I cheer. With our trays, it takes much longer to thread through the crowd, but eventually I navigate the maze and join her at the table.
“I knew those rhythmic gymnastics lessons would come in handy one day,” Cheyenne says as she reaches for her food. Cheyenne has had many enthusiastic but short-lived interests including but not limited to rhythmic gymnastics, French horn, kickboxing, calligraphy, and competitive karaoke. I must go where my muse takes me, she declares. I just hope her muse never, ever returns her to fly-fishing because she convinced me to join her once, and gross, freaking gross.
Cheyenne takes a long sip of her milkshake and groans in satisfaction. “Ugh, sweet sustenance, how I needed you. I’m so tired, Shosh. I should’ve quit before the holiday season started.”
“Would your dad have allowed that?”
She pauses before saying, “Probably not.”
I love working at Once Upon, but I do also need the job, or I wouldn’t have money for gas or car insurance—or, okay, these really cute Harry Potter hairpins shaped like quills. Mama teaches art classes, and Mom is a bookkeeper for a marketing company. We’ve always had enough but not much more. Cheyenne’s parents are well-off for our area. She doesn’t need the money, but her dad wanted her to learn the value of a dollar and insisted she get a part-time job.
“At least you don’t work with your ex anymore.” I shrug. “That was awkward.”
“Yeah,” Cheyenne draws out the word while she plays with her straw. “But, the thing is, I kind of miss Anna.”
“What?” I lean forward. “This is new information. When did this happen?”
“Recently. I don’t know. I think it’s the holiday season.” Cheyenne sighs. “Plus, she was, like, a supergood kisser. Folding sweaters is somehow even more boring when you don’t have someone to kiss. Shocking, right?”
I laugh and steal one of her French fries. Cheyenne broke up with her girlfriend, Anna, two months ago. I’m not sure why. I’m not a seasoned dating expert. Technically, I’ve never dated before. And by technically, I mean I’ve never dated before. Anyway, a couple of weeks after they broke up, they got tired of making awkward eye contact over cardigan displays, so Anna left the Gap and got a job at Nordstrom, which is pretty cool because they never hire high school kids.
“Hey, y’all! What’s going on?”
I glance up and find Geraldine standing next to us, holding a tray of chips and guacamole. She’s wearing perfectly winged eyeliner and brick-red lipstick. Geraldine and I have been best friends since elementary school. We were the two nerds who always asked our teacher for extra reading assignments.
“Cheyenne’s lusting after her ex,” I fill her in. “How’s work?”
“Ooh, interesting! Scoot,” Geraldine orders. I slide over so we can both fit on my chair, one butt cheek each. “Work is hot. Really testing the limits of my waterproof mascara. Feels like I’m never going to save up enough to buy a camera.” She sighs and fans her face. “Guacamole anyone?”
“Yes, please!” I snag a chip. Geraldine works at Bo’s Burritos and is trying to save up enough to fulfill her dream of becoming a beauty YouTuber. She’s honestly destined to be a star. Even back in elementary school she had style, pinning back her tight curls in a new way each day, convincing her parents to let her get lip gloss with color. She’s a total van Gogh with a makeup brush and eye shadow palette.
“You will save up enough eventually,” I say. “And in the meantime, you can practice your artistry on me, okay?”
“Thanks, Shosh.” Geraldine grins. “I’ll take you up on that. How are things at Once Upon?”
My expression must go sour real fast.
“Holiday shoppers?” Geraldine asks.
“Someone highlight in your favorite book again?” Cheyenne asks.
“Nope,” I respond.
“What, then?” Geraldine leans toward me.
I pop a chip in my mouth and crunch hard. “Jake.”
Cheyenne narrows her eyes. “Who’s that?”
“The new Once Upon employee. I had to show him around this morning, and he’s rude as all heck.”
Geraldine and Cheyenne exchange smirks.
“What?” I ask.
“By rude…,” Geraldine says. “Do you mean he wasn’t immediately charmed by you?”
“No!” I shout. “I mean… maybe.…” I think back on our conversation. Was Jake being a jerk or was I being a bit much? Probably both. But either way, calling him out over the PA system took things too far. I should apologize when I get back to the store.
“Is he cute?” Cheyenne asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Is he, though?” Geraldine chimes in.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously, y’all? Are we not feminists?”
“Please,” Cheyenne responds. “Feminism has nothing to do with it. Now, on a scale of one to ten.”
“Fine.” I look up, as if the answer is written on the ceiling that hasn’t been cleaned since this mall was built in the eighties. “He’s an eight.” But even as I say it, his smile flashes in my mind, and my stomach gets all fluttery. Damn it. “Maybe a nine.”
Cheyenne whistles.
Geraldine crunches a chip. “Not. Bad.”
“TIMOTHY, GET DOWN!” a shouting parent turns our attention to the center of the food court, where a little boy has climbed onto a high-top counter and is chucking Lego pieces at people passing by.
Geraldine blows out a gust of air. “How many more days until Christmas?”
“Six,” I answer.
I love the holidays, with all their sparkling lights and delicious baked goods. And I really love helping people find the perfect present because it’s a wonderful feeling when you open up a gift and realize a loved one gets you. I can’t wait for Latkepalooza tonight when my moms will open their presents (carefully curated books, of course). I’m sure our festive Hanukkah celebration will resolve any petty fights.
“It’s going to be a long week,” Cheyenne says.
“But at least we’re here together,” Geraldine adds.
We glance around the chaotic mall as that reindeer song plays for the fifth time today, and then we nod in mutual commiseration, holiday soldiers prepped for retail war. I lift my cup. “L’chaim, y’all.”
They tap cups and chorus, “L’chaim.”
* * *
“That will be thirty-eight twenty-two,” I say. “Would you like a bag?”
“Yes, please,” the woman responds. I slide the three paperbacks into a bag as she pulls out her credit card, but then: “Oh my god! Hi, Amy!”
Another woman gasps and squeezes past the other people in line. “Monica! How are you? How’s Rufus?”
Monica tsks. “Not great. He hasn’t had a normal bowel movement in weeks. The veterinarian wants us to change foods again. That’s a great top, by the way.”
“T.J.Maxx,” Amy responds.
“But of course!”
“Um, miss,” I say, trying to get her attention. There’s a line a dozen people deep, and they’re all staring daggers at us. “Your card, please—”
She either ignores or doesn’t hear me. My eyes focus on the credit card cinched between her two fingers, as she waves her hand around in enthusiasm. “I love that store,” she tells her friend. “I found the greatest deal on a purse the other day. Seventy percent off. Clearance section. Total. Steal.”
“Ooh, what designer?”
“Excuse me, miss!” I say a bit more loudly. “If I could just grab your card—”
“I’m so sorry about your dog, Monica,” Amy continues.
Oy vey. The people in line ar
e shifting forward, ready to stampede if I don’t take action soon. This time I say—okay, I maybe shout, “Monica!”
She jerks toward me, looking stunned.
I clear my throat, then smile and lower my voice. “Hi, I love T.J.Maxx too! We all love a great fashion deal! But do you mind sliding your credit card my way? I can finish checking you out, and you and your friend can go chat—” Literally anywhere else. “Over there? By the lovely coffee cart?”
Monica looks startled but hands over her card.
I swipe it, then hand it back along with her bag of books and an over-the-top grin. “Happy holidays, Monica!”
“You mean Merry Christmas,” she corrects.
I grin harder. “Sure.”
After another hour on the register, someone takes over for me, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I definitely prefer working on the floor. Recommending books is the reason I love this job. It’s like a little burst of endorphins every time I help someone scratch their perfect literary itch.
“Hi, Ms. Serrano,” I say when I round the corner to the historical fiction shelves. Ms. Serrano is one of our most loyal customers. She retired from her law career six years ago and is in here at least twice a week browsing for new books to devour. “Can I help you with anything?”
“Shoshanna!” She smiles at me, eyes wrinkling. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee. Do you know where my mug is?”
“Of course! Be right back.” Ms. Serrano is here so often that she has her own mug in the break room. It’s white with blue trim, a beautiful, old chipped thing her father brought over from Italy. During my first week of work, I checked out Ms. Serrano on the register and accidentally charged her for an extra book. I noticed the mistake right as she left the store and ran after her, red-faced with embarrassment, scrambling to explain and apologize, worried I’d get in trouble and lose my job.
But Ms. Serrano just patted my arm and said, “You take that extra book, one you like the most, and donate it to the library for me. All right, dear? Have a good day. See you next week.”
She is, to put it simply, my favorite customer.
I head to the break room and fill up her cup, black with one sugar, and grab her a biscotti as well. When I return to the floor, I tell her, “I’ll be around, so just let me know if you need anything else!”
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