“DD Week?”
“Delayed Delivery Week,” I explain. “As in, there are so many deliveries being made, your favorite online retailers can no longer offer two-day express shipping. If people want their gifts in time, they have to buy them in person.”
“Ooh, they’re in!” Geraldine squeals as we arrive at Make You Up. I’m on a midmorning break with her before she heads into work for the Bo’s Burritos lunch rush. I’m going to sell an absolutely epic number of books this afternoon, but first I could use a quick breather from the store—and from Jake—to get into the right bookselling headspace. A little best friend time should be just the fix I need.
Geraldine presses close to the window, her eyes feasting on a display of winter lip kits. “They’re gorgeous! I’m in love!” Her giddy enthusiasm is infectious and almost tricks me into caring about winter lip kits. She’s going to be a fantastic beauty vlogger. She can sell product with a single squeal!
We walk into the packed store, and Geraldine takes my hand to lead the way. Customers are crammed into every narrow aisle, and the line for the register is 20 Leagues Under the Sea deep. Even during the holidays, Once Upon never sees this kind of traffic. Maybe we should start selling lotions and face masks along with our copies of The Silence of the Lambs.
“Elliot!” Geraldine says.
Elliot spins toward us and grins. His brown hair flops close to his perfect brows, and he’s wearing a Paladin High School football shirt under his store apron. He strides forward and grasps Geraldine’s forearms. “Have you seen them?”
“Mm-hmm!” Geraldine responds, eyes alight with true lipstick love. “But not up close.”
“Come on, then.” Elliot shepherds us over to the lip kits. “Excuse me, pardon me,” he says to everyone in our path. “Store emergency. Out of the way.”
I laugh. “Your manager must love you.”
“Oh, she despises me,” Elliot replies. “But I sell more product than any other employee on this floor, so she keeps me around. How’s the holiday season at Once Upon?” He grabs two lip kits and hands them both to Geraldine. Elliot knows my makeup routine doesn’t get much more advanced than drugstore mascara and lipstick.
“Busy!” I answer, though now that I’m thinking about it, things feel less hectic than last year. I’m probably just older and wiser and faster on the register. “Any books you want for Christmas? I can use my discount!”
“Isn’t there a new Aaron Rodgers memoir?”
“Is that a football thing?” I ask.
“Yup!”
I make a face. “Gross. Boring.”
Elliot grins. “I’ve got to work out and study up if I want to make varsity next year. At least my growth spurt came just in time.” He steps forward and bops me on the head from almost a foot of height above me.
I hear a soft cry next to me and turn to see tears on Geraldine’s face as she stares at the lip kits. “Oh, sweet thing,” I say. “Are you crying right now? Over lipstick?”
Geraldine blinks up at me. “It’s not lipstick,” she says. “It’s limited-edition winter lip kits in Bruised Kiss Burgundy and Punch Me Plum.”
“Bruised Kiss? Punch Me Plum?” I raise an eyebrow. “I think there’s something wrong with this company.”
“They’re both gorgeous,” Elliot tells Geraldine. “But I think Bruised Burgundy is the winner if you have to choose.”
“Choose? I can’t even afford one.” Geraldine’s lips twist. “I’m trying to save up for a camera so I can film on something other than my phone, but then, what’s the point if I don’t have the makeup to talk about? Some beauty influencers have a dozen new products each week. My favorite, Lucille Tifton, posts a new video every day. I’ll never be able to compete.…”
My heart aches for Geraldine. She’s been working so hard to make her YouTuber dream come true. The only reason she works at Bo’s Burritos (an insult to my mother and Mexican food everywhere, though the guac is straight-up delicious, as she’s said) instead of Make You Up is because she gets tips at Bo’s, so in the end, she earns more per hour. I don’t know how I can make her dream happen, but I do have an idea of how to brighten her day.
As Geraldine stares at the lip kits, I lean into Elliot. “Hey friend,” I whisper. “Aren’t there, like, samples or something you can give her?” I bat my eyelashes. “Pretty, pretty please?”
“You’re real cute,” Elliot says.
I beam. “Totally agree.”
He pauses for a moment, thinking. “Tell you what. Someone returned a broken tube of the Punch Me Plum earlier today. I’ll, um, say it got tossed in the trash by accident. Be right back.”
While Elliot searches, I look around the store. Lipsticks and eye shadows sit like jewels in their cases, shining under the store lights. Customers run polished fingernails over tubes of mascara and pots of moisturizer, while other shoppers dust their skin with shimmery powders. A turquoise eyeliner catches my attention, and I immediately think of Mama. She loves mixing it up with funky colors every now and then. I snap a picture and text it to her, along with the message: Super cute, right? Do you have this color?
I need to save my money, but maybe it’s on sale, and I can get her a bonus Hanukkah gift. I wait for her to respond, knowing she’s more attached to her phone than most of my friends, but I don’t get a reply. And then Elliot is back. He discreetly slips the tube to Geraldine and kisses her on the cheek. “It’ll look great on you.”
“Thank you,” Geraldine whispers, staring in reverence at the matte black tube. “Free chips for the rest of your life, okay?”
“Deal!” Elliot says. “I’ve got to get back to work. Visit again soon, all right?”
“Obviously!” Geraldine replies.
“I’ll look for that football book for you,” I promise him.
As we head out of the store, Geraldine stares at her new lipstick, eyes mesmerized. “I’m so happy,” she says. “Thanks, Shosh.”
I lean into her, my heart lifting. “I’m so happy for you.”
My phone buzzes, and my spirits lift even more. Mama must have texted me back. Hopefully the eyeliner doesn’t cost as much as those lip kits because I really don’t have time this week to sell a kidney on the black market. But it’s not a text. It’s just an alarm reminding me to get back to work.
That’s okay. Time to focus. Sell books, win the money, and fix Barbra.
I crack my knuckles. And, as a bonus, show Jake Kaplan where he can shove it.
* * *
The rest of the morning and the early afternoon rush by in a blur. I jump from customer to customer, chatting, charming, and generally hand-selling my arse off, not letting anyone even think of leaving the store without a book. My stack of QR codes dwindles so low that I have to pick up a second batch from Myra, who looks quite impressed. This competition will be a breeze. No one wants the bonus as badly as I do, and even if they did, definitely no one can sell books as well as Shoshanna Greenberg.
Just now, I have my next victim in sight.
And by “victim,” I mean “lucky person about to receive excellent service.”
I don’t jump on customers the second they walk into the store. That’s too aggressive, especially since our clientele lean toward the introverted. A simple Welcome, let me know if you need anything is okay but nothing more assertive than that. Book lovers adore a nice, silent browse, and I’m not out here to ruin that for anyone.
But this guy has been staring at the same adult fiction shelf for a full three minutes, and he looks perplexed. Like his brow is literally furrowed. It’s officially time for friendly interference.
“Hi!” I smile as I approach. “Can I help you?”
My smile brightens when I notice the guy is my age and more than a little cute. He’s tall and has thick blond hair. Blond normally isn’t my thing, but he kind of looks like the golden-haired bladesmith in Time Stands Still, so it’s working for me.
“Ah, sure, thanks!” the guy answers. He gives me a once-over, and I twirl my hair withou
t an ounce of shame.
“Are you looking for anything specific?” I ask, while noticing Jake hovering nearby, probably pretending to straighten shelves while stealing bookselling tactics from the master. Good. Let him experience my brilliance.
“Yes, I’m looking for this book…” The guy trails off and runs a hand through his hair. His beautiful, shiny blond hair. Is he as caring and strong as the bladesmith Bryant? Can he carry an injured female warrior, decked in her armor, on his back for a full day and night?
Okay, focus, Shoshanna. This is about a sale, not about flirting. I tilt my head to the side and play with the chain of my necklace. Maybe a little flirting.
“Mm-hmm,” I say. “What’s the title?”
He shakes his head. “Can’t remember. Sorry.”
“That’s all right! Who’s the author?”
“Afraid I don’t know that, either.”
My smile falters, just for a second. “Okay, no problem at all!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jake holding back laughter. My neck heats, but I soldier on. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Ryan,” he answers with an easy grin.
Ryan. Oh my god. So close to Bryant. “Ryan, do you remember what the book is about? Or perhaps what the cover looks like?”
There’s an elongated pause and an intense facial expression, like he’s calculating the propulsion needed to launch a shuttle into space. Finally, he looks back at me with yet another easy grin. “Blue?”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Blue.”
“Maybe blue.”
My jaw tightens. “Okay. Maybe blue. And is it fiction or nonfiction?”
He stares at me blankly.
It’s amazing how quickly attraction to someone can evaporate.
At that exact moment, Jake steps forward and stands in front of me, essentially hiding my entire five-foot frame from Ryan’s view. “Hey.” Jake throws out his hand for a shake. “I’m Jake. Nice to meet you, man.”
I shove Jake’s elbow to make room for me by his side. “His name is Ryan,” I mutter as they shake hands.
Jake ignores me. “So is this book a real story or one someone made up?”
“A real story!” Ryan answers, eyes lighting up with the enthusiasm of a Labrador retriever setting sight on a tennis ball. “About President Jimmy Carter.”
“Fantastic!” Jake claps Ryan on the back. “So we’ll head over to the biography section. If you’ll follow me…” Jake freezes. “Um…”
I turn to him and bat my eyelashes. “Something wrong there, Jake?”
When his eyes lock with mine, I feel a spark in my stomach, but I keep my shoulders squared. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Where’s the biography section?”
I press a hand to my chest. “Oh, do you need my help?”
“Shoshanna.”
Why does he have to say my name like that? Almost in a growl. I swallow hard and try to collect myself, but then Jake is looking past me. “Hey, Daniel!” he calls out. “Help me for second, yeah?”
“Sure thing!” Daniel strides toward us. “Heya, Shosh.”
“Daniel,” I reply curtly. And then before I can stop it, all three guys walk off to the biography section without me. My sale walks off without me. I let out a tense breath. Damn you, Jake Kaplan. It’s not like he has a chance of winning this competition, but stealing a sale might hurt my odds against someone else, might threaten my chance of fixing Barbra.
“Tough luck,” a voice says.
I startle and then spin around to find Sophie-Anne leaning against an endcap of science-fiction novels. “Have you been here the whole time?” I ask.
She loops forward and clasps a hand on my shoulder. “What is time?” Then she drifts away, long black skirt billowing out behind her.
“Right,” I mutter, turning around. “Well, at least she isn’t my competition.”
“Are you talking to yourself?”
I glance behind me. Sophie-Anne is back. I give a stiff smile and walk away.
* * *
The food court is way over capacity, every table and chair taken, lines so long they’re definitely breaking fire codes, people jammed into every corner and crevice as Christmas music competes with their raucous voices. My skin itches. Ugh, people. Don’t get me wrong—I like some people, but massive crowds of strangers? No thanks.
“Let’s get smoothies,” Cheyenne says, taking both my hand and control of the situation. “Looks like the shortest line. Probably because it’s thirty-three degrees outside.”
“Um.” I hold us back for a second. “I’ve got to save up money to fix Barbra, but I can wait in line with you?” I’m planning on a lunch of tea and biscotti in the break room, plus one of the granola bars I always have stuffed at the bottom of my tote bag.
“Oh, no worries,” Cheyenne says. “I’ll buy you one.”
“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to.”
She gives me a look. “It’s seriously no problem, Shosh.”
I relent with a small smile, and we get in line and place our orders. Cheyenne hands over her card like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Thanks,” I say, twisting my fingers together. It’s strange, having a friend with more money than you. I wish I wasn’t aware of it—I wonder if she’s aware of it. I guess I’m more focused on money than usual with the stress of saving up for Barbra. I don’t want her repair to be the source of more fighting at home.
I inhale and then breathe out slowly as we grab our smoothies, mine banana mango tango, Cheyenne’s triple berry blast. We walk around the mall since there’s nowhere to sit. I must not be holding my shoulders in close enough because a woman carrying a dozen shopping bags barrels past us, bumping my arm hard and almost throwing me and my banana mango tango to the floor. She doesn’t even pause to apologize.
“Rude!” I shout, rubbing my arm.
“You okay?” Cheyenne asks. For some strange reason, the question makes my eyes water. I wipe at them, embarrassed. “Hey.” Her voice softens. “What’s going on?”
I fidget with my straw, throat too tight to take a sip. “It’s nothing.”
“Shosh,” Cheyenne says in her warning tone.
I’m just being sensitive. Like, seriously, who cries because someone bumped into their shoulder? And who gets upset because their friend bought them a smoothie? And yeah, my moms missed Latkepalooza, and that’s not a great feeling because it’s a night we’ve celebrated together my entire life, but they missed it to work at their jobs, so there’s no reason to be all emotional about it. And mentioning any of this to Cheyenne would make it a thing, and it’s definitely not a thing.
“Shosh?” Cheyenne prods again, her warm eyes zeroed in on me. She’s wearing an oversize knit sweater today, the sleeves so long they cloak her fingers as she holds her smoothie.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, and then smile. It’s a genuine smile—just knowing my friend is there for me if I want to talk means the world. “I promise. Ooh, look, Santa’s Workshop!”
Cheyenne accepts my subject-change with a chipper shout of “Santa!”
“You do know Santa isn’t real, right?” I ask. “I’ve accidentally broken that news to so many gentiles over the years. Maybe that’s why people hate Jews.”
Cheyenne snorts. “Ha, ha. Of course I know he isn’t real. But it’s fun to see the kids all happy before the harsh realities of the world are shoved in their faces. C’mon. Let’s watch.”
I glance at my phone. “Okay, but then I’ve got to head back to work.” I still have fifteen minutes left of my break, but if I get back early, that’s fifteen extra minutes to sell more books. I bet I’m way in the lead but no harm in getting way, way in the lead.
“How are things going with Jake?” Cheyenne asks as we walk over to Santa.
Jake. Jake the jerk with his stubble and flannel and freaking baked-goods aroma. “Not great,” I reply. “He’s kind of an ass.”<
br />
“But he’s got a good ass, right?” Her suggestive tone makes my skin flush.
“How would you know?” I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve never met him.”
She smirks. “I can just tell by the way you talk about him.”
“Oh my god. Please stop,” I say.
But, the thing is, she’s not wrong.
Cheyenne laughs and wraps an arm around me. We make it to the outside of the line, which zigzags through the better half of the north wing. Kids shout and scream while parents scroll on their phones. The music blasts even louder here, currently playing Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” This song always gives me the urge to watch Love, Actually, which always makes me wish there were also an epic Hanukkah romance movie.
I look toward the stage and see it’s blanketed in fake snow and decorated with a red sleigh and reindeer and a sign for the North Pole. It’s really quite cute. There are even two elves! And Santa is laughing a jolly laugh, and he… huh. Santa looks familiar, brown skin and warm eyes I’d recognize anywhere—
“Oh. My. God.” I hold a hand over my mouth so I don’t break into hysterical laughter.
Cheyenne stares in shock.
“Is that—” A snort of laughter breaks out despite my most valiant efforts.
She holds up a finger. “Do not.”
“But is that—”
“Stop. Talking.”
“Cheyenne, is that your dad?”
“Oh my god.” Cheyenne shoves her face in her hands and groans so loudly a couple of parents in line turn and stare at us. Her voice comes out with the dramatic delivery of an actress performing her Oscar-winning role. “How could he do this to me?”
I’m full-out laughing now. Cheyenne shoots me a death glare, and I try to tamp down the giggles. “Well, to be fair,” I say. “I don’t think he’s doing it to you. C’mon, look how adorable he is with those kids! This is the best!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Mr. Herman bellows. Cheyenne groans louder. Two kids stand before him, beaming up with grins of wonderment. An elf snaps the picture, and then another elf ushers the happy kids off the stage.
Recommended for You Page 5
