Recommended for You

by Laura Silverman

  “Got it,” I reply. “Promise.”

  “Good. Now take these extra codes.”

  Jake grabs his codes and leaves, but I stay behind, twisting my fingers together. These sales tomorrow will ensure my lead over most of my coworkers, but if his quiz works, Jake might be right at the top with me. As much as I don’t want to admit it, there’s a chance he could win this competition, and I’ll have to earn the money to fix Barbra next year.

  “What’s up?” Myra asks, pulling back on her glasses as her eyes focus on her computer. Maybe she’s working on her next book. She writes mystery novels and signed with a literary agent last year because, you know, she’s awesome.

  “Um,” I say. “I was wondering if I could get more hours after the New Year. I was only working a couple days a week last semester, and three or four days would be better. I’m trying to—”

  “Sorry, no can do,” Myra cuts me off.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well maybe—”

  “We have too much staff as it is. Great for the holidays, but everyone is going to be fighting for extra hours again soon.” Myra lifts her eyes to mine. “In fact, we might need to cut hours. The store is slow most of the year, so we only need a couple of people here at a time. If you need additional hours, I suggest looking elsewhere.”

  Elsewhere. She means look elsewhere for extra hours, right?

  Or—what if she means I should leave Once Upon altogether?

  “Anything else?” Myra asks.

  “Uh, no. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing.” She turns back to her computer.

  I leave her office and tug on my necklace, twisting the chain around my finger, tighter and tighter.

  * * *

  Tanya dropped the bottles of prosecco off in a cooler outside the front door, and the Thai food will be delivered to our house in an hour, but my moms still haven’t responded to my text, which means they won’t be home to drink the prosecco and meet the deliveryman, much less to have a healing dinner full of love and reminiscing. A headache blooms near my temple as I check my messages yet again, wondering if I somehow missed a text, knowing I didn’t.

  It’s weird.

  For my entire life, my moms have always texted me back. It seems like an inconsequential thing, texting, yet knowing they’ll respond has always been a constant. But now my phone is silent. And my stomach seems to have tied itself into a pretzel more knotted than the ones at Auntie Anne’s.

  “C’mon,” I mutter, staring at my phone, like I can magic it into buzzing. That anti-Semite Roald Dahl set me up to believe we could all have magical powers like Matilda. Jerk, for so many reasons.

  Why won’t my moms respond? Are they busy? Is pasta dinner with their daughter not enticing enough? Do they just not care? Come on. Buzz. Buzz! “Darn it!” I scream, tossing my phone on the table. It lands with a hard thwack. I yelp and immediately scoop it back up, panicked I broke it.

  The screen is fine, but still no messages. “Screw it,” I mutter, then type out a text to both of them: Hey moms, had a really hard day at work. Not doing well and need to see you both. Please come home for dinner. Okay? It’s an emergency!

  I send off the text, shove my phone in my pocket, and hope for the best as I finish up my shift.

  * * *

  “Shoshanna.” Arjun calls my name in a monotone over the loudspeaker just as I’m about to leave for the evening. “Your mom is on line one.”

  At first, I laugh because it sounds like a bad your mom joke. But then my muscles tense. Why is Mom calling at work? I rush over to the registers and grab the phone from Arjun, mouthing Thank you while he gives me a slow blink in response. I worry about that kid. “Hey, Mom,” I breathe into the phone. “Everything okay?”

  “So you are there,” she says.

  I loop the phone cord around my finger. My generation really is missing out on phone-cord fidgeting. “Yeah. Is everything—”

  “And you’re not hurt?” she cuts me off, her tone curt. “And you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Did you—”

  “Shoshanna.” My muscles clench as she snaps out my name. “Let me get this straight. You told us there’s an emergency, but you’re at work and completely fine? Nothing is wrong?” Her tone is so severe that it makes the floor sway beneath me.

  I finally manage to reply in a meek whisper, “Nothing is wrong.”

  At least, not in the way she means.

  “Come straight home from work,” she commands. “We’ll talk then.”

  The line clicks off, and I shut my eyes tight. The ground keeps swaying. Breathe, Shoshanna. Breathe.

  “Are you okay?” a voice asks.

  My eyes pop open, and I realize it’s Arjun. Arjun is asking if I’m okay. That can’t be a good sign. I nod my head. “Yeah, fine. Thanks.”

  “Okay.” He shrugs and goes back to work.

  I grab my things from the break room and rush out of the store and into the mall, shoving past the chaos of customers, knocking into shoulders and bags and many, many strollers. My heart pounds in my ears as I make a beeline for the Gap, where I know Cheyenne is finishing up her shift as well. I enter the store and push past more shoppers and racks of sweaters and cut through a zigzagging line for the register, dizzily asking someone where Cheyenne is, and they point me to the break room, which looks almost identical to our break room, and when I find Cheyenne sitting at a table with Geraldine, relief swoops through me. Thank goodness they’re both here. “Guys,” I say, my voice constricted. “I think my moms, well, it’s just, I haven’t—”

  As I try to figure out the right words, I realize my friends aren’t looking at me with concern or interest—they’re looking at me in annoyance, anger even.

  Anxiety squeezes like a vice around my spine.

  “Um,” I say. “What’s going on?”

  Geraldine blinks, her eyes watering. Her lips part to say something but then close again, so Cheyenne speaks for her. She pushes up the sleeves of her forest-green sweater and stares me right in the eyes. “Shoshanna, you posted Geraldine’s video online without permission. Seriously? Who does that?”

  Oh. Tension clogs my throat. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping forward. “I guess—I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry, Geraldine, but I just wanted to show you how talented you are! And you got so many views—almost a thousand! Actually, I bet more than a thousand, now. Let me just—”

  “It’s a lot more than a thousand.” Geraldine finally speaks, her voice eerily calm as her fingers tighten into a death grip around her phone. “Try fourteen thousand.”

  Wait. What? My brain whirs, trying to make sense of that number. But a number that large makes no sense at all.

  Cheyenne helps again. She wraps a protective arm around Geraldine’s shoulder, while looking straight at me. “It was a practice video, Shoshanna. No one was supposed to see it. Geraldine was just getting comfortable on camera, so she didn’t need to come up with original content. She used ideas from a beauty influencer. From Lucille Tifton.”

  “Lucille Tifton,” I say, the words hollow in my dry mouth.

  “Yup,” Cheyenne responds. “And then someone tagged Lucille in the video, and her fans discovered the stolen content, alerted her, and now Lucille and all her minions are slamming Geraldine online.”

  My head swims with panic, and my pulse races so fast I wonder if I’ll pass out in the Gap and what type of business liability insurance they have. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, but how could I have known that—”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Geraldine cuts me off. Tears run down her cheeks, but her eyeliner and mascara are still in devastatingly perfect condition. “But you didn’t need to know. Because the video was mine—mine to post. Not yours. You need to think, Shoshanna.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “I don’t care,” she shoots back.

  “Please, let me fix—”

  “Just go, Shoshanna,” Cheyenne says. Her hard gaze drops a pit in m
y stomach. “Just leave us alone.”

  * * *

  There are worried text messages from my moms, then angry ones. I don’t see them until I climb into Barbra, my hands shaking both from my nerves and the freezing cold. As I scroll through them, my stomach churns so hard I can almost feel bile in my throat.

  Honey, where are you?

  Are you okay?

  What’s wrong? You said emergency.

  We’re worried. You aren’t picking up.

  Pick up your phone.

  We’re calling the store.

  You’re at work? And you’re fine?

  Come home immediately.

  Don’t you dare say emergency ever again if you’re okay.

  I put my phone on the passenger seat.

  “Okay” is a very relative term.

  * * *

  When I walk into the house, there’s a distinct called-to-the-principal’s-office vibe. Mom and Mama are sitting in the living room, actually together on the same couch, holding a glass of prosecco each, but their faces are both stern.

  Bubbles have never looked more depressing.

  “Oh, good,” Mom says, voice clipped with sarcasm. “You’re in one piece.”

  Mama puts a hand on her knee, then takes it away just as quickly. “No need to take everything to a ten, Alana,” she mutters.

  “She said it was an emergency,” Mom cuts back. “She’s sixteen and acting six with this classic girl-who-cried-wolf nonsense.”

  “Enough,” Mama says to her. She glances at me next and offers a wavering smile. “C’mon, darling. Sit down.”

  I clear my throat and sit on a chair closest to her. Mama’s blond hair falls in waves around her shoulders. It’s smooth and shiny like someone in the pages of a magazine. Mom gave birth to me, so Mama’s straight hair is the blond sheep of the family. I love my curls, but sometimes I’m jealous of the smoothness and ease of Mama’s hair. Sometimes everything about me feels too complicated.

  My dress is wrinkled from a day of work. I try to smooth it out, then find a loose thread at the hem. The sight irritates me, but if I yank the thread, the whole dress might unravel.

  “Shoshanna,” Mom says. I yank out the thread, quick, then snap my attention back to my parents. It’s disarming, having Mom’s full attention, something I haven’t felt for a while now. Her eyes bore into me, and my skin feels too tight. I dig a finger into my leggings. “Why did you say there was an emergency?” she asks.

  “And why did you buy us Thai food?” Mama adds. “We want you to save your money for Ms. Streisand.”

  “I, well…” I swallow hard, hating the wobble in my voice as I speak. “You guys have been fighting a lot. And you even missed Latkepalooza. And I wanted to help make things okay again, so I washed dishes and brought groceries, but that didn’t fix anything.… I thought maybe if you had time alone together that would help. And you always celebrate your anniversary with Thai food, so I got Thai food and tried to get you both home at the same time.”

  Mama laughs, light and amused. “Darling, did you try to Parent Trap us?”

  My cheeks burn. “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Mom says. “We aren’t characters in a movie, or in some book you’re writing. We’re people, and you can’t force people to—”

  “Alana,” Mama warns yet again.

  Mom pauses, and when she continues, her voice comes out softer. “Shoshanna, we love you.” Her eyes connect with mine, and I see the love right there in them. I swallow hard and glance away. “We love you so much. But pretending there’s an emergency when there’s not one is unacceptable behavior. We were worried about you. I—” Her voice cracks. “I was very worried about you.”

  Mama grabs Mom’s hand and squeezes it.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, mouth dry. Mom sighs, but her voice stays soft. “I know you’re sorry, but you’re too old to act like this, Shoshanna. You need to grow up.”

  “It’s late,” Mama says. “Everyone is tired. Why don’t we discuss this more tomorrow? All right?”

  “All right,” Mom agrees.

  I nod and twist my hands together. “All right.”

  I head up to my room, thoughts clouded, dense. The thing is, I know it’s wrong to pretend there’s an emergency when there isn’t one. I shouldn’t have done that. But did I really cry wolf? Can my parents really tell me everything is okay when I know, without a doubt, it’s not?

  Chapter Nine

  No, no, no,” I whisper, my pulse racing as I again turn my key in the ignition. “Don’t do this to me, Barbra. Do not do this to me. Not today.” The engine grinds and grinds but refuses to start. “Damn it.” My voice cracks.

  I will myself not to cry because crying would be ridiculous, and also I can’t spare the water because I don’t hydrate enough, even though Cheyenne is always reminding me to drink more water… Cheyenne. Geraldine. My friends are so mad at me. They haven’t responded at all to my litany of apology texts.

  I fall back against my cold seat with a giant exhale. It’s freezing outside, wind rattling bare branches, the sun muted behind dense gray clouds. I check my phone with frozen fingers. It’s seven in the morning. My moms are still asleep, and my entire body tenses at the thought of waking them up to ask for a ride. Especially Mom.

  I used to go to her for help with everything, but I feel like anything I ask her now will be met with a hard stare, with exasperation or disappointment.

  I can’t believe last night blew up in my face like that.

  I can’t believe I thought it wouldn’t blow up in my face like that.

  You need to think, Geraldine told me.

  You need to grow up, Mom told me.

  I also need to find a ride to work.

  If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late, which is the opposite of a grown-up thing to do, especially when this event is so important. And on top of that, if I’m late Myra might ban me from the bookselling competition, and then I won’t have the money to fix Barbra, and then this will be a problem every morning, and—

  I can see my frosted breath in front of me, quick, hard exhales. My pulse races as tears slip out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Stop it, Shoshanna. I’m overreacting. I’m being too sensitive. I’m crying, like a little kid. If I could just be a normal person for like ten seconds, I could calm down and figure out a solution. I know there must be one. Someone must be able to give me a ride. But no one in their right mind is awake at this hour on a holiday break. Not a single—

  Oh.

  Well. There is one person definitely awake right now.

  “Ugh,” I mutter, but unlock my phone before I can change my mind. My numb fingers search through my inbox for the latest Once Upon e-mail with a schedule and employee names and contact info. I find the number I need, tap it, and then press the phone to my ear. One ring, two rings. Don’t pick up. Just don’t—

  “Hello?”

  My heart jumps.

  “Hello?” the voice asks again. It’s low, gravelly, like he just rolled out of his warm bed.

  “Hey, Jake.” I clear my throat. “It’s Shoshanna.”

  * * *

  An old Toyota Camry pulls alongside the front of my driveway. The passenger window rolls down, and I find it’s Jake in that seat, his hair rumpled like he really did just roll out of his warm bed. A warm feeling blooms in my stomach as he gives me a slight nod before returning to the spiral notebook in his lap and scribbling something down. With much more enthusiasm, a woman leans over him, seat belt straining so she can see me from the driver’s side. “Hi, Shoshanna!” she says. “I’m Jake’s mom! It’s so nice to meet one of his coworkers. Hop on in!”

  Jake’s mom. I’m meeting Jake Kaplan’s mom.

  Oh my god.

  I grab my tote bag and slide into the backseat. It’s warm in here, and I bite back a groan of relief as my body defrosts. Mrs. Kaplan turns to me with a bright smile. “Morning!” she chirps.

  “Morning!” I reply.

  Mrs. Kap
lan has short curly hair and lipstick the color of fresh strawberries. My smile falters when I think of how Geraldine would immediately ask for the name of that color. I click in my seat belt as Mrs. Kaplan turns back to Jake with a tsk. “You have some schmutz, Jakey,” she tells him, before licking her finger and wiping his cheek.

  Schmutz. Jakey. Finger spit cheek wipe. Amazing.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Jake says. He doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, which is actually quite endearing. Oy vey. Do I find Jake Kaplan endearing?

  “And thank you for the ride, Mrs. Kaplan,” I say, trying to draw my focus back to her. “It’s nice to meet you!”

  “Just Ms. Kaplan,” she replies, checking her mirrors before pulling away from the curb. Her car is old, not a relic like Barbra, but the seats are worn in well, and there’s a radio instead of a Siri Bluetooth Wireless Robots Take Over the World set-up. As we drive, she tells Jake to “Pass me some almonds, tatala.”

  I glow at the word “tatala.” It’s nice to hear someone other than my moms—and Myra—speak Yiddish. It’s nice to feel connected, even if it’s to Jake Kaplan.

  “Sure,” Jake replies. As he leans forward to pull a bag from the glove box, my eyes flick across the back of his neck and the small patch of skin exposed between his hair and shirt collar. I bite the inside of my cheek and busy myself with organizing the contents of my tote: a book, tampons, a crushed granola bar, chamomile tea for Tanya, a scarf, another book…

  “Want some almonds, Shoshanna?” Ms. Kaplan asks. “Jake seasons them himself. Oh, they’re so tasty! My favorite addiction.”

  “Mom,” Jake says.

  “What? I can’t be proud of your talent?”

  “They’re just almonds,” he answers, but I can sense the smile in his voice.

  Ms. Kaplan’s overt pride pinches my stomach. In eighth grade, we wrote a short essay every week for my English class. My moms loved my essays so much they’d have me read them aloud in the living room. They’d literally applaud afterward. Sometimes even whistle. It was embarrassing. But also it was sweet, and I kind of really miss it. I haven’t shared any writing with them lately. Not that I’ve been writing much at all lately.