“Well, what kind of sandwich?” I sit up a little. “Not ham, right?”
“Not to worry. No ham, Shoshanna Greenberg.” I glow a little at his response. “It’s like a PB and J but better.”
I think of those almonds and trust that Jake can do a PB&J justice as well. “Okay, I like PB and J. Ooh! You know what goes great with a PB and J? Chocolate milk. I wonder if…”
Jake laughs. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those laugh at me occasions, but that’s okay. I don’t think he means it in a bad way. Chocolate milk is delicious. Little kids have good taste.
“I don’t have chocolate milk,” he replies, “but the sandwich will taste good on its own. I promise.” He moves around the break room, pulling ingredients out of his locker, washing his hands, and then assembling two sandwiches. I try not to watch him the whole time like a creep and instead look at the flyers on our bulletin board, one for a bake sale and one for a Motel/Hotel concert, some EDM band from Athens that Tanya likes. But then I hear wrinkling and pay attention to Jake as he opens a small bag of Ruffles and meticulously places the chips on top of the spread with the precision of a surgeon. He then puts the second piece of bread on top and, crunch.
“Interesting ingredient,” I comment.
He brings two plates over to the table. “You’ll like it. Promise.”
I raise an eyebrow and assess my sandwich. “So what’s in here?”
“One layer of hazelnut spread, one layer of almond butter, one layer of pomegranate jam, and of course, Ruffles.”
“Of course.” I nod, then pick up the sandwich. Jake pretends to look down at his plate, but I can feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye, a bit of tension in the air, kind of like when I share my writing with someone and pretend to not pay attention to every minute shift in their expression.
Okay. No pressure. It’s just a sandwich. I lean forward and take a good-size bite, teeth crunching through the chips and three layers of spread, and wow. Like, wow. Salty and sweet. Soft and crispy. I chew and chew and swallow, then look up and say—okay, shout, “What the heck, Jake!”
His mask of confidence slips, his brows furrowed into worry. “What?”
“Why is this so good? What kind of sandwich nobel laureate are you?”
Jake’s lips quirk, and then he laughs, scratching the back of his neck in this painfully adorable self-conscious way. “Thanks, Shoshanna.”
“Seriously, though,” I continue, nibbling off a miniature bite because I need to savor this flavor. “This is delicious, and those almonds were delicious, and you always smell deli—” My cheeks flaming, I stop talking.
But it wasn’t in time.
Jake tilts his head, his smile growing by the second. “You think I smell delicious?”
“Uh.” I clear my throat and look anywhere but at him, which means looking at a water stain on the ceiling and also a spot that looks suspiciously like black mold. Someone should probably tell Myra about it. “Anyway… so do you cook a lot or something?”
“Yeah, I do.” Jake spares me from death by utter mortification and moves on from the me-smelling-him topic. “I enjoy it a lot—baking, too.” His words are carefully picked, like he’s trying to hide his level of enthusiasm, but honestly, who has to worry about dorking out and carefully picking words around me?
“When did you start?” I ask, nibbling another bite of god’s gift to taste buds.
“As a kid.” Jake picks up his own sandwich and manages to eat while talking without looking gross, an impressive feat. “Mom worked long hours. And we didn’t have one of those rich-kid-in-a-teen-movie fully stocked fridges. So I experimented with what we did have. You know, Kraft mac ’n’ cheese but with Parmesan and chili flakes. Or Cheerios with cinnamon milk and bananas. Just whatever I could come up with. It was fun. And then I started working at Gary’s.”
“Gary’s?” I ask. Dang it. My sandwich is almost gone. I wonder if Jake has enough ingredients for seconds.
“It’s a diner, near Canton Highway. I was hired as a busboy a few years ago, but I always asked Gary to let me help out in the kitchen. I’d ask questions and suggest ingredients… and add seasonings to dishes when he wasn’t looking.” Jake pauses. “I might have been annoying.”
“Can’t relate to being annoying,” I say. “Nope, not at all.”
Jake grins right at me, and my stomach flutters. Concentrate on the sandwich, Shoshanna. “At some point,” he continues, “I annoyed Gary into giving me a chance, and now I cook and tinker with the menu. And I do a lot of the baking. That’s the notebook I carry around, recipe ideas. Of course, I still bus tables, too.”
I scrunch my eyebrows. “But you work here.”
“Yeah. Gary can only offer me so many hours, and money is tight at home, so—”
“I get it,” I say quickly. “I mean, maybe I don’t get it, get it. But I kind of understand. Like I need my job to fix Barbra Streisand—not the singer,” I clarify, when Jake gives me a really confused look. “My car, Barbra Streisand, she needs a repair. And I asked Myra for extra hours next year, but she doesn’t have them, and I don’t really know what to do.…” I pause, thoughts clicking together. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?” Jake asks, picking up the last bite of his sandwich.
Guilt and embarrassment claw at me. I am so not smart. If Jake is working two jobs, he probably needs the bonus money as much if not more than I do. And here I thought he mostly wanted to win to annoy me. Wow. And the award for most self-centered assumption-making jerk goes to…
“What?” Jake asks again.
I fidget with the chain of my necklace and look down at my feet, which hover half an inch above the scuffed-up floor because short person. “So,” I say. “I need that bonus money to fix Barbra, but maybe you need it for, I don’t know, the electric bill or something—not that you do need it for that!” Foot in mouth, Shoshanna. Foot. In. Mouth. “I’m not assuming either way, which is my point. Um. Like.” Has my face been red this entire conversation? “Sorry. Um. The point is that I’ve been a jerk to you. And I’m sorry.”
I chance glancing up at Jake. His eyes are so soft I could melt right into my wobbly break-room chair. When he speaks, I can feel my pulse racing lightly under my skin. “You haven’t been a jerk,” he replies. “Well, at least no more than I’ve been one.” Jake pauses then. A long pause, like with an inhale and everything, like he’s really gathering up the courage for the next part. “I was not the nicest person in the world to you on my first day.”
“You weren’t?” I ask. “Actually, I know you weren’t. You weren’t the nicest.”
Jake laughs. It’s a hard laugh but a quick one, and when it’s over, he looks at me. Really looks at me. I fidget under his gaze and pray for him to break the silence even though I’m not really a Jew who prays so much as a Jew who loves a good kugel and a lightly toasted sesame-seed bagel with white fish. Finally, he shifts back in his chair and says, “I wanted to do a good job so Myra would give me more hours. I was focused on that and not—”
“Making friends?” I ask, then put on my best reality-TV-star voice. “I’m not here to make friends.”
“Yeah.” Jake grins. “Something like that. So, I’m sorry too.” He runs a hand through his curls. “Want to tell me what’s going on with your friends? I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”
“Have you?” I counter with a light smile.
“Yeah,” he says in all sincerity, and I feel approximately eight thousand tingles in response.
I tug on a strand of my hair, unsure and nervous. But then somehow, maybe because of my exhaustion or Jake’s eyes or this delicious Michelin-star PB&J, it all spills out—everything about my moms fighting and my friends being angry with me, everything about each one of my impulsive screw-ups. When I finish, I feel flustered and out of breath but also relieved, like just admitting it all has eased some of the pressure.
“That’s really tough,” Jake says. His gaze, focused right on me, is so earnest I have
to lean back in my chair and twist my fingers together. “But it sounds like you know what you did wrong, which is great, because now you can apologize and fix it.”
“Yeah.” I nod, but my nerves are knotted tight. “But what if they don’t accept my apology? What if they don’t like me anymore?”
“Oh.” His eyes are amused. “I’d find it very hard to believe someone could stop liking you, Shoshanna.”
My heart jumps hard like it’s trying to make a slam dunk in my chest. The teasing question comes out before I can stop it, “Does that mean you like me?”
His smile is sly. “Well, I certainly don’t hate you.”
For some reason, those words sound like a profession of love. I bite my nail to hide my own smile, then say, “I certainly don’t hate you either, Jake Kaplan.”
My phone buzzes, and I glance down, hoping for a text from my friends or my moms. But it’s not from any of them. My stomach drops as I look back up at Jake and say, “Myra wants to see us in her office.”
* * *
My thoughts race as we walk to Myra’s office in silence. I thought the event went well today, but what if I’m wrong? Is Myra going to ban us from the competition? Was it the book pyramid? Did she notice it fall?
Even though her office door is open, Jake knocks on the frame, and we wait for Myra to call out, “Come in,” before we step into the room.
“You wanted to see us?” Jake asks. His posture is stiff, uncertain, like he’s wearing a three-piece suit instead of his flannel. He must feel nervous as well. After all, he just told me how important this job is to him. What if neither of us can win the bonus?
I scoot closer to Jake than usual, close enough that I can feel the heat off his body, close enough to smell the lingering scent of rosemary that I now know comes from baking. It’s nice, standing this close to him, and it eases the tension gripped around my muscles.
“Yes, I did,” Myra says. I steal a breath as she clicks something on her computer and then slides off her pair of reading glasses. “I have some news. As you know, there are only two days left in the competition, so I wanted to let you know that you are both tied for first place.”
Shock pulses through me. I was not expecting that. “We’re… tied?”
Jake seems just as surprised but with a much different reaction. A small smile flits to his lips. He tries to hide it by covering his mouth with a cough, then not-so-coolly asks, “Exactly tied?”
“Exactly tied,” Myra confirms. She taps her fingers against the arm of her chair. “I’m impressed. Didn’t think I’d see the numbers get this high, even with the Childers event. But you both have been putting in a lot of hours and working hard on sales. Y’all are doing a great job.”
“Awesome,” I say weakly. Relief should be flooding through me right now. I wanted to prove I’m good at my job, that I’m a responsible employee, and that’s what I’ve done. But instead it feels like my almost surefire chance of winning the money to fix Barbra has slipped to 50 percent.
We don’t have the money, Shoshanna, Mom said. You’ll need to figure this out on your own. But what if I can’t? Barbra is dead in the driveway. What if I have to beg for rides not just for the next few days but for the next few months, the tension at home growing with each request? I want to make things better for my family, happier, like they used to be. I want to solve problems, not make them worse.
I tug on a strand of hair as Myra congratulates us again, and then Jake and I leave her office in silence. We walk side by side, aimlessly toward the back of the store. As we approach a shelf of box sets, Jake grabs my hand to stop us both. His hand drops away immediately after, but my skin still tingles from the short contact.
“Look,” he says.
And so I look at him.
I look at his lips and then his eyes and then for the first time I notice he has a crooked eyebrow. His left one kind of arches up at the end. And since when can eyebrows be attractive? But I guess they can be. I am attracted to Jake Kaplan’s eyebrow, and that’s something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life. “I know this money is important for both of us,” Jake continues, “but I feel like we’re getting along. I like you—”
My pulse skips. He likes me? As in likes me, likes me?
“—you’re funny and different, and I think we could be friends.”
Oh. Right.
Just one like. Not a like like. Because people don’t like like the funny and different girl, the loud girl who puts her foot in her mouth and then keeps talking, the weird, sensitive girl who wants to cry because her mom went out to buy milk but we already had milk. I clear my throat and try to keep my voice upbeat as I reply, “Sure. We could be friends.”
“Good.” Jake smiles. As always, it’s a great smile. I genuinely believe he has a shot at a very specific type of modeling for oral healthcare trade magazines. But at the moment, my stomach is too tense for smile-induced butterflies. “So let’s not turn this tie into a bad thing. We’ll both compete, and the best bookseller will win. Can we do that?”
I wish his words were something different. But being friends with Jake is better than fighting with Jake, and I know the next few days will be infinitely better if this is a friendly competition. “We can do that,” I agree.
He holds out his hand. “Friends?”
When I touch his callused skin again, an image flashes through my mind, Jake baking bread from scratch, kneading the dough with intense concentration. My neck heats as my eyes find his, and I say, “Friends.”
* * *
Lola Roman, Daniel’s girlfriend, has pink hair, wears thick glasses, and is four feet eleven and a half inches tall, which makes her exactly half an inch shorter than me, which means I love standing next to her. I also love standing next to her because she always carries extra gum in her purse and doesn’t make that big dramatic sigh some people make when you ask for a piece. Also, she’s a fountain of random trivia that always entertains.
“Did you know peacocks have a wingspan of up to six feet?” Lola asks as we roam the audiobook section.
“So they’re bigger than us?” I ask.
“Well, many things are bigger than us, Shoshanna. Ooh! I love this one.” Lola snatches a thriller off the shelf. “Gave me epic creeps. Didn’t sleep well for a week. It was awesome!”
Lola hands it to me as she continues to peruse the shelves. Having low vision, she’s an audiobook fiend. I asked her to endorse some choices for customer recommendations because I need to round out my full book knowledge if I’m going to beat Jake and his tablet quiz. I want to like audiobooks, but I always zone out after thirteen point eight seconds. I have trouble listening in class, too. If I’m not reading something, eyes on the page, it’s like the information goes in one ear and out the other. Or, it might not even go in the ear to begin with.
“Ooh! This one is a great romance. Very steamy.” Lola raises her eyebrows up and down. She has a tiny silver hoop threaded through her right brow.
She passes me the book as Daniel sweeps in behind us. “What’s very steamy?” he asks, and then grabs the book, An Extraordinary Seduction, out of my hands. “Ooh, yeah, this one was steamy. We liked it.”
“We?” I let out a short laugh. “Y’all listen to erotic romance novels together?”
Daniel wraps an arm around Lola. She leans into his shoulder, her tinted pink hair falling down between them. “It’s a great couple’s activity,” Lola explains. “You know, movies are expensive these days.” She says “these days” like she’s ninety, not nineteen.
“How are things going with the family in town?” I ask Daniel. He’s almost been working fewer hours than during the school year, and I miss seeing his face around the store all the time.
“Overall good,” he answers. “Though my parents are peak stressed. They drive themselves crazy trying to be perfect hosts.”
I grin. “I love your parents.” His parents are Once Upon regulars, especially his mom, who has become a graphic-novel enthusias
t like her son. I love when they visit the store. They’re funny and friendly and all-around awesome. Just like the son they raised.
It’s like all my friends have these perfect sitcom parents, you know, the kind that are always there when you get home from school and have dinner on the table every night, and you all sit down together and they ask about your day and really want to hear the answer. Cheyenne’s dad always wants to spend time with her, and her mom does as well. She’s onboard for all of Cheyenne’s hobbies, even beekeeping despite being terrified of bees, whatever it takes to spend time with her daughter.
And Geraldine’s mom practices new makeup techniques with her, and once a month they cook a bunch of food together for their church. And I always see Geraldine’s phone light up with texts from her dad—pictures of random hedgehogs because they have an obsession with hedgehogs and believe they’re cuter than every other animal in existence, including, yes, dogs.
And I’m sure their parents aren’t actually perfect sitcom parents because no one is perfect, but they’re around and involved and care, and my moms were always like that too. They attended all of my debate tournaments, until I quit in seventh grade due to a sudden case of puberty-induced stage fright. We went to synagogue together every other month so we wouldn’t look bad to the rabbi. And every now and then Mama would say “Screw it, let’s have cake for dinner,” and we’d head to Delights Diner, where Mama would get carrot cake, Mom would get chocolate supreme cake, and I’d forgo cake for the best slice of apple pie in the world.
But we don’t do anything together lately, not even Latkepalooza. And when we are together, the room crackles with tension so intense it makes my skin crawl. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. I want my sitcom family back.
“Hey,” Daniel says right after the store bell chimes. “Isn’t that your mom?”
“No,” I dismiss him, but glance toward the door anyway. “It’s only four. She’s at work, and she wouldn’t—”
But there she is, standing by the entrance, like I summoned her from my thoughts. She’s wearing her favorite slim navy trousers and this vintage white blouse I’ve always loved. She looks cool, mature, and hip, and I suddenly feel self-conscious of my daffodil-print dress even though it’s totally cute and I snagged it on mega-sale.
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