Recommended for You

by Laura Silverman

  “My mom likes you, too,” Jake replies.

  “Well, of course she does.”

  He laughs. “Of course?”

  “I’m a nice Jewish girl. What’s not to like?”

  “Mm-hmm, nice.” Jake knocks into my shoulder, then immediately reaches out to steady me, his hand pressed flat against my back for a quick moment before dropping away. “Kidding. You’re a very nice Jewish girl, Shoshanna. It’s indisputable.”

  I glow at his words. “Thanks.” I do try to be a nice person, even if I messed up on that front a few times lately. I’m going to try to do more nice things and fewer impulsive, foot-in-mouth things in my future.

  “How are, uh…” Jake scratches his neck, fingers dipped under the purple scarf. “How are things with your moms?”

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my dress. A year ago I ate dinner with my moms every night. A year ago the only fight in our house was over which movie to watch. A year ago we would take an annual skip day off of school and work to play mini golf and go bowling at Bonanza, a local entertainment center, and we’d also take last-minute weekend road trips to art fairs and flea markets outside of town.

  But lately there isn’t much of a we. And I don’t know if there will be again. And all I can do is wait.

  “Shoshanna?” Jake nudges.

  We enter the mall through the Macy’s entrance. Warm air blasts us, but I dig my hands into my coat pockets. “They’re going to do therapy,” I say. “After the holidays. So. We’ll see.”

  There’s a long silence, filled with nothing but our shoes clicking against the tile floor. We walk through the brightly lit cosmetics department. A woman attempts to spray us with perfume, but we both escape with a sharp left turn toward the main mall entrance. I’m a level-six perfume-spritz dodger.

  “Therapy is good,” Jake finally replies. “It’s good they’re trying. My dad… was never much of a trier.”

  Jake’s dad.

  I glance at Jake, at his tensed jaw and his hands fisted into his pockets. How have I never wondered about Jake’s dad? “Do you want to talk about him?” I ask.

  Jake clears his throat and looks down at his feet in this self-conscious way that makes me want to take his hand and hold it. I resist, because impulse control, but it’s difficult. I imagine my hand would feel quite nice cupped in Jake Kaplan’s.

  He lets out a slow breath and then says, “My parents were married a long time ago.” We walk into the main mall. Some of the stores are still shuttered, yet there’s already a throng of early morning shoppers. “They loved each other, but Dad was immature, to say the least. He never took anything seriously, even once I was born. He’d get fired for coming in late for work and then blame it on having another hardass boss. He’d use the grocery money to buy pizza instead of fruits and vegetables. Nothing horrible… just exhausting. Mom hoped he’d mature, but it never happened.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” I say. My shoulder presses into his because the mall corridors are already crowded with customers, definitely only because of that, and not because I feel angry for Jake, upset and hurt, and I want to comfort him in some small way. I can’t feel the heat of his shoulder through my jacket, but I can imagine its warmth.

  “Thanks.” He breathes out the one word and then shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he’s talking about some random person not his dad. After a moment, he speaks again, his tone a little rushed, worried. “He’s not a terrible person, you know? He made Mom pancakes every Saturday, and he made her laugh, and he loved her. But that wasn’t enough. They divorced when I was four.”

  “Is he still, er, around?” I ask, not sure the right way to pose that question.

  “Depends on your definition of ‘around.’ ” Jake runs a hand through his curls. “He lives in New Jersey, takes care of my grandparents, and still can’t seem to stick with a job longer than a few months. But he calls and sends birthday cards to me and some money to my mom, that kind of stuff. He’s okay.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty good,” I say, hoping my voice is bright when in reality there’s a lump in my throat. Jake deserves more than birthday cards—and, well, now selfishly I can’t help but wonder if that’s what I’m facing. Is that what divorce means? Phone calls and cards?

  Jake and I keep walking toward Once Upon, the crowds too thick and holiday music too loud now to continue our conversation. My fingers twist together. I don’t want to be part of some checklist: Water the plants, clean the bathroom, and call Shoshanna. If my moms get divorced, it could happen so quickly. One of them could move out. And then slip away entirely.

  * * *

  “Just a little more glitter…,” Geraldine murmurs, brushing it across the boy’s skin. He’s delighted, as any child would be now that they look like a fantastical woodland creature, striped with green shadow and gold glitter.

  “Impressive,” I say.

  “Very cool.” The dad nods in agreement, only 60 percent distracted by his phone. He glances at me. “I just take this slip up to the register, right?” He holds my QR code and a couple of books in his free hand.

  “Yep!” I reply. Since Jake stole my Shoshanna the Elf idea yesterday, I had to come up with a whole new plan. Thankfully, Geraldine had the morning off work and offered to provide face-painting services to customers, or, you know, the children of customers. Though Mr. Murillo’s granddaughter did convince him to get a very distinguished pair of whiskers.

  Geraldine adds a finishing touch of shimmer, and then the dad and his son head over to the register. For the first time in an hour we don’t have another customer waiting, so Geraldine turns to me and says, “Guess who reached out to me last night.”

  The answer is obvious. I rock back on my heels and ask, “Lucille Tifton?”

  “The one and only,” Geraldine confirms. She’s smiling, and her voice is upbeat, but a little bit of hurt still lingers in her eyes.

  My stomach knots. I still can’t believe I put my best friend through Internet torment hell. “And… what did Lucille Tifton say?”

  “She apologized.” Geraldine starts cleaning a makeup brush with a wipe. “She apologized profusely. Said sometimes she gets caught up in the Internet fury cycle, forgets how many fans she has and the power dynamic of it all. She regrets attacking me like that even if I had stolen her content.”

  “Oh,” I say with a hint of relief. “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” Geraldine finishes with one makeup brush and starts on another. Glitter is everywhere. Her fitted black sweater glimmers with a dusting of it. “So she’s taking her attack video down and is going to post an apology video instead, and she’s also…” A smile flits to Geraldine’s lips. “She’s also going to take me under her wing? Says she’s been wanting to mentor new YouTubers for a while now, ones who don’t have the resources she had access to. So she’s going to help me with my videos and even send me a bunch of free products!”

  “Oh my god!” I say. “That’s amazing! That’s like—exactly what you need to get started!”

  “I know!” Geraldine agrees. “She’ll probably send me more stuff in one box than I could afford to buy in a year. Being a beauty YouTuber is a rich person’s game, but I’m going to carve out my own space.”

  “Damn right, you will.” I glow with pride at my kickass best friend.

  Geraldine grins at me. “I feel like I should almost thank you for posting my video without permission?”

  “Please don’t,” I say quickly. “It’ll just encourage me.”

  We both laugh as two little girls trot toward us with their dad in tow. Their eyes widen at Geraldine’s case of cosmetics.

  “Ooh,” the older girl says.

  “Ooooh,” the younger girl says.

  “Ooooooh,” Geraldine says. “This is going to be a fun one.”

  She sets to work on the two girls, as I help their dad pick out books. After that, the flow of customers is constant. My stack of QR codes dwindles as quickly as Geraldine can apply eye shadow. And th
en Elliot shows up at eleven, breakfast sandwich in hand, and the two double-team the makeovers, raking in twice the amount of customers. Turns out Once Upon makeovers are much more exciting than standard blah Make You Up makeovers thanks to the help of copious amounts of glitter and colorful products turning kids into fairies, butterflies, and even a very impressive giraffe done by Elliot.

  Eventually, my stack of QR codes run out, so I head to Myra’s office. I glance down to find my dress shimmering and sparkling. I’ll be showering off body glitter for the next week. I’m grateful things worked out for Geraldine. I’m really happy for her. But there’s this catch at the back of my throat I’m trying to swallow away. Because things at home might not work out as easily.

  I spy Jake on the way to Myra’s office. He hasn’t interrupted Mission Makeover because he’s been busy with his own tactics. The store tablet is out once again, and there’s a small semicircle of customers gathered around him. I watch as he sends one customer off to the history section and the next to romance. He’s processing almost a customer a minute, which is way faster than the time it takes to turn a kid into a giraffe. Darn you, technology. What if Jake beats me and robots take over? Totally uncool.

  Jake waves off a third customer and then turns toward Myra’s office to find me in his path. He smiles as he walks over to me.

  “Fancy running into you here,” I say curtly, inspecting a biography of George W. Bush like it’s the most interesting thing in the world (spoiler: it’s not).

  “Good sales day?” Jake asks. His eyes are bright as they quickly inspect my dress. “Seems… sparkly.”

  “Very sparkly,” I answer. “And yourself? Having a good sales day?”

  He raises his crooked eyebrow. “Not shabby.”

  “You aren’t going to make winning easy for me, are you?”

  “Well, technically,” Jake replies, stepping forward with a conspiratorial air, “winning won’t be anything for you because I’m going to win.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh my god.”

  “Oh my hashem,” he corrects.

  “Jew joke. Nice. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

  “Hmm.” He tilts his head. “You think I’m a Gryffindor?”

  “Well, you’re not a Hufflepuff. And I thought you didn’t read the books.”

  “Yes, well I’ve been known to occasionally watch those newfangled things called talking pictures.”

  I snort. “Newfangled?”

  Jake laughs, and my skin gets all tingly, and we’re grinning at each other like fools. And wow, he’s so cute it physically hurts, like literally hurts my cheeks from smiling too much. The fact is, I’ve waded very deep into these crush waters, and there isn’t a freaking lifeboat or plank of wood in sight.

  I rock back on my heels and ask, “QR refill?”

  Jake nods. “Yup. Myra will be proud.”

  “The most proudest.”

  “Do you get that excellent grammar from reading books?” he teases.

  “Ha, ha,” I reply as we walk to Myra’s office. Her door is barely cracked, almost like she meant to shut it but didn’t pull hard enough. I go to knock, but I still when I hear two voices. The tense conversation coming out of the office reminds me too much of my moms’ fights at home. Jake gives me a funny look, but then the voices rise, and now he hears them too, Myra’s voice and the deep timbre of someone else. Myra’s husband, I think. He must be visiting. Are they fighting? Or…

  “How much?” he asks.

  “A couple thousand off, and even then it’s only temporary.…”

  “You think with the holiday bump it’s possible?”

  “It’d have to be a mighty bump.” Jake and I exchange confused looks as Myra sighs. “If we triple sales before closing for Christmas, and if we get that grant money this summer, we could stay open. Otherwise, Once Upon is definitely closing its doors.”

  Wait. What?

  Once Upon… closing?

  Cold shock washes over me. The catch that’s been in the back of my throat all day grows, and I choke back a soft cry.

  That can’t be right. Once Upon can’t close. It’s not possible. It’s just not a thing that is within the realm of possibility. Once Upon isn’t just a bookstore. It’s a community. It’s a home. It’s my home, the thing I can depend on, no matter what, even if I’m having a bad day, even if Barbra breaks down, even if—even if my moms get divorced, Once Upon will be there for me.

  It’s always been there for me.

  But now it might…

  I’m light-headed as Myra’s husband responds, “The store is packed. We could make it into the black and then figure out the rest in the New Year. Maybe there are other grants. It’ll be all right, honey. No matter what you choose. I love you.”

  There’s a long pause, but when Myra’s voice comes out, it’s soft and relaxed. “I love you too, Michael,” she says. Through the cracked door I imagine his arm around her as they lean into each other, knowing that no matter what, they have each other.

  “I need to head out soon,” he says. “Fluffy will want to go on his walk.”

  At that, Jake and I quickly turn and dart to the break room. Once inside, the door slams shut behind us, and my heart races, not from the run but from the news, and I’m breathing hard, and there’s this intense pressure pounding in my ears, and my head aches. “We weren’t supposed to hear that,” I manage to say.

  “Definitely not. You okay?”

  I look up and find Jake’s concerned eyes, and I shake my head and whisper, “No,” and that small admittance cracks something open in me, and I start crying, not much, just a few frustrated tears, and then my body gets all shaky like I forgot to eat breakfast, and maybe I did forget to eat breakfast, but how does breakfast even matter when my moms might get divorced and Once Upon might close?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, voice hitching. “I’m sorry. Sorry.”

  “Hey, why are you—don’t be—” Jake reaches out to me, his hands tentative on my shoulders, and I respond without thinking and move forward and burrow into his chest, getting warm tears all over his jean shirt, which for the record is just as freaking soft as it looks. There’s a short moment of hesitation, and then Jake’s arms wrap around my back, and he gives this deep exhale that vibrates through me, and he smells like maple syrup today, so sweet it makes me ache, and we stand like that for a long time before he speaks again, his mouth pressed against my hair. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, Shoshanna. Things at home are tough, and I’m sure hearing Once Upon might close is really hard on top of that. I’d be upset too.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  I allow myself to stay there in the warmth of his arms for three more seconds, counting them out, one, two, three, and then I slink away, back up against the counter, and hug myself tight. Jake stays where he is and tucks his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable but skin lightly flushed. “You think…” He clears his throat. “You think that’s what the bonus was about?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, but then the pieces click together. “Oh.” The bonus wasn’t about us or some fun holiday competition. It was to increase sales to keep the store open.

  I’m not oblivious. I know bookstores aren’t rolling in deep profit, but I assumed we were doing all right. How can we not be doing all right? This is Once Upon. It’s an institution.

  It can’t just be over. We can’t just let it go.

  My shoulders stiffen as determination edges into my voice. “We have to do something,” I tell Jake. “Save the store. Keep it open. We’ll…” I begin to pace around the room. “We’ll tell our coworkers what we overheard, and we’ll get everyone to help. Full-force bookselling. We’ll make a tactical plan, like it’s a freaking war, but a war for literacy and cute journals with cats on the cover, and we’ll—”

  “Shoshanna,” Jake cuts me off.

  “What?” I glance at him. His crooked eyebrow is raised, and my excitement plummets back down. “Right,” I say. “Okay. Maybe don’t t
ell our coworkers a conversation we weren’t supposed to hear. Probably not a mature move.”

  I can see him forcing back a smile. “Probably not.”

  “But I can’t just sit here!” I say, pacing again. “I can’t do nothing! Okay, what if… Okay, I know this is out there… but what if we talked to Myra? Told her we overheard her conversation and want to help?”

  “Yeah.” Jake scratches his jaw in thought. “That could work.”

  “Totally. It could totally work.” I press my hands together. “It has to work. We can’t let Once Upon become Ever After.”

  “That’s an impressive on-the-spot pun,” Jake says.

  “I know.” I nod, voice solemn. “But praise me later. We have a store to save.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There’s a clock in Myra’s office, a novelty item from the Time Stands Still movies. In the movies it sits on Sherriff Jacobs’s wall, hands frozen in place at 2:47. Until the last movie, when the town has been saved and is thrust back into movement, and the film closes on a shot of the minute hand ticking to 2:48.

  That novelty clock is ticking now as I wait for Myra to respond. One tick every second. I never noticed it before, but now the tick, tick, tick makes my hands itch for a baseball bat.

  I told Jake I wanted to do this alone, so he’s back on the floor, and it’s just Myra and me. I filled her in on what we overheard, and I pleaded the case and said we want to help. Now it’s silent, and Myra is sitting at her desk, silent, as the clock tick, tick, ticks. Finally, she shifts forward in her chair and sighs. “I didn’t want you to hear that conversation.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry. But we did hear it, and we want to help. Will you let us help? We can make that profit you need. I know it.”

  “It’s not only about the money.” Myra slips off her glasses so they hang on their pink crocheted chain around her neck. “This store takes a lot of work, Shoshanna. Even when we’re doing well, it’s a marathon, and I don’t know if I want to keep running.”

  “Please,” I say. “Just give us a chance! We can turn things around. I can get everyone to help.”