Chasing William (3 page)

I work at a bookstore so I have plenty of
time to feed my one line addiction. I usually carry a mini-notebook
and pen around with me so I can write down the good,
fortune-cookie-worthy lines, (At home I use a highlighter but
that’s frowned upon when you have to resell the books). I’ve been
working at my little bookstore since I started high school. It’s
buried in a strip mall and doesn’t do a very good business, but I
love it. I have plenty of time to look through books for lines that
could help make sense of things. The books haven’t been working
very well anymore either. I can understand that a little better.
Books require a little more effort than fortune cookies. You
actually have to hunt the lines down and I haven’t had much energy
for that recently. It’s still comforting to be around all those
words. I can re-shelve things, organize, price, read, and just stay
busy. It’s nice to breathe in the smell of books too; that is
another comfort. I’m not sure how I got my job at the bookstore.
The place didn’t have many employees and none of them were in high
school. In fact, I was the only real employee. The woman I worked
with, my boss, was also the owner and between the two of us we ran
a pretty great empty bookstore. We had plenty of regulars who came
in and bought lots. I guess those select few were the people who
kept me paid and the bookstore open.

My boss is named Mel. She’s older than me
but younger than my parents and a single mother of two. Her life
had been pretty tough from what I’d heard, but she was keeping the
ends together with the bookstore somehow. Maybe it was all the good
energy from the fortune cookie one-liners hidden in the books. As
much as I love Mel, I never really told her about my life. I always
felt if I reached out to her she would be able to help me. We could
commiserate about how difficult life was and then she’d give me her
secrets about how she survived. I just can’t manage to open up to
her. I’m not sure why. Every time I tried my mouth went dry and I’d
ask some stupid question about inventory or a weekend sale.

“Hey, Christine! It’s been awful not having
you around every day. With just me and the crazy customers I’ve
been starting to question my sanity.” Mel winks and I give the
obligatory smile. My heart’s not really in small talk this morning.
“There isn’t a whole lot for you to do today: a few carts to
re-shelve, just keep things looking neat and organized, you know
the drill.”

“Sounds good!” I try to look chipper, but
I’m really just ready for Mel to go back to her office. I love Mel,
I really do, but sometimes I’m just not up for spending all this
time around people, even people who have my best interest at heart.
I walk over to the back where our cart of new books is and I wheel
it out to the front as Mel walks to her office. I’m never sure what
she does back there. I guess even small businesses have a lot of
paperwork to catch up on, but I’m never sure quite what that
paperwork entails. Probably invoices and ordering, things that
don’t seem anywhere near as interesting as my job. Sure, shelving
books doesn’t seem exciting either, but it has its pluses. I get to
see all the new books the day they’re released and for a bookworm
like me that’s a pretty awesome perk. I also get to look through
all these books when things are slow, which is almost always. You
can tell whether a book is worth reading by looking at the first
page and the last page. Unless there’s a prologue or epilogue; then
you have to skip those and make your way to the real story.
Prologues and epilogues might serve a purpose in the story-telling
process but they don’t showcase anything. They’re too functional
for me, and they never seem to have those really great one lines to
take out and save. Not that there aren’t exceptions, but I’ve been
around books enough to know sometimes it’s better to just skip to
the real story.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

I set down the book I’m currently flipping
though and look up a little guiltily. Sometimes my brain tunes out
the bell above the door that signals a new customer. I do hate when
people ask if I work here or not. I’m wearing a name tag and
pushing a cart with a price gun in one hand. Do I not look like I
work here? I guess people just say it to be polite, so I give the
guy the benefit of the doubt instead of assuming he’s an idiot
right away. It’s always tempting to just think the worst about
people though, and usually saves a lot of time and energy.

“Yes, sir. What can I help you with today?”
I put on my charming work smile.

“Alright, well, I have a few questions if
you don’t mind. I don’t want to take you away from anything.”

“I think the throng of customers can wait.”
I look around the empty store sarcastically and he laughs even
though I meant it more as an insult than a joke.

“Yeah. Right. So, easy question first. Do
you buy used books?”

“Yes, but only on the first of each month
and only if they pass a quality inspection. They have to have all
the pages, front and back covers, not totally written over. Think
gently used.” There are few things in this world I hate more than
book buy-back day. The store gets insane and Mel is really picky
about the books she takes, which means people end up getting really
angry with her. The store is half-used, half-new books, and our
used-book section is supplied entirely by sell-back day books.
Trust me, the shelves stay full. We might not be busy most of the
time, but people come out of the woodwork on buy-back days. Mel
even has a first-of-the-month temp who checks bags as people leave.
It’s shocking the crap people try to steal. But I love used books
(without the people attached to them): they have a story inside and
out. It’s kind of cool to think about the story of the person who
owned the book. I bet some of those could be novels in their own
right.

“Oh, alright. Good to know. And do you
happen to know how much you buy for? About? Or does your boss have
a list somewhere?”

There’s another thing I hate about
customers. I’ve been working here for almost four years but because
I’m a highschool student this guy thinks I’m somehow incompetent.
I’m almost eighteen getting ready for college, and painfully aware
of the more tragic facts of life. I probably know more about the
real world than Mr. BookSellBack guy. Not to mention have our
buying prices memorized forward, backward, and in euros. Well,
fine, the euro part is a lie, but I still know what I’m doing.

“Well, I’ve been working here for over three
years, so I’ve had plenty of experience with buy-back days.” He
laughs and I really want to point out that wasn’t a joke. “What
kind of books are you thinking about turning in?”

“Mostly trade paperbacks, couple of
hardcover.”

“Okay. Trade paperbacks will get you $2. We
sell for $4-5 depending on condition. Hardcover usually around $5.
We sell for $10. Although it depends how new they are. You can also
trade in for book credit.”

“What’s that?”

“You can take a used book in exchange for
the one you trade in,like a lending library, but only up to five
books.” I’ve given this speech so many times I can put my brain on
autopilot. Only the regulars trade books. Everyone else wants the
money. They don’t really care about what they’re reading.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.” He doesn’t
seem to look too impressed. “And my last question, I promise. Do
you have any travel guide type books? I’m planning a cross-country
road trip.”

“Whatever we have will be non-fiction, but
you’ll have to look hard. We’re mainly fiction.” I walk him over to
the two sad shelves of non-fiction. “The used ones will be on the
other side, about the same place.”

“Well, thanks for your help.”

I can almost guarantee he won’t actually buy
anything. I turn to go back to my cart and the rest of the new
books I haven’t skimmed through yet.

“Hey, you ever been on a road trip?”

Really? People just can’t leave me alone.
“Sorry, I thought you didn’t have any more questions.”

He ignores my blatant bad attitude. Probably
a good thing for my job. “You look like you need a road trip. I
took my first one when I was about your age. They’re a great way to
find yourself. Get away from all that teen drama.” He winks like he
just said something secret and insightful. I decide he probably
doesn’t have any kids or he’d know that’s not okay. He doesn’t look
that old, early thirties maybe? I guess there’s still hope. It’s
fading fast though.

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.” I roll my
eyes once my back is turned to him. Just because you’re older
doesn’t mean you know best.

I go back to my book cart and after hours of
browsing the guy leaves. He didn’t buy anything. Called it. I lock
up after him and head to the back. It’s almost five but Mel’s still
hard at work on her invoices. I lock up the cash drawer and shout
goodbye before I leave.

My parents insisted on driving me to work
today and I’m not sure why. The whole thing is a little suspicious
and I fear the worst when they finally get here to pick me up. Both
of them. Mom and Dad. I work ten minutes away from home.

Both of them.

Mom and Dad.

I work ten minutes away from home.

They take a route out of the parking lot in
the opposite direction of home and I know it can’t be good. I’ve
been tricked. We pull up in front of a little non-descript gray
building and my fears are confirmed.

“We just think it’ll help.” My mom looks
concerned.

“It’ll only take 30 minutes.” My dad tries
to look helpful.

Grief counseling.

It’s official. My parents think I’m crazy
enough for a shrink. And they had to trick me into coming. I never
even said I’d refuse to go. Well, that was before this little game.
I’m gonna make damn sure I don’t have to go back. They lead me up
to the office and I feel like the picture would be more appropriate
if I were wearing a straight jacket. At least the counselor makes
them sit in the waiting room as I’m taken back to the inner
sanctum. The whole inside is painted a kind of sick-egg-shell gray,
the kind of color that’s probably been proven to keep people from
going insane. It just makes me depressed. Maybe that’s the trick.
The more depressed you feel the more you’ll come back and the more
money they get (probably to invest in a team that determines the
most depressing wall paint colors). At least it isn’t overly happy.
I think I’d be sick if it was overly happy. There are a few cutesy
animal prints on the wall. I think I’ll decide to hate those
too.

“So, Christine. You prefer to be called
Crissy, your mom told me?” The woman looks perfect, hair and nails
done professionally, skirt just long enough to be considered
appropriate. I hate her on sight. Even more than the pictures.

“You can call me Christine.” I give her a
charming work smile and sit up straight in the chair. I want to get
out of here with a recommendation that I don’t need to come
back.

“Alright, Christine it is.” She hates me
back. Good. “So, how are you doing after the death of your little
friend? Your parents seem to think you’re suffering.”

“I’m fine. It’s always difficult when we’re
confronted with proof of our own mortality, but I have faith in God
to give me strength. My grief doesn’t impact my daily life at all.
I get sleep, eat healthy, go to school and get good grades, work,
socialize with friends. Everything I’m supposed to do.”
Psychoanalyze that, bitch. I might not feel together, but I know
what I need to say to get out. Sure, lying is bad, but this woman
won’t be able to help me through it anyway. I don’t see the point
in being honest.

“Well, it sounds like you have a pretty firm
grasp on reality.” She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe
it. “Do you think you could benefit from one-on-one sessions?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. My
parents sometimes worry a little too much. But what’s your
professional opinion?” I give another one of my charming work
smiles.

“I think you’ll be fine. I hear his death
was drug-related. Does that have anything to do with you?”

Her question cuts deep, and my chest hurts.
All I have to do is walk out the door and I’m home free. William,
send me strength. That question was mean to hurt. I can see it in
her face. Just like Amanda. Once an addict, always an addict, so
why waste time trying to act like he was a person too? This woman
must be the world’s worst counselor. I won’t give her the
satisfaction of losing my cool.

“I don’t use drugs and I didn’t know he had
any at the time. I’m not really sure what that question is trying
to ask.”

“You’ll be fine. You don’t need to come
back.”

I walk to the car with my parents and carry
a glowing recommendation that I seem sane and don’t need to come
back. My mom isn’t convinced. I can tell by how she tugs at her
hair and tries to look at me in the rearview mirror. I don’t know
what she expects. People get upset when people die. She might just
think it’s weird I’m so upset about a guy I dated two-and-a half
years ago. I forget sometimes I kept people from knowing the whole
truth. Still, I try to act content until I have a chance to get up
to my room and get on Facebook.

Amanda is posting about another awesome
girls’ night someone had forgotten to tell me I was invited to. I
tell myself not to care, that there are more important things in
the world to worry about, but none of it helps. I think, no matter
how refined we get, no matter how rational or wise, something in
women is programmed to make us go emotionally haywire if we’re left
out or talked about. Especially if the one behind it is someone we
consider a friend. It’s not my fault, it’s my nature as a woman. I
sit at my computer for several hours and look at all my friends
proclaiming what a great time they’re having and looking through
pictures Amanda is uploading from her phone. I don’t even want to
deal with people right now, but I still feel upset at not being
thought of. I mean, come on, not one person there thought to ask
“Hey where’s Crissy?” I hate social networks. Not only can people
instantly tell how popular you are by looking at your profile, but
you can instantly tell how popular you aren’t by looking at your
news feed.