“I’ve got it.” With my declaration, Brie unties the chocolate-splattered apron and holds it out, but I decline her offer. “I’ll collect some dinner for us after I finish.”
She tilts her head, skeptical. “On your bicycle?”
“Pizza delivery. Extra pepperoni for the boys.”
“Thank you.”
But really I should be thanking Brie because Saturday nights with her crew are the highlight of my week. I’ll spend an hour cheering while the boys play hoops to give Brie and Ethan some much-needed couple time. A win all the way around.
My iPad propped on the counter downstairs, the store empty, Ibegin writing an email to the bookseller in Boise, inquiring about where she obtained the copy ofBambi. It’s a favor I’m asking—most sellers won’t give out this information—but Brie said she’s purchased books from this lady before. Perhaps she’ll tell me as a courtesy.
I start searching again for articles about Schloss Schwansee, but I’m obsessing now, hunting for answers I don’t need. Moving on is what I need to do, at least in my mind, or I’ll be stuck here all night.
Slipping around the counter, I begin shifting beanbags back into place, reshelving books that have wandered. Inkspot is asleep in the corner, probably exhausted from the dozens of hands stalking him all day. I understand. Too many people, for too many hours, exhaust me as well. My sister and Charlotte are the only adults who don’t wear me out after an hour. And they are the only ones who understand that I still adore them, even when I need my space.
Family, I guess, is supposed to be like that.
Brie and I have the same father, but we have different moms. Brie’s mother ran away in the middle of the night, about six months after Brie was born, and never seemed to look back. Iremember her vaguely, an apparition who haunted my mind until I found out that she wasn’t my biological mom.
I don’t look anything like Sandra Dermott, the woman who gave me life, nor do I look like my father. But Brie and I, as different as we are, look just like sisters.
Rumors fester and grow in a town like ours, but if people whisper any longer about the Randall girls, I’m not privy to it. Unless their parents have told them stories, the kids who crowd my floor each Saturday don’t know about my broken family, and most of the students from Brie’s and my school days have since moved to the big city or a state farther south where the sun shines warmth for most of the year.
When Brie and I were kids, our father was on the road most of the week and often weekends as well, driving a tractor trailer. On my eighth birthday, he decided that he didn’t have the extra cash for frivolous things like child care while he was traveling. For that matter, he didn’t have much time to care for his kids when he was in town, but at least an adult was home those nights and brought us an occasional bag of fast food.
So I moved into the mother role for Brie, out of necessity. In hindsight, the state should have stepped in, but back then I didn’t know that kids could borrow another family for a season. I made up all sorts of stories when adults asked about my father, because I’d somehow gotten it in my mind that Brie and I could end up in prison for being home alone.
Charlotte—Mrs. Trent to me then—never once shamed us. She offered Brie and me a safe place to spend our after-school hours. On Sundays, when the bookstore was closed, she invited us to church and into her home. She and Mr. Trent didn’t have children, and for all intents and purposes, Brie and I didn’t have parents. A match truly made in heaven.
When I was ten, Mr. Trent passed away, and after his funeral,I marched into Magic Balloon and informed Mrs. Trent that I’d decided to adopt her into our family. Ridiculous, looking back, but she didn’t laugh at me. Instead she said that it wasn’t often someone had the privilege of being adopted twice.
Our dad died when I was sixteen, Brie fourteen, and Charlotte invited two bewildered teenagers to come live with her. We both helped her with the bookstore each afternoon during high school. That switched to full-time after I graduated, working at the store to pay for my tuition at a local university called Mount Vernon Nazarene.
It took me six years to obtain my degree in English, but late into the night, when I couldn’t sleep, I delved into web design so I could launch a site for the store. The web experience proved to be just as valuable as my degree. Instead of leaving Mount Vernon like my high school friends, I opted to stay working here, helping Magic Balloon thrive. Brie headed up to Michigan for college and returned home four years later with a husband who adored her.
I’d so wanted a family of my own, like Brie, but men had terrified me during my college years. I deftly warded off any potential dates by proclaiming the supremacy of my busy life, and I think I terrified a few college men as well by seeming indifferent to their interest. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m protective of my heart, not indifferent, but during my early twenties I didn’t waver far from that facade.
Five years ago, Scott stopped by Magic Balloon in search of a gift for his niece. He worked remotely for a tech company, and our website, he said, needed some work. After I assured him that anything Fancy Nancy would jockey him into position for uncle of the year, he gave me a few tips on how to update our site. Then he invited me to dinner.
Initially, with our conversations focused solely on the website, Scott and I became friends, but as the weeks went by, we fell into something else. I thought it was love—and he declared it to be so. But I was wrong, and the loss just about crushed me.
The shopkeeper’s bell rings, an old-fashioned chime to remind our customers that we retain old-fashioned customer service. Several children walk through the door.
Two tween boys ask me about a creepy kids’ series they say they’re dying—lots of snickering—to read. I explain politely that we don’t carry any books in that genre. We have to draw the line somewhere, I tell them, and we’ve decided that there’s enough horror in real life for some children. No more reason to add to the fear.
One of the kids, the older boy with bangs hinged up like a ladder, pushes back, saying there’s no problem with pretend scary. Smiling, I start my well-rehearsed lecture for such a time as this.
“Books are a lot like food,” I begin, stepping between the boys and the exit. “First is the healthy stuff that most parents want their kids to read. Some of it tastes great, others perhaps not so much, but it’s good for the body and mind.”
Hands stuffed in his pocket, the hinged-bangs boy is not buying it, so I continue on. “Next there’s brain candy, the sugary sweet stuff that tastes good going down, but turns into a bellyache if you binge.... And then there’s the poison.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Kids need to eat real food for their bodies to grow, not the pieces of poison left out for, say, rodents.”
“There’s nothing wrong with rodents—”
“I think some books for kids can damage a perfectly good brain.”
