I looked at him blankly, not unsympathetic but unclear as to how I could help.
“If you could just sit up front until I get back, that would be excellent.” He pulled a white hand towel out of his waistband and handed it to me. “You don’t have to do anything. I usually get some reading in.”
“What if someone wants to buy something?”
“Highly unlikely. Check it out,” he said, leading me to the front counter. “Cash register, coffee machine, phone.” Marco pointed at each item in turn, already backing toward the door.
“But—”
“I owe you big time,” he called out, breaking into a run as soon as he hit the sidewalk.
Silence settled over the bookshop. No doubt Marco was right; all I had to do was sit here and await his return. Downtown brushed right against the edge of campus, so it wasn’t even a very long walk. Climbing onto the wooden stool behind the counter, I pulled my backpack onto my lap. The biology worksheet didn’t appeal, and I felt I’d been punished enough without subjecting myself to Algebra II. Social studies would have to do.
I had just opened the battered textbook when the bell over the door jingled.
The bad news hit me in stages: Customers.
Plural.
And they went to my school, a place I’d hoped to erase from my consciousness until tomorrow morning.
Worst of all, there was a chance this trio of girls had actually witnessed my humiliation. The one in the lead had candy-red hair, a shade so distinctive I immediately recalled where I’d seen it before: at the table of glistening, giggling, popular kids. The who’s who of High School High Society had just walked through the door of Toil & Trouble. And they were headed straight for me.
I closed my book and set it aside. Maybe they were lost and had merely stopped in for directions. Any request I could answer by pointing should be within my capabilities.
“Hi,” said the one I mentally dubbed the Crimson Contessa. There was a subtle air of sophistication to her tortoiseshell sunglasses and crisp white shirt, not to mention the textured leather bag resting in the crook of her elbow. As often happened with new people, I imagined how she would be described in a book. Long-limbed and narrow, with pencil-thin brows and a severe bob, she stood with an air of ... waiting for me to respond to her greeting.
I inhaled too deeply, choking out a hello.
She smiled warmly before turning her attention to the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “How’s the Mystic Mayan?”
Using the contextual clues, I figured out she was talking about a coffee drink. “I’ve never tried it,” I said sheepishly. “More of a tea person.”
The Contessa’s cheerfulness was undimmed. “Okay. I think I’ll go for that one. Why not?” She bounced to one side, making room for the next girl, who had her back to me as she spoke to the third member of their party. This one was smaller in stature, with a softly rounded figure and an evident preference for pastels. Her long ash-blond hair was held back with a cheerful headband. The overall effect was sweet and feminine—the nineteenth-century ideal of womanhood.I’ll call her the Milkmaid,I thought as she turned.
It was all I could do not to take a step back. The look on her face wasn’t unfriendly, exactly, but the hawk-like brown eyes issued a clear warning.Don’t try any funny business.The adjective that came to mind wasno-nonsense,because clearly all nonsense had been glared into submission until it backed from the room on its knees, gibbering apologies. She slapped both palms onto the scarred wooden counter.
“Iced mocha,” she announced, and her voice matched her expression: forceful and businesslike, with a hint of rasp. Not a simpering Victorian milkmaid at all. She should be called Madam Something—Madam CEO, perhaps.
I was on the point of explaining that I had no idea how to make a mocha, iced or otherwise, when the third girl stepped forward. My eyes widened. She was sowinsomeandgamine, with high rounded cheeks tapering to a daintily pointed chin and huge brown eyes fringed in luxuriant lashes. Her black hair was abundant and wavy, falling around her shoulders like a dark cloud.
“I know,” the Contessa said, catching my eye. “She looks like a princess.”
My thoughts had been more along the lines of Natasha, the ingénue fromWar and Peace, but we probably meant the same thing. The Beauty looked at the floor, her perfect cheeks burning, and I had the revolutionary idea that it must be uncomfortable to be stared at all the time, even if everyone was doing so out of admiration.
“What do you want?” Madam CEO asked her shy friend, indicating the menu on the wall. This time I looked at it too, both because it was equally new to me and to give the Beauty a respite from being gaped at.
“Do you have any cookies?” She scanned the shelves of coffee accoutrements with a hopeful expression.
“No sweets, I’m afraid. Noreen—who owns this place—can only serve beverages. Her ex got the baking rights when they split.” In my family, this episode was known as the Great Used Bookstore Schism.
“Her ex runs a bakery?” Madam asked.
I shook my head. “Another bookstore, right across the street. Tome Raider.”
“Dramatic.” The Contessa looked impressed. “So is this like your afterschool job?”
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me. “I don’t work here.”
