Janelle’s eyes flick to me with a tentative smile and then back to Clarke. “And what exactly is that?”
I decide to answer since I’m going to be the one training her. “We’ll start off with my least favorite job and one I cannot wait for you to take over, which is cleaning the bathrooms. Which means the toilets.”
Janelle wrinkles her nose. “I thought I’d be stocking books or something.”
I laugh and reach out to pinch her cheek. “Oh, precious child, there are so many things to do here at the bookstore. We’ll start with the toilets.”
♦
Resting my forearms on the checkout counter, I stare into the stacks where Janelle is stocking books. I enjoy watching her. She’s a young woman with an intense curiosity in everything she does and a surprisingly good work ethic for her age.
It’s true that I started off showing her how to clean the bathrooms. I exaggerated about the toilet part as Clarke has a janitorial crew that comes in the evenings. But every day, we need to make sure there is an adequate supply of hand towels and soap as well as make sure it’s generally tidied after use. If Janelle was relieved she didn’t have to scrub toilets, she didn’t let on. She listened intently as I explained what to do and where the cleaning products and supplies are located. Anything I’ve asked her to do so far, she’s done without a single complaint.
She is quiet, though. Since her initial gushing apology to explain why she was late, she’s definitely not the bubbly chatterer that Clarke and I are, even though we’ve tried to engage her in conversation. She’s polite but never volunteers anything. Clearly, she’s slow to trust others with who she really is.
In other words, she might be a tough nut to crack.
Her demeanor changed slightly, though, when we got to the actual book-related stuff that comes with working in a bookstore. The first thing I taught her was how to take a weekly inventory so we can match it with the electronic inventory tracked with software based on sales. I explained that very rarely are the numbers off, and when it does happen, it’s usually only by one book, once in a blue moon. That usually indicates someone has stolen something, which sadly occurs.
Funnily enough, Clarke and I have discussed potential ways to better secure the store against such theft. We could install detectors and put tags on the books, or we could install security cameras. Ultimately, Clarke decided, and I agreed, that if someone needed a book that bad and didn’t have the money to buy it, she would rather them have the book. That’s just the way Clarke is—and why she’s my best friend.
Now, as I watch Janelle unloading books from a rolling cart, I take pleasure in seeing the wonder in her eyes as she pulls out each one. These books have already been looked over for quality by me or Clarke and entered into our system as current stock. They now make the journey from the supply room to the stacks for customers to peruse.
Janelle looks at each cover, runs her fingers along the spine, and flips them over to read the blurbs on the back. Sometimes she frowns as if the book might not make sense. Sometimes she smiles in amusement, and one time, I catch her staring wistfully at a book, which I take to mean she’d love to read it.
I smile as she picks up the last book on the cart and gives it only a cursory glance before locating its appropriate alphabetical place. Before shelving it, though, she studies the cover and then flips it over to read the blurb. Her eyes twinkle in appreciation, and I can’t help but smile. It’s a romance novel written by Melissa Foster, the type of book a woman could get lost in with all the possibilities of finding not only herself but finding true love along the way.
I don’t read those types of books anymore. Not only am I a rich divorcée but a jaded one. Yet, I’m enough of an optimist to know that Janelle can make her own way when it comes to matters of the heart, and I would never say anything to crush her spirit. It makes me wonder if she’s read Melissa Foster before, or any romance, for that matter. When I was her age, I read everything I could get my hands on, even books I shouldn’t have been reading, which taught me more about sex than my mother or sex ed class ever did.
Curious enough about this quiet girl to ask her myself, I push away from the counter and head to the stacks where she’s working.
Janelle hears me coming, lifts her head, and flushes as I look down at the book in her hand.
“Do you like Melissa Foster?” I ask.
Janelle shrugs, a small smile playing at her lips. “I’ve only ever read one of her books before. A friend loaned it to me last year.”
I take the book from her hands and look at the title. Running on Diesel.
I admire the sexy couple on the front, especially the hero’s litany of tattoos that I suspect might tell the story of his life. Those tattoos are a far cry from what any Livingston would dare have inked on their body.
I flip the book over and scan the blurb. A secretive, brooding biker meets an untrusting waitress. Is their explosive chemistry enough to overcome painful pasts?
Sounds good. Improbable that true love can be found, in my opinion, but this sounds juicy all the same.
“Do you read a lot?” I hand the book back to her.
Janelle shakes her head as she slides the copy onto the shelf where it belongs. “There was never any money to buy books for pleasure. Riggs always sent me gift cards to Amazon for books, but I always needed to use it for stuff like shampoo and tampons. I was basically stuck with whatever the high school had available during the school year. We lived way out in the country, and my mom wouldn’t take me to the library in town.”
I frown, not liking what I’ve learned about Janelle in those few sentences.
She was brought up poor, which probably means her brother was as well. I’ve heard enough about the reclusive Riggs to wonder if this is why he’s reticent to get closer to the other guys.
Janelle was also deprived of one of the most basic pleasures a person can have in life—the ability to read and learn and feed that natural curiosity via any book pulled off a library shelf, all because her mother wouldn’t drive her into town.
And oh yeah… she’s definitely a romantic at heart.
I lean against the corner of the bookshelf, which is thankfully bolted down for stability. “Where were you raised? I detect a bit of an accent, but I can’t tell where it’s from.”
Janelle laughs. “I’ve been trying so hard to tame it too. I’m from West Virginia but directly south of Pittsburgh. So it’s sort of a weird mixture.”
“Morgantown?” I guess.
Janelle smiles mirthlessly. “The poorer part of West Virginia.”
I frown and tip my head to the side. “I don’t know where that is.”
“It’s pretty much everywhere,” Janelle says, as she blushes over her proclamation.
But she doesn’t sound piteous about her upbringing or where she came from or the lack of things she had. If anything, I sense a strong resiliency in this young lady. I suspect she may not have had the best upbringing, and I also suspect that’s why she’s living with her brother now. But I refuse to pry to figure her out. If she wants to open up, that’s awesome.
If she wants to remain private, that’s cool by me too.
“So, what do you think about your first day here?” I ask, moving the subject along. It’s almost quitting time, and I expect Mrs. Blair will pull up outside very soon. Janelle called her a little while ago, claiming she was more than able to walk herself home, but Mrs. Blair wouldn’t hear of it.