She pulls open the door. “You can come in, if you want.”
After ensuring the lid is tight on my cup, I enter the store. It’s a bright, well-organized place with hardwood floors and shiny bookshelves organized by theme. A petite woman with short, spiky blond hair and torn jeans approaches from the back room, carrying a cardboard box.
“Hi, hon. How was your day?”
“Fine.” Clover gestures to me. “This is Nell, from school.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen in surprise as she sets the box on the counter. “I didn’t know you were bringing a friend home.”
“We’re not…uh, friends.” Clover shuffles her feet. “We just ran into each other at Dream Bean.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Nell.” The woman extends her hand with a warm smile. She has bright blue eyes like periwinkles. “I’m Fern, Clover’s mom. And yes, it’s okay if you roll your eyes at the plant names.”
“My grandfather was a botanist.” Clover hands her mother one of the coffee cups. “Thankfully I’m an only child, or I could have ended up with a sibling named Weed.”
“More like Galium mollugo.” Fern smiles. “What year are you, Nell?”
“Senior.”
“Ah, that’s exciting and probably scary all at the same time.”
I shrug, since I’m not really sure it’s either one. I don’t see my life after graduation as being much different than it is now, aside from the fact that I’ll be taking classes in college rather than high school. A lot fewer people will know my story, too, but most everything else will be the same.
Except Darius won’t be here anymore.
I take a gulp of coffee. The liquid burns my tongue.
“Where do you live, Nell?” Fern cuts through the tape on the box and opens the flaps.
“Over on Dearborne. The big Victorian that looks like it’s haunted.”
“Oh, I love that house.” She removes several wads of paper packaging. “It has such fantastic character. I’ve always wanted to live in a haunted house.”
I can’t help a small smile. “Me too, actually. It would make life interesting in a different way.”
“Exactly.” She takes a stack of comics out of the box. “You’d always be reminded that there are things in the universe we can’t always see or even understand.”
Yes.
“You don’t need to live in a haunted house to know that.” Clover hitches herself onto a stool, brushing her hair away from her face. “You just have to live.”
“But sometimes we forget, don’t we?” Fern sets the box on the floor. “That there’s a thin veil between this world and another world.”
I step closer to the counter as she sets out the new comics. “What made you open a comic book store?”
“I’d always wanted to start one, but I got married right after college and never had the chance. So after we moved here, I thought I’d give it a shot.” She looks around the store, her blue eyes gleaming with both pride and a touch of sorrow. “It’s been a lot of work, but so far, so good. I’ve always been a huge comic book geek. I still am, obviously.”
“Nell likes graphic novels,” Clover says.
“Oh, that’s one of my personal favorite genres.” Fern indicates a shelf stocked with graphic novels. “I took a course in college on the history of graphic novels, and I learned so much. Art Spiegelman’s Maus was the book that really launched the genre into the public consciousness. Have you read his series?”
I nod. I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a college course on graphic novels. “They’re amazing.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“Not really.” I shift my weight, not sure what to make of her frank attention and interest.
I don’t like it when Darius asks questions about my likes and dislikes, but he’s so penetrating, as if he can read a thousand things in one answer. As if he already sees so much more than what I reveal. Fern, on the other hand, just seems friendly. Open.
“I don’t actually know a lot about graphic novels,” I finally admit. “I haven’t read that many.”
“Stop by when you have more time, and I’ll show you some of my favorites.”
“She means she’ll talk your ear off,” Clover says with a smirk.
I decide I wouldn’t mind having Fern talk my ear off.
“Maybe I will stop by.” I hitch my book bag over my shoulder. “I have a few more errands to run, but it was nice meeting both of you.”
“You too, Nell.” Fern glances from me to her daughter and back. “You’re welcome any time.”
Pleased at the idea of returning to the warm, cozy store, I head back outside. After picking up a few things at the drugstore, I go into Aladdin’s Lamp and wave at Mr. Pendleton, a white-haired older man who co-owns the bookstore with his wife.
“Hello, Nell.” He smiles in greeting. “Glad you stopped by. We just got in some new art books.”
“I’ll take a look, thanks.”
I study the New Releases and select a couple of women’s fiction novels before making my way to the Art section. I find two promising titles—one about sketching on location and another about creating an artist’s journal—and add them to my stack. On my way to the cash register, I stop at a shelf filled with stationery and art supplies.
As I analyze the differences between several sketchbooks, the bell over the door rings. In response to Mr. Pendleton’s greeting, a familiar, deep male voice says something about an order of photography books.
I peek around the shelf. Darius approaches the counter, pulling his wallet out of his jeans pocket. I don’t know what he does after school, but he usually doesn’t show up back at home until close to dinnertime.
“They’re ready to go.” Mr. Pendleton bends to pick up a large box.
“I’ll get it.” Darius steps forward to heft the box onto the counter.
“I just need to ring one through the system.” Mr. Pendleton opens the box and removes a large, shiny black hardcover. He turns to the computer.
Darius glances in my direction. “Hey, Nell.”
“Hi.” A little embarrassed at being caught watching him, I shift my books to my other arm and walk to the counter. “What book did you order?”
He takes another book from the box and hands it to me. The cover has a gorgeously stylized photo of a camera against a black background.
The Art of Photography by Patrick O’Hare.
Just below the title is a quote: A beautiful combination of technique, history, and creative expression, O’Hare’s book is the definitive new bible for all photographers. –Darius Hawke
He would not make such an endorsement lightly.
I flip through the thick, glossy pages. The stunning photos of glaciers, remote villages, and sunsets appear almost three-dimensional. The Table of Contents is encyclopedic, with chapters on everything from the elements of composition to color, filters, prints, techniques, equipment, and creativity.
“This is incredible.” I run my hand over the shiny cover. “How many did you order?”
“A hundred.” He gives his credit card to Mr. Pendleton. “Twenty are for your art class, and the others are for the introductory photography classes, plus Hannah and whoever else wants one.”