Fantasy/Romance
Date Published: Jan. 24, 2022
Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.
Achaiah knew the dangers of falling to earth for the love of his human, Nev. When Nev falls for her guardian angel, Achaiah, she is unaware of the danger that their love puts her in. That's why fallen angels have one rule: Never fall in love with a human.
Nev
“This is why I have no friends!” I screeched and slammed my door shut
simultaneously. My back kissed the door gently as my body slowly dripped like
fudge down to the floor. The soft thud of my body reverberated through my bones
as I connected with the floor. I need time to process. Why was this happening
again? She promised me it wouldn’t happen again, promised we wouldn’t be moving
again. I was silly to believe her and yet, I wasn’t lying when I said I had no
friends. I couldn’t pull a dollar out of my empty bank of friends. Perhaps a
small part of me believed she’d do this again and making
friends was just going to make matters worse for me.
I breathed slowly. I forced air in and out of my lungs. I focused on the
beating of my heart—the sound pounding in my ears as if I were listening to
someone’s heart beating through ear buds set deep in my ear.
I heard a small rapping at the door. It was faint enough to be the ruffling of feathers but it cut through the sound of my heartbeat. I pictured
her there with her hand still gently pressing against the door, waiting to be
hurled back into action. I knew she wanted to sit with me and explain. I
pictured her small frame staring at me, strands of her hair softly framing her
dewy faint face. I knew she wanted her chance to tell me why this was happening
again and give me some asinine reason that only made sense to her. I waited.
The feathers ruffled outside my door again.
“Nev, please open the door. I would like to talk with you.” She spoke
softly, an earnest whisper of despair. Most people raised their voice when they
were frustrated or angry, but not my mother. She did the reverse and spoke
softly.
It had always been this way. When I broke her beloved grandmother’s
favorite vase as a child, I remember she didn’t yell or scream. She was calm
and barely audible. “How did this happen?” she had asked staring at the broken
pieces of the vase that meant so much to her. The shattered pieces that
littered the floor were beyond repair. The faint sound of her question whipped
my soul. Her calmness was worse than any punishment imaginable. I could barely
understand her but it wasn’t her words that paralyzed me. The disappointment
punched me worse than a fist. I crumbled like the vase as she spoke. I mumbled that
I wasn’t watching where I was going. I turned the corner and hit the shelf.
Before I knew it, I heard the sound of glass shattering. It was the same sound
my heart made when she spoke. Even as I explained it to her it felt like such a
weak answer.
I knew she was upset but she refused to show any signs of it; refused to
get visibly angry. Sometimes I just wanted her to—I wanted to know she was
human. I knew I had disappointed her and that was worse than if she had yelled
or screamed. Yelling would have soothed the wound her disappointment pierced me
with. If she had just yelled, it would dissipate. If she yelled, I would know
she was upset and then we could move on. Instead, her lack of violent outburst
was a mask of disapproval. Her voice never rose to even a normal tone. Her
voice was soft velvet but her silent emotion was a rapier sword. I beseeched
her to get visibly mad, but she didn’t. At least, not in a way I would have.
I didn’t say anything now as she continued to softly knock on my door. I
moved to my bed and distracted myself with my bedspread. I liked the comfort my
bed provides. It’s soft and warm. I made a perfect nook that fit my body,
cradling me every night to sleep. Comfy in my nook, I took in the whole of my
room and inhaled deeply, feeling the air wash away the irritability and rush in
sensibility from a small river in my brain. I absent-mindedly played with a
frayed string on my comforter. It was curious how much stuff one person could
accumulate over the years. I had plenty of books littering every inch of my
room from my overstuffed bookcases to the paucity of walking space on my floor.
Stuffed animals—mostly bears—lounged comfortably on my bed in positions a
contortionist would be uncomfortable with and I had a few snow globes scuffling
with books for solace on a flat surface. My room was more a library than a
bedroom.
One thing was missing from the room I shared my books with, though.
Pictures. I had no pictures of smiling friends cascading around my mirror to
look at every morning when I got ready. There were no hidden pictures behind
the large stack of books, perched precariously on the edge of sanity about to
topple over into chaos below. There was no memorabilia of the ninth grade dance
to adorn my old wooden dresser, competing for face time against the yellowed
pages of books weathered from many years of reading. There were no pictures of
my first boyfriend with me smiling into the camera; oblivious I had one eye
half shut and two fingers dancing behind my head but laughing nonetheless. I
had no pictures of my best friend and me at a sleepover where we had our
pictures taken after a Halloween makeover. This was because I never went to my
ninth grade dance. I never had a boyfriend to wrap his arms around me while
smiling into the camera and I don’t have a best friend. The reason for this
tragedy was standing outside of my door trying to get in.
“Nevaeh, please let me talk to you.” Her voice pierced me.
I decided to open the door. My mom had called me Nevaeh, which she only
did when she was really upset, or really proud of me. Obviously, she wasn’t
trying to raid my room because of her motherly pride at me being the focal
point of some absurd bumper sticker about making honor roll. This fact coupled
with the fact that my mother was tenacious and would stand there all night like
a desert cactus prompted me to act.
“What”? I asked in a cold monotone. My voice harder than the feelings
coursing through me.
“I want to talk with you about this. I need you to understand why this
is happening.” She strode over to my bed, gracefully sidestepping the
hodgepodge of books on the floor like a ballerina and plopped herself down on
the edge with a slight sigh.
“Unless you’re about to tell me you changed your mind, I don’t want to
hear it. It doesn’t matter why you’re doing this, the point is you’re doing
this again.” I emphasized looking at her
sharply. “I should be used to it by now but every time this happens, I think it’s
the last time. Now, I obviously need to pack, do you mind?” I added petulantly
and wobbled over to the door, tripping faintly on one of my own books,
signaling I wanted her to leave so I could be alone and pack for our move to
Connecticut next week.
I already had a few moving boxes. I kept a stack in my closet behind my
clothes always waiting there for me in case I needed them to cart my books
around. I knew those boxes wouldn’t sit there too long. I should have kept them
out and already put together, tape holding them fully formed and ready for
moving. It had been less than a year and they would come out of hiding once
more to be taped up, tossed about, and ripped open like a gift.
“We’ll talk about this later, Nev,” she
said defeated as she gracefully walked out the door, respecting my wish that
now was not the best time to attempt reasoning with me. I restrained myself
from slamming the door and simply shut it with a soft thud. She knew I was mad,
I didn’t need to make it worse. If I had anything to say about it, we wouldn’t
be talking about this later.
We had moved about twenty times in my seventeen years of life. I would
like to say I was an Army brat but the sad truth was my mom was indecisive. I
was a senior in high school about to graduate in four months, and we were
moving again. Unbelievable. My life was like the seat on a Ferris wheel, just
when all was calm and the view was familiar, the wheel would turn once more,
spinning me to a new view of the world. She couldn’t even wait for me to
graduate—she had to move mid-year? The thought sent waves of anger through me.
I hugged myself as a chill swept through the still and quiet room.
If I thought about it rationally, what was I so upset about? I was,
after all, used to moving. Wasn’t that the reason I kept all my moving boxes?
This would just be one more landscape to view before the wheel turned once
more. It was like having a birthday every year. We all know it’s coming so
there’s no surprise to wake up and be a year older. Sure, some people look in
the mirror on that day just to see if there’s an old face staring back or one
that looks exactly the same as the night before. Most people don’t even tell
anyone about their birthday mirror ritual. It’s nonchalantly attached to a
daily routine like showering or brushing teeth. But every year on their
birthday, a familiar face glares back a fraction longer than the other three
hundred sixty-four days. For children, it’s exciting to scrutinize their face
to see if they look older and more mature. For adults, it’s a way to memorize
every new wrinkle, deep laugh lines, or anything else that would encumber the
sixteen year old at the grocery store from checking ID when buying alcohol.
Moving was a part of my life and trying to ignore it did nothing because
it was going to happen despite my protests. I was so used to moving that I
stopped trying to make friends. Elementary school was probably the loneliest.
Those are the years that not having friends meant I watched all the school kids
outside riding their bikes together, or running around their yards, or playing
soccer in the street. I sat alone in my room, watching from my window and
occupying my time with as many books as I could find. The sounds of childhood
roared just outside my window while I watched it speed by me, a spectator,
without participating. Sure, there was the occasional girl I would talk with in
class, but that was basically the extent of it. I stuck to myself and allowed
myself to get lost in the pages of my books.
Junior high school was a little easier for me. At that age, most of the
kids started going to the mall or to the movies with friends. I no longer had
to see it outside my window passing me by. I poured myself into my books. I
enjoyed living vicariously through the rich characters of my books—eventually
becoming my best friends.
In high school, dating was the thing to do. Just like junior high, I
didn’t have to see this behavior from my bedroom window. I was exposed to the
school hallway kiss now and again but my room was my solace and cocooned me
away from most of it. I could ignore the fact that I was friendless, save a few
books, but as a kid, the sounds outside would not allow me to forget. Those
sounds were a constant reminder I was missing out on something. What I was
missing I didn’t know. I can’t really miss what I never had.
During dinner that night, my mom and I ate in silence. I hurried through
my dinner so I could go back to my room. I wasn’t in the mood to hang out in
the dining room all night. I went into the kitchen and began doing my dishes.
The soap rapidly began foaming all over my hands like one of those fast forward
scenes in a movie. I was mesmerized by the rainbow colors. The foaming bubbles
grew exponentially and held my attention longer than necessary. When the
bubbles started to dissipate and I could see my hands clearly again, I realized
I was gaping at my mother’s hands. My hands were her hands. There was no
difference.
I peered over the counter and had a clear view of my mother eating
dinner at the table. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming feeling of pity for her
and it made my stomach turn. It was like watching a very private moment. The
feeling was overwhelmingly strong. She did nothing more than open her mouth,
slide a fork full of colorful pasta in, close her mouth over it, pull the fork
out and chew. It was banal but I couldn’t look away. There sat my mother—alone.
She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. She was just eating but I guess
because I knew how it felt to be lonely, I pitied her. If pity were even the
correct sentiment. I wondered if she had some of the same loneliness I had. I
stared at the white bowl she was eating from, the silver of the fork against
her pale skin, the utter loneliness of it kept me rooted to my spot.
My mother was a beautiful woman. Even at the age of forty-five, she was
a natural pearl among cultured ones. Her shoulder length, dark brown hair was a
tidy sleek waterfall, splashing daintily around her light moonlit skin.
Spending very little time in the sun, her skin was a painter’s canvas. The
little makeup she did wear only highlighted her natural beauty. Her eyes were a
piercing, golden brown and stood out in stark contrast to her milky skin. She
had an athletic body without effort. The most exercise she achieved was
climbing into bed but she looked as if her life were spent on a Stair Master. A
symmetrical smile and humble attitude only increased her beauty. She was
enviously beautiful.
My mom was not the kind of woman to flaunt her looks. Wearing dirty
sweat pants and baggy t-shirts, she could easily turn the head of a blind man
without intention. She was the kind of woman who made other women incredibly
uncomfortable and self-conscious. There was nothing pompous about her and if
given the chance, her character alleviated any panic reflex women had to hide
all the men in the room so there would be some left to share. She was oblivious
to the myriad of men staring at her daily or flirting with her to the brink of
imprudence. She was only ever cordial and politely tiptoed around the pool of
seduction poured before her. I admired this about her. She needn’t have to ask in order for the sun to shine attention on her. She could snatch almost
any guy she desired but she didn’t. This morsel of her personality was
endearing to most people, including me. Her personality was envious.
I looked away when she saw me looking at her, admiring her. I felt my
cheeks redden as though looking at my mother were a crime punishable by
imprisonment. She didn’t say anything to me. I finished the dishes and dried my
hands; her hands. Tears stung my eyes, the way cutting an onion did and just
like cutting an onion, I refused the tears their freedom to swim down my face.
I blew my nose and cleared my throat. I was sure my face was still red just as
I was sure she was looking at me. Thinking about my mom made me realize I was a
lot like her. She was lonely too. Maybe moving was her way of finding what she
was looking for. I felt stupid for getting so upset with her about moving. What
was wrong with me? My mom had never asked me for anything. I was ungrateful. I
was childish. I was selfish. I was a teenager.
“I love you, Mom,” I said as I stepped toward her and gave her a sincere
hug. I couldn’t help it. I needed to comfort her. Actually, I needed to comfort
myself. I just used the excuse I was trying to comfort her. My arms swam around
her tiny frame as I leaned my head gently on top of hers. Sitting, she was just
inches shorter than me.
Surprised by this gesture, my mom returned the hug with emotion. Her
head snuggled up to my chest and her arms connected around my waist. A waft of
her expensive shampoo met my nose and I instantly associated that smell with
comfort. It was the smell of my mother being a mother; caring for me when I
needed it. Loving me when I needed it. I sighed and felt shame again for ever
blaming her.
“I love you too, Nev,” she said earnestly as we unhooked each other and
I took my seat again. Her golden eyes seemed besotted with dark blotches
encircling them. I felt a pang in my chest, I hoped I hadn’t done that to her.
I hoped I wasn’t the reason her face expressed that sleep was more of a
suggestion rather than a necessity.
“I know you’re not moving to hurt me. I just don’t understand why we’re
always moving. I get cranky sometimes,” I offered remorseful for my outbursts
earlier. Granted, I didn’t like to move but I was not handling it like an
adult. I needed to start somewhere. I really desired not to act like a four
year old deprived of a shiny toy in the toy store anymore. At almost eighteen,
I needed to embody maturity.
She had carefully placed her shiny fork in the middle of her pasta dish.
The dish was still about half full, where my dish was already washed. She was a
slow eater. Her pasta was now dry with little bits of cheese encrusted into the
lines of the penne. “Sometimes, I don’t even know why we move so often, honey.”
Her voice was soft and drew my attention back to her.
This was an honest sentiment.
“Do you have a new job?” I wondered if this were the root of our move
this time.
“Yes, the housing market is better there.” Her eyes never left mine. She
wanted me to know that she cared but that this was still going to happen. “It
will be better for us there. With a rising market I think we’ll benefit.”
Mom was a realtor. She was a good one too. She had a knack for exploiting
the plot of the house instead of allowing clients to pass based on judging the
cover. She was rewarded for this and particularly enjoyed newlyweds.
The gratuitous hand holding and unbridled giddiness pleased her. She enjoyed
meeting new people during this hypnotic time in their lives. She always said
that finding a new couple their first home was better than the commission made
from the sale. I knew she meant this, too. She truly enjoyed finding the
perfect house for people. It gave her a sense of accomplishment as though she
were privy to the magical world where each newlywed couple lived. She helped
them find the place they would call home. She strived to make sure they were
both happy with their new investment. Often, she heartily laughed and regaled
me with stories of how the majority of the newlyweds she saw disagreed on
everything but the overall consensus was, if the wife was happy the husband
would be happy.
“Okay,” I finally said to her. What more could I say? We were moving. In
silence, we just stared at each other—two statues meticulously manipulated by a
photographer for the perfect picture. When I went back into my room, I packed a
little more and was somewhat eager to meet Connecticut head on. Maybe this move
would hold some unknown surprises for me I could not foresee and maybe mom was
right that it would be better for us. Maybe Connecticut would be the place I
called home.
* * *
The chain bookstore in Cheshire, Connecticut quickly became my raison d’être. During my first month of school,
I faithfully returned like a Labrador retriever after the school bell rang each
afternoon. That bell signaled the school day had finally come to a close and
summoned the beginning of my return to a home that I would have moved into if I
could.
The ringing of the school bell reminded me of the opening segment of the
Flintstones where everybody stops working to race home at the sound of the
bell. I looked around at the students and it was like watching a hornet’s nest,
which had just been disturbed by a toddler wielding a powerful stick. The
teenagers at Cheshire High School buzzed around erratically as though the bell
had puppeteered them out of their seats. I knew my bookstore wasn’t going
anywhere so I wasn’t manic at the end of the day trying to leave school. I
remained calm and waited patiently until the hornets were nearly gone from
their nest.
I had my own car so I was in no hurry to catch the school bus. My car
wasn’t that much to look at, a 2000 Honda Civic. The silver paint was still
glossy but it has been around for many miles. The inside looked like it could
use a good scrub and the leather seats were full of cracks from wear over the
years. The cracks reminded me of deep wrinkles in people who lived a lifetime
and had the stories to prove it. The car runs well enough for my needs and I
was grateful just to have my own transportation. I paid for it outright. My mom
made a deal with me that if I earned enough for a car, she would match me
dollar for dollar. I changed too many diapers to count while babysitting to
earn those fifteen hundred dollars.
Mom and I spent a Saturday together car shopping and we decided this one
was the right one for me. I knew it was right for me when I got in and found a
silver chain with an “N” charm on the floor of the passenger side—no doubt
forgotten by the previous owner. It was a sign. Superstitions are not my thing
and I don’t normally believe in signs, but this was so blatant, like driving up
to a stop sign, which had grown twice its size. I couldn’t ignore it. An hour
later, I was driving home in my new car. The “N” dangled nicely from my
rearview mirror and reflected beautiful spheres of color on the dull leathery
interior.
The bookstore I practically moved into was not far from school. It wasn’t
a popular hangout and for me that was part of the attraction. It was well lit
with tables and chairs in the café along with loveseats spattered here and there. I loved that I could walk into the fiction section
and see an open sofa chair just waiting for me. I knew every open seat and
every section by heart. After a month of spending my weeknights in its
contemporary chairs everyday after school, I started to know the crew as much
as the layout.
Ally was my favorite at the bookstore. Her black hair, consistently tethered
in two pigtails on either side of her head, was her signature cutesy style. She
had dark green eyes, almost black, which she colored with black eyeliner and
black lipstick remained on her lips like a tattoo…never fading. Black clothes
were the personal uniform she wore everyday with the same combat boots. She was
petite and so skinny that if she turned sideways, she disappeared. She had one
visible piercing in her nose. The piercing changed everyday. One day she
brandished a smiley face, the next a tiny butterfly, and the next a flower. I
began to wonder if her daily nose ornament decided her mood for the day or if
maybe it was the other way around. She seemed particularly cheery on days when
her nose was alight with a yellow smiley face. This almost confirmed my
suspicions but I kept it to myself.
Ally was nice and I found myself inexplicably drawn to her. She wasn’t
the conventional Goth, if that’s what she cared to be classified as. A broad
smile was often plastered on her face. Her intellect seemed to arise out of
nowhere and was somewhat shocking. It reminded me of my old doctor’s nurse. She
had such a high-pitched voice, you’d think she were a child. Whenever she would
speak I looked around for where that sound was coming from, even if she was
right in front of me. Her voice didn’t match her physical appearance. Ally’s
intellect didn’t match her physical appearance. I appreciated the understated
intelligence and was a little jealous. Her sagacious intellect was a given and
she didn’t have to work at it. I did.
“Your usual, Nev?” Ally asked in her signature upbeat and happy tone.
She didn’t even wait for me to respond, but began the process of preparing my
order as soon as she asked the question.
I went in spurts. I was either craving vanilla chai or Italian soda,
which kept my throat moist and from being parched. This week was a chai week.
Ally started pouring the creamy drink in a cup that exuded the character of a
little coffee shop. It was the kind of cup that people in movies indifferently
clasped to unwittingly flaunt the fact they patronized a trendy coffee shop and
supported legal addictive substances. For a brief moment, I pictured myself as
one of those actresses with a life that went along with the cup. The
quintessential actress was beautiful and strong with so much on her mind
because she led such a busy and productive life. She deserved to hold that cup,
a beacon of status. It told everyone she was a woman with purpose, a woman with
character, a woman who knew what she wanted and fearlessly attained it.
“Absolutely,” I
replied absently, even though my chai was already in the process of being
ensconced by my hand. I slowly drifted out of my daydream back to reality where
it’s ornately obvious I had nothing in common with an actress and where anyone
eyeing me with that cup would instantly recognize me as a fraud. “Thanks, Ally.
Hey, what’s different about you today?” I was completely back in reality at
this point. I looked at Ally for the first time and couldn’t help but notice
something was different. Her makeup was neatly painted beneath her
shoulder-length pitch-black hair that was perfectly plaited and perched on
either side of her head and a rainbow design was solidly spiked through her
left nostril. Yet, something was off.
Ally smiled at me. Her smile was genuine—it reached her eyes. “I wonder
what it could be,” she said sarcastically and raising her eyebrows, not willing
to offer even a crumb of a clue. Her smile didn’t match her appearance. It was
like trying to mix plaid with polka dots.
Ally’s very Goth appearance made people think she’s a downer or severely
depressed—dressed darkly all in black, except a small patch of color shining
from the rainbow bar in her nose. At first glance, it would seem impossible for
her to smile or that she would want to smile. I could picture people shying
away from her—judging her—because someone who looked like her surely couldn’t
smile, as there was no hint of happiness in her attire.
I took a slight step back to fully consider her. My left leg snagged
slightly on something sticky on the floor as I slid back. “Uck,” I croaked as my
shoe made that obnoxious sucking sound. I looked down quickly to free my shoe
and then back up at her, my attention already waning from whatever was on the
floor. I focused. I even put one hand on my chin, resting just my forefinger
for extra emphasis as I surveyed her—head to mid torso. Everything below her
torso was hidden behind the counter that acted as a wall between us.
My eyes were drawn to a shiny rectangle on her shirt. Her nametag read Ally Morgan in black letters as it always did. Underneath her name in
smaller black italics was her title: Assistant Manager. This was new. This
was what changed. Managers were required to wear white collared shirts and Ally
was now wearing the wardrobe of an assistant manager. It would have been more
prominent but as she was working the café at the time, her apron covered much of her clothes. The
black shirts she usually wore, covering her like a second skin, would now only
be worn for leisure. She was required to look more professional as a manager.
This suited her. The shirt really brightened her whole appearance. I can’t
believe I didn’t notice right off.
“When did this happen?” I inquired with a hint of excitement. I took a
sip of my chai and noticed it even tasted better with her good news.
“Today! I have been working toward it for a while though. They’ve been
training me every opportunity there was. There was finally an opening when
Terri left. She graduated from college and is moving on so that meant I could
fill her place. I’m still getting used to my new authority,” she joked and
tilted her head back slightly, as an overhead announcement called for a manager
at the front register. “That’s me,” she straightened up suddenly serious with
her eyes signaling the sound coming from above, as though someone higher up
were literally calling to her. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit. I’m off in two
hours, I’m sure you’ll still be here.” She bounced out from behind the counter
and walked toward the front registers with energy.
I watched her walk through the café toward the front registers. Even from behind she looked
managerial.
She wasn’t amiss with her comment either. I usually stayed until the
bookstore closed. It was my ritual. School. Bookstore. Home. Bed. The cycle
repeated itself five days a week. Predictably, I sat in my preferred seat in
the corner. It was a light blue single chair sofa and had a hole on the left
arm that was continuing to fray. I often picked at it and was probably part of
the reason it had gotten bigger. I pried open my current reading material: Anna Karenina. I brought my own book, of course. I often wondered how many other
people visited a bookstore just to keep the chairs company and enjoy the café drinks. It seemed a strange
habit. I shrugged and to anyone who may have looked over at me at that moment
would have thought I was engaged in a conversation with myself. This made me
chuckle as I scanned my page for where I left off.
Frequenting the bookstore to read was my favorite way for me to relax.
It allowed me the opportunity to sit by myself and live in worlds that weren’t
mine, yet were exciting, intriguing and sometimes maddening. Home easily
distracted me. The bookstore allowed me to indulge my senses. I was able to
concentrate here even with all the distractions. I sometimes obediently
finished homework, finding it took much less time than at home. The bookstore
was a deep ocean and I was a mermaid refusing to return to land.
I was completely oblivious to civilization when Ally sat down across
from me at the end of her shift. Two hours had passed in the real world,
minutes passed in my ocean. I sensed a presence and looked up. Sheepishly, I
folded my book and placed it in my lap. “How long have you been there?” I
smiled a little embarrassed knowing it had been a while.
She grinned at me and looked at her wrist. She was sans watch so it was
only ceremonial. “About an hour,” she joked.
“You’ve been staring at me for an hour?” I asked incredulously. “Why
didn’t you say anything?”
“Well I did but I don’t think you heard me so I just finished up some
paperwork and came back over just a little while ago. I figured you were at a
good part,” she smiled.
Desperate to put this scene behind us I said, “so tell me about this,” I
pointed to her white shirt keen to change the subject.
“I love it. I get to tell people what to do,” she ranted excitedly. She
smooshed her lips together making one thin solid black line. “The reality is
that I have a lot more work and not a lot more money. It’s good though. It’s
what I’ve wanted for a while now. I’m happy they gave me the chance.”
Retail was hard work. I knew there weren’t high wages in retail but I
was glad Ally liked it. I couldn’t think of a better place to work than a
bookstore though if I were to ever work retail. I would probably get fired for
reading on the job.
“I’m making more than the high school kids now so that’s something,” she
chuckled as she continued. “I have some interviews lined up this week to take
my place here.” She pointed to the counter in the café where I was so used to seeing her.
“The café isn’t too busy so it
doesn’t need to be full time but hopefully I get someone good.” She looked past
me at a customer behind us. She scratched her head gently as her eyes settled
on me again.
I’d only known Ally for about a month and “known” was an overstatement.
We hadn’t met outside the bookstore and I hadn’t seen her at school. I knew she
was around my age, so I wondered if she went to a neighboring school. We
chatted frequently; every now and then she cheerily joined my table and offered
me a free drink in return for fifteen minutes of company during her break. I
was certainly not against getting to know her better. She was likable and against
my better judgment, I actually conceded to maybe beginning a friendship. Maybe.
Tonight we had the opportunity to spend a little more time talking. She
didn’t have to get back after fifteen minutes because she was done for the
evening. Ally was easy to talk with and I enjoyed her company as much as I
enjoyed watching her plaited pigtails bobbing up and down when excitement
escaped her tiny body. I learned much more about her during our time that
evening. She was seventeen years old and an emancipated minor.
“That explains why I haven’t seen you in school.” I said, a lame
response to being told someone was emancipated.
She nodded but didn’t offer a novella of detail about her home life
before the state of Connecticut deemed her worthy of being an adult. She did,
however, inform me she graduated from high school with honors at sixteen, the
same year she became an adult, and started working at the bookstore. She also
surprised me by telling me several Ivy League schools offered her full
scholarships. She never intended to go to college and wasn’t going to take them
up on their generous offer to attend school with all expenses paid.
“Why not?” I couldn’t help but ask. The disbelief in my voice and face
weren’t hidden well. A full scholarship was drool worthy in my world.
“It’s just not me. I like it here,” she said, looking around the
bookstore as if it were a castle and she a princess who had been rescued. Her
apron was her crown and she wore it with pride. I didn’t press the issue.
Clearly, a girl who was emancipated at such an early age had more going on than
could be seen.
“I would love to get a scholarship to a school,” I said. “My dream is to
go to college and put to use all the books I’ve been reading my whole life,” I
chuckled.
I didn’t divulge much more about me. I preferred to listen. I interjected
only small pieces of information about myself but not enough for her to write
my memoirs. Ally didn’t seem to notice my scant biography. She spoke happily
without asking too many questions.
“So what do you like to do at home?” I was the one who asked the
questions. As long as she was talking about herself, she wouldn’t think to ask
about me.
“Not much. Just listen to music, paint and watch TV.”
I couldn’t wrap my head around this girl sitting in front of me watching
TV or painting. It didn’t make sense. “What do you like to watch?”
“I love documentaries.” She shared eagerly. “Did you know that honey bees
are dying at a scary rate, which has been having an effect on our ecosystem?” She
asked excitedly.
I shook my head.
“It’s true,” she continued. “Scientists are trying to find ways to raise
their numbers because they are so integral. Who would have thought a bee was so
important?”
“Did you know that coffee is actually very good for you? They say you
should drink it every day for optimal health,” she relayed changing to another
topic.
I didn’t know that coffee was good for you. I always heard caffeine was
bad but I’m sure everything in moderation as the saying goes.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to reading,” she offered after we had
talked a fair amount. My book had been residing in my lap the whole time.
“Ok, well have a good night,” I replied as she rose from the chair and
inclined her head toward me to say goodbye.
I stayed in that seat at the bookstore until it closed. I finally made
it through Anna Karenina. That was my goal for the evening and I was happy I’d accomplished it.
I hated starting a new book while in the middle of another one. I did it rarely
when I knew I just couldn’t get through the book. Anna Karenina was definitely like
that for me. I started to read it three times and failed to finish it each
time. I read to the same part and then lost interest. The book became like a
toddler’s toy that’d been tossed aside, only to find it later in an attempt to
regain that initial excitement. After reading greedily once more, I tossed it
aside like a rag doll and focused my attention on the newest toy. This time I
decided I was finally going to finish it and was proud of myself for meeting my
goal. Books should be read for enjoyment. This time it was a personal issue for
me and I was determined to get through it.
At home in bed that night my thoughts turned to Ally. I didn’t know if I
was judgmental or just comparing, but I kept thinking about what I would do if
I were blessed with her brain and her potential. I knew I wouldn’t spend my
life wasting away as a manager at a bookstore. Not that she was wasting her
life, she was still young like me, but it didn’t seem like Ally had plans.
Maybe it was because I didn’t yet know her well enough. That was judgmental
though, I really shouldn’t judge. I don’t mean to be that way but I don’t know
what she’s been through. I just know that if I were given the opportunity to
attend college for free, I would take it as a gift and never return or exchange
it. Maybe she was happy and did have plans for the future. Who says college is
the only route in life? It is only one option.
These thoughts swirled through my head as I pulled the covers up to my
chin. The geometric shapes from the lights outside my bedroom window danced
along the far wall of my room. As thoughts of Ally, college, Connecticut, my
mom and coffee cups swirled in my head, sleep came to me at last.
That night I dreamed I was a rich heiress. On the streets of Paris, I
walked like a supermodel—conceited, poised, and confident. Suddenly, I was at a
little street café, one of the cafes
brilliantly crafted in a Thomas Kinkade painting. Small, unassuming, and warm.
I asked for black coffee to go and was given some in a dirty Styrofoam cup. I
held the cup in my hand and peeked behind the counter at the elegant coffee
cups lined up in a tower climbing toward the ceiling. I wasn’t presented with
one of those. I dropped the cup and screamed as it shattered like glass on the
hardwood floor of the café, no longer Styrofoam but rather a fragile substance. I
awoke sharply and sat upright in bed, my heart pounding and beads of sweat
creating a partial halo around my forehead. The geometric figures still floating
on the wall alerted me I was only asleep for a short while. After a few
minutes, I settled back down into bed removing the comforter from my body a
bit. I could feel the sweat on my body cooling in the ambient temperature of
the room. Recalling the dream, a small audible chuckle escaped my mouth as I
realized that even my unconscious knew I didn’t deserve a fancy coffee cup.
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