Paper Flyers

Chapter 9- Quinn

When I first walked into the bookshop, Winnie didn’t notice. She was perched halfway up the ladder, staring intently at the blank back wall, a cheap set of paints in one hand, a thin paintbrush tracing the lines of things only she could see in her other. She wore an oversized Mickey-Mouse sweatshirt, covered in paint smudges and bleach stains, and thick woolen socks that went halfway up her shins. A strand of bright red hair had wrestled itself free of her sloppy bun and now hung over her face. I didn’t want to disturb her, I wanted to sit there and watch her paint, see what came from the deepest parts of her mind. But then, I couldn’t help myself. I snuck over as quietly as I could, and gently brushed the piece of hair from her face behind her ear.

 She looked up, startled, but relaxed when she saw it was me. And I felt that I was the luckiest person alive. I was the one who made her feel better.

“Hi.” She said, her big, turtle-green eyes locking onto mine.

“Hello.” I answered, and I couldn’t help but grin.

There was some silence before either one of us spoke again, spent it looking at each other, but gradually both of our gazes turned towards the empty canvas that was the wall.

“What’s it going to be?” I asked. Winnie laughed, a high, light laugh.

“Well, that’s just the problem.” She said. “I woke up this morning with the irresistible urge to paint. So I rolled out of bed and bought the cheapest paints I could find. My neighbor next-door is a handy man, he helped me fix some of the lights when I first moved in. So I asked him if I could borrow his ladder. He told me to sit down while he got it, and he made me a cup of tea. Then when he left the room, his daughter walked in. She was about five or six. She asked me who I was, and I told her I owned the bookstore next door. Then she asked me if I had Magic Treehouse Books, because those were her favorite.”

I smiled at the way Winnie told stories, her eyebrows so animated, her cheeks glowing with excitement.

“I told her that I had the whole series. They were my favorite when I was little too. So when her dad brought the ladder over, I gave her my set.”

Winnie glowed with pride. She’d done what I knew mattered most to her, the reason she'd opened the store. I didn’t have it entirely figured out then, but I understood some of it. Her books were her insides; novels were her bones, romances her heart, and fantasies her lungs. She was made up of stories, and what she wanted to do was share them.

“That’s so great!” I smiled. “You probably made some little girl’s day.”

“But I haven’t even got to the best part yet!” Winnie giggled. "Her father insisted on paying me, but I wouldn’t let him. So he looked at me, stared me straight in the eye for a good minute. I was starting to feel a little awkward, but then he pulled back. He shook his head and told me I was too nice. Then he promised to tell everyone he knew about my shop! And his daughter said that she would too! Quinn, I might actually get costumers! This might actually work!!!”

I hugged Winnie tight. “Of course you will.” I whispered, the promise floating between us. “You’re gonna make it! It just takes a little while to get started!”

“You really think so?” She asked, her voice small and nervous.

“Winnie, I bet my entire Plath collection on it. Now about this wall…”

“I’m not sure yet. I don’t have any good ideas…”

“I’ve never heard a bigger lie in all my life. You’re full of them! I mean c’mon, Reed’s Reads? Not just anyone can think of that. Sometimes it just takes a little while.”

“It’s ok, maybe I’ll just do it later…”

“Winifred the book lover, you will do no such thing! If you want to paint, then you’ll paint. Don’t worry about me. See all these books? I’ll be entertained for months. In fact, I think I have a poetry fort in the back calling my name.”

She gave me a doubtful glance.

“Are you sure?”

“PAINT!” I yelled. Then I took off running towards my poetry hut. I wanted to watch her, but I had a feeling that she was embarrassed to work in front of me. So I got down on my knees and crawled into the poetry hut. I leaned back and opened up a Silverstein book. He’d scared me as a kid, but now I could relate with part of his story about the missing piece. I felt like I’d finally my own.

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Quite a few poetry books (and maybe a nap, I’m not sure) later I stumbled out of my fort and back into the real world. I walked down the hall quietly, the pictures that Winnie had recently hung of her favorite authors and incredible places staring out at me. Hidden in the small alcove by the window there was even a family portrait. She had been such a cute little kid, stubby fingers and chubby cheeks, same red hair she had now. Then I noticed her father. She was sitting on his lap. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but instead smiling down at her. You could see in every ounce of him how much he loved her, in the way he held onto her shoulder so she wouldn’t fall and in how his smile curved upwards as high as possible for her, the same way Winnie’s did for me. And I felt so sorry for her, that she had lost someone so important. I wished I could soak up all of her pain.

When I reached the wall I gasped and Winnie spun around, paint smeared across her cheeks and a few flecks in her hair.

“Sorry, I almost forgot you were here.” She said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I get a little absorbed in my work… What do you think? It’s not very good and I still need to touch up a few areas but-“

“It’s us.” I whispered.

And sure enough, it was. We sat in the middle of a forest exploding with colors so vibrant that Winnie’s red hair blended right in. We sat on top of a thick blanket of pine needles. She was on the left and I was on the right. Winnie had only painted our backs, making it look like we were watching a distant sunset. You couldn’t see our hands, but I knew without asking that they were touching, fingers interlaced and our palms sweating slightly. Next to her was a big stack of books, and on my side my bike was chained to a tree.

“Hope it isn’t too sappy or anything-“She started, but I cut her off midsentence.

“Winnie, believe me, I’m not just saying this. It’s perfect.”

“You really think so?” she asked, trying to wipe the paint from her hands but just managing to smear it.

“I think that if your shop doesn’t work out, and it will, you could be a painter. I think you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. I think you are smart and talented and so incredibly, genuinely kind. I think that your blush is the cutest thing in the world. I think I could die right now and I’d be ok. Finally, I think I’d like to invite you back to my house. Dinner and a movie on me?”

“I think I’d like that.” Winnie said, looking as happy as her dad had in that picture.

She set down her paints and climbed down the ladder. We stood together and stared at us. Then she grabbed my hand and we were flying out of the shop, towards my house.