"So where should we go?"
Brent sighed. "You're missing the point."
"What do you mean?"
"We're here to do what you want to do. It doesn't matter what I want."
"I don't believe you," I said. "There has to be some kind of catch."
"Remember when I took you to that deserted treehouse in the middle of the woods? Was there any catch to that?"
"Not yet, no."
"What do you mean, 'not yet?'"
"Well, maybe you're just waiting for the right moment to seek retribution."
"You paint me in such a bad light."
I shrugged and said, "It's nothing personal." Brent caught my eye and we smiled at each other.
"C'mon, I'm serious. Let's go do something. Anything. It helps get me out of the house."
"There are tons of things that get you out of the house," I pointed out. "Punching babies, vandalizing government property..."
"I just need to take my mind off some stuff at home. Now stop over-thinking things—I'm here, you're here. Let's go. The choice is yours."
I stroked my chin thoughtfully and asked, "What do you think about books?"
He picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on his jeans. "Oh, you know. They're flat, papery, they've got weird squiggles in them."
"So you like them?"
"I don't not like them."
"Good enough. I know where we're going."
"The lady has chosen!" He called out before striding over to the other end of the truck and climbing in. He started the engine right as I clambered into my seat, and soon we were off.
I guided him along, signaling him to turn with my hands while we talked. Soon we had arrived right at our destination. The Malaprop's sign hung above the door, lit up in harsh yellow neons that flickered and sputtered.
"Come on." I ushered him forward.
The darkness of evening had begun to settle across the town, and the lights from the open stores lit a fluorescent pathway for passerbys. I opened the door for Brent and received a quiet "thanks" as we walked inside.
We were greeted by the familiar sound of Rita shuffling around the store, muttering a string of cuss words under her breath. "Rita?" I called out, and set my bag on the floor by the entrance coat rack.
Her head appeared from behind a dark row of books, her hair tied back tightly in a familiar bun. A smile spread across her face, then fell again. "You don't work today."
"No, I don't. Rita, this is Brent." I gestured to Brent, who gave an awkward wave.
"Oh, well, welcome. Hi, Brent." She turned to me. "Showing him the magic world of literature?"
"Among other things. Do we still have some copies of Garrett?"
She stepped out from behind the books and set down the large cardboard box she was hefting around to stroke her chin. "I don't know. Feel free to check in the back, though."
I nodded before pausing. "Do you need help with that?"
She drew in a deep breath and let out the hollow, throaty laugh of a 30-year-old smoker. "Me? Nah, you're here on your own time. You kids go and submerge yourselves in the written works of history."
YOU ARE READING
Tourmaline
Teen Fiction"Some people are just simply and utterly unlovable." He fell silent. His breathing was rhythmic and manual, as if he had accidentally fallen asleep. I took a moment to listen to the soft whistle of his exhales, the sound of his fingers tapping a fas...
