The Falls > jariana

sixteen

Justin

Between mowing yards and training, there hadn't been time to hunt for the names of the Pratt children, especially since I didn't know where to start. But I wouldn't go to the falls empty-handed. Ariana was getting protein bars.

The Whole Foods store was crazy on Monday, as if everyone on this side of Raleigh had stopped in for heat-and-serve vegan meals. I walked past the deli and headed to the section devoted to energy bars. I liked to keep a stash on hand for those times when my parents forgot to get food I liked while grocery shopping. After today, Ariana would have a stash, too.

It was hard to know what she would like. Not peanut butter or chocolate. They might be too intense. Fruit might be good. Strawberry, apricot, or fig?

I got all three. She could toss them if she didn't like them.

After checking out, I walked out to the bike rack and stowed the stuff in my pack. As I was preparing to unlock the bike, I noticed a SALE sign on my mom's favorite store, Meredith Ridge Books.

A bookstore—where people bought novels.

The devil's missives.

Oh, yeah. Tonight, Ariana would have food and fiction.

It took about a millisecond for me to become obsessed with picking the perfect novel. I headed into the bookstore. The sci-fi section I could rule out. But what about the YA bestseller section?

I skimmed the titles, hoping for inspiration. It was a bust. Ariana wasn't likely to appreciate demons, cheerleaders, or zombies.

"May I help you?"

A clerk hovered at the end of aisle, which was convenient, for a change.

"Sure. I'm looking for a gift."

"For whom?"

"A girl."

"What age?"

"She's seventeen."

"Do you know what she likes?"

Here was the tricky part. I didn't, because Ariana didn't, either.

"She's been living in this strange outpost kind of place, where there aren't libraries. So she's probably open to almost anything."

"Fantasy? Dystopian?"

Okay, not specific enough. "I'm thinking late eighteenth-century novels. Maybe 1790s to 1810s."

"Ah, I see. That open." She wove her way to the back of the store and stopped. "Jane Austen? We have new copies, plus a few antique volumes."

I felt like smacking my head. "Perfect. Thanks." I waited to survey my options until the woman wandered away.

The bookcase had six shelves, one for each Austen title. There were dozens of copies of each book, organized from newest to most beat-up.

I read the blurbs. Persuasion won. Ships won out over creepy castles and afternoon teas every time.

So, new or beat-up? I picked up the oldest copy. Would this one feel the least strange to her? It had a torn-up leather binding. I checked the price and coughed. It wasn't cheap.

I carried my selection to the counter and slapped it down. The clerk smiled her approval.

After my afternoon training ride and cleanup routine, I went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. Mom walked in from the garage. Or maybe I should say, trudged in. Her face looked as gray as her scrubs. I now recognized the look. Someone at the hospice center had died. Someone she really cared about.