Where Nobody Hides [Dave Franco]

chapter two • dave

don't ask why - my bloody valentine

One would think that, by being in college, one would have an ample amount of things to do during the summer—internships, jobs, parties, etc. etc. If that were the case, then I must’ve been in the bathroom when they were handing that stuff out because, so far, all I had been doing was reading book after book, attempting to begin writing the screenplay I kept telling myself I’d write, sleeping ‘till one in the afternoon, binge-watching shows on Netflix, and blowing the money that I always seemed to have too much of on choice marijuana and other useless shit.

 Undeniably, I lived an incredibly privileged life. With my mother being an established writer and my father a highly successful entrepreneur, I had more money than I knew what to do with. However, I tried actively to avoid the arrogance that came along with being your average rich white dude; most of my clothes and possessions were of good quality but did not overtly exude the fact that I had probably spent a decent amount of money on them, I volunteered at an animal shelter whenever I could and donated money to places that needed it, but most importantly of all I was acutely aware that I really did have it good and would not take it for granted.

 As a result of my efforts, I actually did have a few solid friends, and everybody else just felt indifferent towards me. After all that, though, I still preferred the company of myself to the company of others. Which that, and my insatiable need for more books, explained my driving out to this random-ass used bookstore in Menlo after four straight days of holing up in my house doing the aforementioned inane activities. I had heard countless good things about the store, so I deemed it worthwhile to change out of my pajamas and put on some real clothes, gearing up for the just over ten minute long trip out there. After all, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

 When I arrived it was mid-afternoon, which probably explained why I was miraculously able to find parking in the back of the store. I parked my car and got out, taking in my surroundings: a tiny but beautiful garden to the left of me overflowing with nature—huge, vibrant flowers amongst elegant foliage, yet somehow with enough room to have a few comfy-looking chairs placed amongst it. Behind the garden was a small building with an open door that appeared to have shelves of books inside. I smiled appreciatively—it was already my kind of place and I hadn’t even been inside the store yet.

 Excitedly, I walked to the front of the main building and went inside, stopping immediately in my tracks when I first saw the overwhelming amount of mismatched bookshelves crowded together to form a sort of maze with a floor lined by ratty Persian rugs and a nearly threadbare blue carpet. The musty smell of old books was so strong it was almost unbearable, but because of where I was, there was nothing I wanted to smell more.

 “Hi, I’m Fiona. Let me know if I can help you find anything,” a voice said to the left of me, shocking me out of my trance.

 My head snapped over to look in the direction of where the voice came from, and when I did, my gaze was met with a pair of hazel eyes belonging to a brunette girl roughly my age that sat behind the cash register. She was gorgeous with unblemished, lightly tanned skin framed by wavy shoulder-length hair and had bone structure so good that I couldn’t help but take notice of it. However, the energy she gave off was harsh in a kind of way that rendered her untouchable—someone to be admired from afar, but never up close because you knew the inevitable rejection would hurt more than anything you’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where this impression had come from; maybe it was the way her lips curved into a just barely condescending smirk at the bewildered expression I undoubtedly wore, or maybe the way she sat: leaned back casually in an office chair, with a copy of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar in her hands, like I was barely worth her attention because she wanted nothing more than to get back to her book. In that sense, she took after my own heart, and I liked that, out of all the things I could have found distinctive in her, a love for reading was one of them.