Recommended Reading

5. Show Me the Money

5

Show Me the Money

“I’m asking you to work a cash register, not perform open-heart surgery,” Gladys says. “I told Andrew you weren’t ready. I knew it was too soon. I’m going to show you one last time. Try paying attention for a change.”

Gladys hammers through her instructions again as she jabs at the ancient register. It isn’t far from something you’d imagine seeing in a museum or a saloon. I have a pad with notes scribbled down but they’re nearly incomprehensible. I own a cell phone. It’s not like I don’t know how to use technology. I really don’t understand how Corner Books can survive with such an old machine that works counterintuitively to every other device on the planet, a comment that could apply to the register or Gladys. The old machine and the old employee must have made a pact to hate on the new guy.

“D’ya got it yet?” Gladys asks. “Those shipments in the back need unpacking. I can’t stand here all day until this simple task sinks through your skull.”

I don’t got it. But I’m not about to admit that to old Gladbag as I’ve nicknamed her.

“Of course. But are you sure you should be moving around boxes?” I ask, hoping she’ll take me up on the unspoken offer for me to do the unboxing. “I mean, they might be too heavy for you.”

“Man the cash,” Gladys commands and stomps away.

Since I started, Gladys has been the one to train me. Uncle Andy works in the back office, only coming onto the floor when needed. Mainly I’ve been told to focus on stocking shelves and keeping the place tidy. Several times a day, Gladbag presents me with used textbooks and makes me assess their quality for buybacks and resales. When she told me I’m a harsher judge of the condition people keep their books in than she is, I figured I’d finally impressed her with something. I’ve watched the door a lot, waiting for customers to appear. According to Uncle Andy, things pick up closer to the start of the school year.

I might have also hoped that Luke would reappear, but no luck. Not that I expect him to show up again. But meeting him was the most exciting part of working here so far.

But if he did show up, then what? I crossed Truman’s name off my Summer of Bobby list, so there’s an opening. But my gaydar didn’t go off with Luke despite my being intrigued by him. On top of that, Luke made it clear that romance isn’t his thing. He’s probably busy with guys like him and activities like ultimate frisbee or hacky sack. Clearly, I’m not versed in what straight college guys do together, but I don’t think I’m far off. He’s not thinking about the fat gay guy who works at the used bookstore who gave the new guy in town a book.

Unbidden, Dean Perez’s warning about keeping my nose clean and staying away from boys comes back to me. One more reason I should forget Luke.

The bell above the door tinkles and I see Mya’s caramel spiral curls bouncing in. “I’ve got Gladys’s scone and your macchiato,” Mya says.

“I could use the caffeine.” I reach out and take a swig from the paper cup.

“Long day?”

I nod, not daring to bad-mouth Gladys in case she overhears.

Mya leans across the counter. “She’s not all bad. I’m not even supposed to deliver, but Gladys has been tipping me with graphic novels. How can I say no?”

“DC, Marvel, or non-franchise?” I ask.

“I’m not an amateur. Hit me with a deeper cut,” Mya says.

“I’ve got a few recommendations,” I say, ready to find Mya’s next perfect read.

“Next time. I’ve got to get back,” Mya says before she goes.

I find a stool tucked under the counter and pull it out. The leatherette has peeled back in one area, exposing the compressed foam underneath. It’s not the most comfortable and it’s kind of small for a thick guy like me, but it’s better than standing. I pull out my Summer of Bobby list from my pocket. First item: a job. I’ve got one but it’s far from perfect. I make notes on how to make the best of Corner Books.

First hurdle: Gladbag.

Second, if I’m being honest with myself: me. I’m not exactly nailing my role as a star employee. I can’t work the register and there don’t seem to be enough customers to justify my working here.

Third, and it’s a big one with a lot of appendices and notes in the margin: Corner Books lacks the refined style that screams Summer of Bobby . If Uncle Andy sprang for a new sign and some new décor, shelves that matched, and a curtained area to hide the worse-for-wear used books, then maybe I’d have an enviable job at a cool store. Maybe we’d be able to get customers to stay and browse. But every time I bring it up to Uncle Andy, he tells me we’ll talk about it later or that Corner Books can’t afford my taste.

I’m adding to my notes when I hear someone clear their throat. I jump. When I look up, for some reason I expect to see Luke.

The person opposite me is not Luke. But it is a guy. I’d guess he is about ten years older than me. He moves his head and his hair sways across his forehead before it hangs back in his eyes. He smiles and even though one tooth is noticeably crooked, it’s kind of cute.

The guy tilts his head and his crooked-tooth half smile and swishy bangs have pulled me in. If this were a period romance, I’d have a marabou fan and bat alluring eyelids at him while music swells and we’d spend the evening making eyes at each other across a crowded ballroom. He did materialize as I was pondering my man problems, after all.

“Hey,” he says.

I slip off the stool. “Hey. Can I do something for you?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. “I need change for the meter. Mind helping me out?”

“For sure!” I begin to push buttons on the keyboard. The dumb register doesn’t even have a touch screen. The monitor keeps flashing with options. I keep hitting buttons. I don’t know how I do it, but the cash drawer pops open. I narrowly avoid it smacking into my belly.

“Quick reflexes.” He places the twenty down on the counter but keeps his hand on top of it.

I feel my lips pull up. Why, my good sir, are you being forward with me? Never before has a guy complimented my reflexes. I’m almost certain this is a meet-cute. The type of story we can tell our grandchildren.

I grab four fives from the till.

Our hands brush as I count the bills out. His hands are rough and rugged. I’m not sure if a hand can feel swarthy but if it could, his would.

“Five. Ten. Fifteen. There’s twenty,” I say.

He reaches for the pile and lifts one five-dollar bill. “Do you mind giving me some coins?”

“Right!” I say a little too enthusiastically. Meters don’t take paper cash. I should have thought of that.

He slides the rest of the bills into his pocket.

Our hands touch again as I drop the coins into his hand. So, so swarthy.

“Don’t forget your five,” he says, holding out the bill.

“I nearly did. Thanks.”

“Later.”

“Hope so,” I say, realizing as it comes out of my mouth it’s kind of desperate, but the guy is already heading out the door.

I go to put the five into its slot and it dawns on me, I never took the twenty. I check and double-check, making sure it didn’t fall onto the floor. I move the stool and crouch to peer under the counter. I can’t find it. I counted the money out right on top of it. He must have pocketed it without realizing.

I race around the counter and out the door. The little bell rings.

I stare one way down the block and then the other, but the guy is nowhere in sight.

Good sir seen across a ball straight out of a historical romance, my fat ass. That was no meet-cute. He’s a charlatan! A swindler! He ripped me off!

I stomp over to the nearest trash can and give it a kick. Then another and another and another. All I accomplish is making my foot sore.

As I gingerly trudge back into Corner Books, shoulders stooped, I try to remind myself it’s only a couple of bucks.

Except, it’s not. It’s knowing I’m a sucker. It’s knowing I believed, even if only for a brief instance, some random guy could walk into Corner Books and see me and like me. Love at first sight and all that. I remember Dean Perez’s warning about boys.

The worry that every time I ever feel something for a guy it will end badly creeps into my mind. I know that sort of feeling isn’t helpful. It doesn’t get a comeback accomplished. It can only make me feel bad for myself, cause a relapse into my Danish disease. Normally my defenses are higher, and I can push a feeling like that down, ignore it. I need to be the peppy, helpful, bookish, fat, and confident gay guy around Little Elm if I’m going to salvage the Summer of Bobby. I don’t have time for being some foolish romantic loser who no guy likes. Maybe Luke was right, love and romance aren’t the answers to every issue.

Gladys is waiting for me inside. “You never, ever, ever leave the cash drawer open. Never mind leaving the store unattended. I’d ask what you were thinking, but were you thinking?”

“I was scammed,” I mutter. “I’m the victim of a crime.”

Her eyes soften from a piercing gaze to a scowl. “What happened?”

I tell her, rambling on about the guy’s crooked tooth and swarthy hands and how I thought he was flirting with me. She listens without any comments until I’m done.

“You’re a victim of your own stupidity,” she says once I’ve finished.

“I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were, so stop acting like it. If it were up to me, I’d fire you. Too bad I can’t. Nepotism got you this job. Nepotism will make sure you keep it despite your screw-ups.”

“Nepotism didn’t do anything for me. Andy isn’t even my uncle.”

“Whatever, Robert. Take it up with your not-Uncle Andrew when he gets back in. Better he hears it from you than from me.”

I already feel like crap without Gladys’s mean comments. That guy took advantage of me, but I did mess up. One more notch on the bedpost of the Summer of Suck. I can feel my biles going haywire.

But Gladys doesn’t lessen her onslaught. “I obviously didn’t train you well enough even though a high-achieving chimp could have understood the job. I’ll handle the cash. You go over to those shelves on that wall,” she says, pointing. “Make sure no books slipped behind the others and that everything is in alphabetical order by author surname.”

I nod.

“Do you know the alphabet, or do you need me to teach you the song?” Gladys asks.

I purse my lips. “I know the song.”

“Good. Get to it already.”

I spend the rest of the afternoon rewinding and replaying everything that happened over the last few weeks. The more I think and the further I go back in my memories, the worse I feel. First, Truman. Then this crooked-toothed crook. Dean Perez was right. I’m not exactly great at picking love interests. Where guys and I are involved, I should get me to a nunnery.

I’m not sure what to say to Uncle Andy except for the truth and that he shouldn’t have been so quick to hire me. Maybe I’m not cut out for the nine-to-five grind. Retail must be built for people named Gladys and Robert, not for chubby bookworms named Bobby who convince themselves some guy is going to come through the door to woo him and loses money instead.

It’s clear: this is not where I’m meant to be. I’m supposed to be at Campus Books. I’m supposed to be walking amidst the high-gloss polished floorboards. Between the mahogany shelves. Conversing in a corner with the book club crew over what next month’s pick should be. Poring over the Reading Festival plans while a certain someone leans close and whispers something in my ear, a suggestion of more poetry for me to discover. But they’re just baseless dreams.

I’m brought out of my reverie by Gladys sniping at someone that is not me. It’s the first time in a week. I walk to the end of the stacks and poke my head out.

“You’re not being very helpful,” a woman in yoga gear says. She has a tight ponytail high on her head. She glistens, which is almost the same as being sweaty, except attractive. “The book went viral last week. It’s all about finding pleasure.”

Gladys screws up her face like she sucked on a lemon. “We don’t sell books like that. You might try a different type of store. There’s one a few blocks over.”

Now the woman screws up her nose. I’m sure I too look equally disturbed.

“No. Not like that. Everyday pleasures. Like the cereal made from berries and coconut water,” the woman explains.

The cereal! I know exactly the book she’s looking for!

I race through the stacks. The bell above the door tinkles. I find the self-help section and scan the spines. Ah-ha! I pluck a book from its spot, a small jolt shooting through my fingers. I charge to the front of the store.

“If she isn’t clear on some substantial and identifiable details,” Gladys says to Uncle Andy, who has returned, “I can’t help her. I don’t have a crystal ball or the power to read minds. I certainly wouldn’t be working here if I did.”

“I’ve got it!” I call, waving the book in the air.

The woman beams as I hold it out to her. As she reaches for it, I notice she rubs her thumb across her ring finger. There’s a band of white, shiny skin that isn’t tanned like the rest of her hand.

“This is it!” she says.

“Lizzo was eating the cereal on TikTok, and the foodies went nuts for it. I knew exactly what you were talking about as soon as you said berries and coconut water. I can’t imagine it tastes anything like cereal. Personally, I’m a Lucky Charms fan. Love a rainbow marshmallow.” I turn to Uncle Andy. “It’s our only copy. We should order more. It’s supposed to be the hot-girl-summer self-improvement read.”

“Let me ring you up,” Uncle Andy offers. “Good job, Bobby.”

“Are you new?” the woman asks me.

“I started last week,” I answer.

“Don’t finish ringing me up yet,” she says to Uncle Andy. She turns to me. “Besides Lucky Charms and Lizzo, what else do you recommend?”

Uncle Andy looks from the woman to me, “You got this, Bobby?”

I look at the three adults standing there watching me and nod, my biles settling themselves. “I got this,” I say. “This way.”

“I’m Cindy,” the woman says as she follows me down one of the aisles. I glance back and see her absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her finger with her thumb again as she looks at the shelves we pass.

“Did you lose your ring, Cindy?” I ask.

She stops and stares down at her thumb pressed against her ring finger. “No,” she says, drawing out the word. “My husband.”

I turn around and can hear my mom in the back of my head chiding me for what I’m about to ask, even though Cass herself would have opened her big mouth too. Some people call it nosy. I call it curious. “Like, lost … to another woman?”

Cindy bursts out laughing. When she’s done, she wipes tears from the edges of her eyes. “Gosh. No. High blood pressure.”

I swallow hard, knowing I stepped in it. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Cindy says still laughing. “It’s the sort of thing he would have asked. He had zero tact too.”

I want to tell her I have some tact, but … maybe I don’t. I’m not exactly the type to shrink into the wallpaper.

Cindy continues, “But he made up for that with loyalty. I only recently stopped wearing my ring. It’s awkward trying to date when you’re still wearing your wedding band.

“How about a yoga book?” Cindy asks, reaching for a nearby title, her thumb still tucked tight against her ring finger.

Things come into focus in my mind. The yoga clothes. The cereal. Self-improvement books. Dating. She’s ready to put herself back out there. The wounded widow finding love again is a romance staple. Cindy is a slam dunk. I will help her learn to love again just like I’m sure her dead husband would want her to.

But the way her thumb keeps going toward the ring that is no longer there makes me hesitate. I can’t say why, but Luke’s words come back to me again. Maybe Cindy needs a different solution.

But then, what do I recommend?

I suddenly remember a book I read at the end of middle school. The author happened to be passing through Little Elm during the festival, and I convinced Cass to buy me a copy after hearing him speak. I know it won’t be as easy a sell as the yoga book or a romancing-the-widow novel, but something tells me this book might be a better fit.

“Follow me,” I say.

We go to Fiction: J–M. I stroke along the spines of the books looking for the one I hope is there. Fortunately, we have a copy of All My Friends Are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman. Uncle Andy really does listen when I tell him to stock a book. It’s about a man without any superpowers whose wife has been ordered to forget him by her superhero ex, and he needs to convince her to remember their time together before she moves on and he loses her forever. It’s not exactly a romance.

As I touch the spine to pull it off the shelf, it almost tingles in my grasp before I hand the slim book to Cindy. I feel like even though Cindy expects herself to move on, much like the characters in the novel, she might not be ready. I know barreling through, pretending as if the pain isn’t there doesn’t get rid of it. The yucky stuff sticks around and waits until your defenses are low before showing itself. Healing takes its own time, whether the reason behind it is hypertension or rogue unicorns and broken windows.

She holds the book back out for me. “I don’t know.”

“Trust me. This is the one for you.” I know from the way she’s finally stopped fiddling with her ring finger, it’s what she needs.

THE SUMMER OF BOBBY

(AKA Bobby Ashton’s Plan for the Perfect Summer Before College)

? Land the Perfect ANY Summer Job: Corner Books

???? Play nice with Gladys (NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE)

???? Become a star employee (GETTING THERE!)

???? Overhaul Corner Books’ image

???? Land the freshman liaison gig for Big Summer Reading Festival

???? Make festival SICKENING (see: Bobby Ashton’s Plans for Little Elm’s Big Summer Reading Festival)

???? Land the Perfect Boyfriend: TRUMAN

??? No boys like Dean Perez warned (especially guys who swindle you)

??? Rule over Campus Books’ book club (alongside Perfect Boyfriend)

?? Look fabulous every step of the way! (NATURALLY)