6. He’s All That
6
He’s All That
An hour before closing on Friday, Uncle Andy emerges from the back and comes over to the register, where Gladys is trying to teach me to run the end-of-day sales reports.
“Bobby, my office.” He taps the corner of the counter before he walks away, not looking to see if I follow him.
I shrug at Gladys in a what’s up motion. She smiles for the first time since I started working here. It leaves me unsettled.
Never having been in his office, I am surprised when I follow Uncle Andy into what could more accurately be called a cupboard, stacked high with boxes. Wedged into the corner is one of those rolling buckets with the mop leaning against the wall. Andy’s desk is also composed of boxes. A laptop perches on them. He takes a seat in a folding lawn chair and motions for me to unfold a second. I have to sidle into the room and barely manage to get the other chair unfolded before I plop into it, hoping the latticed nylon straps don’t give out.
Uncle Andy holds out an envelope. “This is for the time you’ve spent here.”
I stare at the plain white envelope in Uncle Andy’s outstretched hand. Something doesn’t feel right. I reach out tentatively.
“Is this?” I ask, not daring to finish the sentence. I explained the crooked tooth guy to Uncle Andy and thought after the success with Cindy, everything was ok.
“Your paycheck,” Uncle Andy says.
“My final one?” I brace myself for the answer.
Uncle Andy frowns. “Are you quitting?”
“No. Are you firing me?”
“Why would you think that?”
I rub my hands on the tops of my knees but don’t say anything. We both know why.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I lost money,” I say, thinking of my Summer of Bobby comeback plans. “I can’t get the POS to work. Gladys isn’t exactly enamored with Robert. She likes Bobby even less.” I realize too late that giving reasons why Uncle Andy should fire me may not be the best move.
“You’re learning,” Uncle Andy says. “It’s going to take some time. As for the guy, it’s like I told you: he took advantage of you. Even more experienced retail staff get tricked. I asked you back here to see how you’re doing. I should have checked in with you sooner.”
I relax a little, but not enough to trust the lawn chair beneath me.
“Seeing you with that customer,” Uncle Andy says.
“Cindy.”
“See. There you go. Cindy,” he says. “You’ve always had something extra about you. You’ve got a knack, Bobby.”
Normally when I’ve been called extra, it hasn’t been a good thing. A lot of times, it’s come before large.
“I know this isn’t your dream job and you’ve made it clear Corner Books could use quite a bit of sprucing,” he continues.
Feeling very seen, I open my mouth to contextualize, but Uncle Andy holds up a hand.
“You’re already a good addition here, and I’d like to hear your ideas for new directions Corner Books could take. I want more Cindys in the store. You’re the one to do it.”
I clap my hands and lean forward. The chair, stuck onto me, pulls with me. “If you’re serious, I’m great at coming up with plans.”
“I’m serious,” Uncle Andy says. “And I know you are. Get some suggestions together this weekend and we’ll discuss.”
“Gladys is going to hate them.”
“I’ll take care of Gladys. We’ll talk on Monday. Now get to the post office before it closes. I saw the huge bag of mail you came in with. Cass’s yarns must be selling well.”
I nod. “The fashion magazines say angora is going to be big this fall, and we found some forgotten skeins when rearranging the living room. I sent out a mass email with a code for free shipping with minimum purchase.”
“A knack. Go on now,” Uncle Andy says.
I push on the handles of my chair hard to dislodge myself, then maneuver out of the office, collect my things, and head out the door. Gladys doesn’t even look up from the register or say goodbye.
I hustle the two blocks to the post office and make it there just as Mae, the clerk, turns the sign to closed . But once Mae notices me, she unlocks the door.
“Come on in, Bobby, sweetie.”
“But you’ve already closed for the weekend.”
“Not for the boy who convinced my husband to reenact the Ghost pottery scene. I can fudge the time on the computer and get those into the next shipment.”
“The pottery is still working out well for you, I take it?” I say.
Mae smiles as she scans through my packages. “We’ve thrown a lot of clay and don’t have a single damn vase to show for it.”
After paying for postage on all my parcels, I hurry out so Mae can close shop. I’m not fully paying attention as I wave over my shoulder and step onto the sidewalk.
“Woah, Casanova,” I hear.
I spin to find a shirtless Luke nearly on top of me.
“I almost ran you over. You shot out of there fast,” he says. “Did you just burgle the joint?”
“You ok, sweetie?” Mae asks with a dirty look in Luke’s direction.
“All good. Lock up and go start up that wheel,” I reply.
“I guess you two are friends,” Luke says.
“It’s a small town.” I make a show of dusting myself off. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
“I was running. It clears my head and helps me figure out where everything is in Little Elm,” Luke answers matter-of-factly while he searches the ground. “I didn’t knock your glasses off. Did I?”
Without thinking, I answer, “I don’t wear glasses.”
Luke furrows his brow. “I saw you wearing them when we met.”
“Those? Oh. They’re fake.”
Luke pulls a white T-shirt from where it’s tucked into the back of his shorts and uses it to wipe his face before he puts it on. “Why would you wear fake glasses? Do you have some sort of Superman Clark Kent thing going on?”
I shrug. “To make me look smarter.”
“Aren’t you smart?”
“Yes. Well, most of the time.” But I don’t need to clarify that to someone I’ve met only once.
“And you think a pair of glasses is what makes others recognize your intelligence?”
I feel my cheeks heat up. “When you say it like that, it sounds dumb.”
Luke makes this expression like he’s shrugging his eyebrows back at me.
I huff, a warning that Luke should drop the issue as it’s leaving me feeling called out and prickly. “It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. People judge the first thing they see. It’s natural. Like your Superman Clark Kent dichotomy.”
“When you effortlessly drop a word like dichotomy into everyday conversation, people are going to figure out quickly you’re smart.”
“Maybe, but people judge books by their covers all the time. It’s why publishers put so much time and money into designing them.” I do a quick scan of Luke and notice the beads of sweat dotting his skin.
“A good cover won’t keep you turning the pages. I’m more interested in content than cover treatment.”
I shake my head. “The cover helps get the book into readers’ hands. It gives the content a shot. Those glasses are one way of controlling perception. Put them on and people will think you’re smart. Take them off and add a great haircut, and you’re a hottie people start noticing. It doesn’t matter how talented or creative or beautiful you are inside—only that people can see it. You eat with your eyes first.”
Luke laughs. “Aren’t you mixing metaphors? Are we talking about books or food?”
“It’s all the same.”
Luke shrugs his eyebrows again. “I don’t see what’s wrong with how you look.”
Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with how I look. I don’t know how to make him understand that I know putting on glasses to look smart is asinine, but it allows me at least some control over how I present to the world.
Luke waits for me to say something but when all I do is look away from him, he asks, “So, you wear glasses to correct other people’s vision?”
I cross my arms. “You’re making fun of me now.”
His lips turn up almost imperceptibly like when I found him reading. “A little bit. It’s just clothes.”
“But you can take off your clothes,” I say, registering Luke’s eyebrows shooting up. I point at my shirt. The front says Masc in cursive script adorned with curlicues in the middle of an explosion of blooming flowers. “I can’t take off who I am. I can’t take off this body and hang it in the closet and put on a new one.”
“Why would you want to?” Luke asks without a second’s pause.
The innocence in his tone makes me roll my eyes. He knows exactly why. He can’t possibly miss I’m fat and that informs everything that follows after it. I’ve accepted it and the body I live in. I even like my body most of the time. But it doesn’t mean I’m immune to the realities I wasn’t built to fit into. My clothes aren’t just about control; they’re my armor. I cross my arms across my floral Masc tee and don’t reply.
Luke catches my eye roll and says in a somber tone, “I meant, even if you could, I wouldn’t want you to put on a different body to make some random person’s life easier. It’s yours. It’s you. You wouldn’t be all of who you are without it.”
I look down. I want to hold what he says and wear it like a crest. But I know despite all my self-acceptance and body positivity, if given the chance to swap out my body, I’d probably take it and I’d see the switch as an upgrade. I try to keep those admissions buried because acknowledging them is like accepting there’s something wrong with how I was made. I’m too stubborn or, perhaps, unwilling to cede that ground.
“You wouldn’t understand. You look like that.” I motion at him.
He scrunches up his face. “Like what?”
Perhaps I should say sorry because I’m unintentionally borderline insulting his body, but instead I barrel on. “Like a frat guy about to pledge and get with sorority Bambi.”
Luke’s face relaxes and he runs a hand through his hair. “So that’s what you thought of me?” I catch the whiff of grapefruit and aftershave again, musky in the summer heat. “You want to know my first impression of you? You were inquisitive. And intuitive. And showed me kindness and generosity. I didn’t need a pair of glasses to see those things.”
My shoulders lower. I hadn’t realized they were hunched, prepared for some sort of heated retort from Luke. Makes me think I really should have apologized when given the chance. “Thanks,” I mutter. “But those aren’t physical.”
“No. They’re not.”
When I don’t respond, Luke says, “I like arguing with you.” He pulls out his phone and unlocks it before he hands it to me. “Give me your number. I said I’d meet my roommate at the coffee shop down the block before I ran home. I want to continue this another time.”
“Arguing?”
“Having my point of view challenged.”
I program my number into his phone and hand it back to him. “I could use a macchiato.”
“Let me buy you one as a thank-you.”
“For the book?” I ask.
“For being argumentative.”
“I’m not—” I begin but catch Luke’s smirk. “Fine. But only because Mya’s working, and she makes the best macchiatos.”
We enter the shop and I’m surprised to hear, “You brought Bobby?”
Luke looks from me to the speaker, a guy named Jerome I went to high school with but don’t know well. I catch Mya out of the corner of my eye and give a small wave.
“How did you know to bring the big gun?” Jerome asks Luke.
“What are you talking about, man?” Luke asks.
Jerome looks at Luke like he’s stupid. “Everyone in Little Elm knows Bobby is the guru of love. If anyone can help me get Mya’s attention, it’s him. He even knows her.”
I shake my head. “My skills have been on the fritz as of late.”
“You’ve got to help me,” Jerome pleads. “Please. It doesn’t have to be some epic thing. I don’t need a balcony or a sunrise or white doves.”
“Casanova?” Luke raises his eyebrow.
I frown in response. “You don’t not need those things for a grand gesture.” I catch sight of Mya again smiling at the three of us. Her eyes linger on Jerome through the steam a second longer than on Luke or me.
Maybe Jerome and Mya are exactly what I need to get my matchmaking powers back. An easy practice coupling to build me up again.
“Do you read graphic novels?” I ask Jerome.
“Do comic books count? I’m big into the MCU.”
Close enough. “Come by Corner Books next week. I’ve got some recommended reading before you’re ready to make a move with Mya.”
Jerome reaches one arm around me and claps me on the back. “Whatever you say.”
“Your usual, Bobby,” Mya calls. “On the house.”
I collect my drink, and Luke follows me outside.
“I don’t think you should get involved with Jerome and Mya,” Luke says once the coffee shop’s door is closed.
“I think I know what I’m doing.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. He’s one of my roommates, and I don’t need to be in the middle of some drama.”
“Then don’t get involved.” I take a sip of my macchiato. It’s perfect. “I can’t guarantee they’re soulmates, but I’ve helped people like Jerome and Mya hundreds of times.”
Luke seems as if he’s about to say something but then looks back at Jerome through the coffee shop window. “Nothing I say will make you reconsider. Will it?”
I take another sip.
“Then I’ll help you,” Luke says.
I nearly spit out my macchiato. “I don’t need help. This is child’s play.”
“Jerome and Mya aren’t toys,” Luke says. “Someone needs to keep their eye on you.”
A bus pulls to a stop across the street and the driver, Andre, nods in my direction.
“Another person you helped?” Luke asks. “I don’t think I realized how small a town Little Elm is. That’s my ride. I can’t keep Bambi and the other sorority chicks waiting.” Luke starts jogging across the street.
“Wait. You’re not running back?” I call, hoping Luke forgets the frat boy comment sometime soon, but I don’t think he will, and I’ll have to find a way to smooth it over—especially since we’ll be helping Jerome and Mya together.
Luke doesn’t turn or reply. The bus pulls away with a mechanical exhale.
I haven’t taken a step when my phone dings.
Luke: Didn’t need to clear my head anymore. You gave me some things worth thinking about. See you at the next kegger. I can introduce you to Bambi.
I type my reply and hit send.
Me: Like I’d ever be caught at a frat party.