Chapter 11
11
Josie
My monthly meeting with Xander is today.
Last night, I dreamed that I was forcibly removed from my store along with my beloved customers, favorite authors, and hundreds of beautiful books, all of us chucked in the dumpster while Ryan watched, rubbing his hands together and cackling like a cartoon villain.
I’m terrified that it was a premonition, that Xander will tell me his good buddy Ryan is so far ahead, he’s going to call it right now and hire him.
My phone chimes, and I’m grateful to see a message from RJ.
RJ.Reads: Did you finish 11/22/63?
BookshopGirl: Yes…
RJ.Reads: And…(he says, nervously holding his breath).
BookshopGirl: I loved it. I’m still thinking about that ending—glad he didn’t cop out and give us an unrealistically happy conclusion. It was SO satisfying. And who knew Stephen King could write such a compelling love story? Thanks for the recommendation.
RJ.Reads: I RECOMMENDED A BOOK TO BOOKSHOPGIRL AND SHE LIKED IT! I feel like I won a gold medal at the Olympics!
A customer walks up and I trade my goofy grin for a professional smile. Chatting with RJ feels almost like reading a good book, the kind you can’t wait to get back to—but even better because we’re writing it together as we go. There’s no pressure, no awkward pauses; I can take my time with my replies and savor every word of his. We’re characters in a story of our own making, with no real-world complications to muddy the waters. It’s comfortable and exciting all at once—and unlike anything I’ve felt in my life. When I’m finished ringing up my customer, I send him another message.
BookshopGirl: Do you have another rec for me? I’ve forgotten how relaxing it is to turn your brain off and live in another world.
RJ.Reads: You want something to take you to another world? Hmmm…
RJ.Reads: Have you read The Princess Bride?
BookshopGirl: I’ve seen the movie.
RJ.Reads: The book is always better, but in this case, the book is a GAZILLION times better. I think you’ll get a kick out of a literary device he uses. It’s another won of my brother’s favorite books.
RJ.Reads: *another ONE (sorry)
BookshopGirl: Are you ever going to suggest one of your favorites? The best way to get to know someone is to read their favorite books.
RJ.Reads: Yikes, that’s kind of personal! I need to test the water before being that vulnerable. What if you hate my favorite book? I’ll be forced to cut you out of my life, which would be a real shame.
BookshopGirl: Ah, yes, the literary obligation to hate people who hate your favorite book.
RJ.Reads: The #1 commandment of readers: Thou shalt despise all those who despise thy beloved books, for they show contempt for the treasures of thy heart and the wisdom therein.
I’m grinning as I go through my day; it’s busy, but after a particularly maddening customer, I can’t help sending another message.
BookshopGirl: A customer asked for help finding books for his wife’s birthday—classic “One has a blue cover and the other one starts with M” scenario. I found them! But then…he ordered them online. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.
RJ.Reads: NOOOOOO. Why do people do this?
BookshopGirl: RIGHT?? Like, “yes, I will use your mental labor for my benefit and not compensate you in any way.”
RJ.Reads: He clearly doesn’t know that the #2 commandment of readers is “Thou shalt not exploit the goodwill of the independent bookseller only to forsake them for an online mega-store.”
He manages to make me smile again, even though I’m still seething inside.
I needed that sale.
Fortunately, I have an event tonight that should help me take a huge leap ahead in this competition. It’s with someone I’ve admired for years: Kenneth Michael Rutherford, international bestseller, short-listed for the National Book Award for his debut novel, Tell Me No, Tell Me Yes .
His second book came out two days ago, and I—yes, I, Josie Klein of Tabula Inscripta—have booked him for an author event this evening.
It’s a coup. A miracle. How did I manage it? After trying (and failing) to get a response from his publicist, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I sent a message through the Contact Me page on his website, gushing about his first book—and about his latest, which I haven’t read (his publisher didn’t send an ARC). I said I’m his biggest fan, and if he has any openings this summer, I’d be delighted to host him for an author event. To my shock and delight, he replied and said he had an opening during pub week. This all happened ten days ago, and since then, I’ve been feverishly planning.
After Rutherford posted about the event on his social media, hundreds of orders poured in for signed copies, which I received yesterday via rush delivery from the publisher. And now it’s happening. I, Josie Klein, college dropout and humble bookseller, am hosting one of the most respected literary authors of the twenty-first century.
I can’t help sharing the news with RJ after setting up chairs for the event.
BookshopGirl: I’m hosting an author this evening and I’m SO nervous.
RJ.Reads: Who?
I pause; if I tell him, he can easily find out where Rutherford is appearing tonight, and then he’ll easily find me.
The thought sends a ripple of discomfort through me. If RJ knew who I really was, I’d feel pressure to be the persona I’ve created over the past five years here at Tabula—the polished, professional bookseller who never lets her guard down. I’d start second-guessing everything I share, censoring myself. It would never be the same.
BookshopGirl: Oh, never you mind. ;) But it’s someone I really admire.
RJ.Reads: You’ll do great. And remember, you’re doing a favor to the author. There grateful to be their, talking to people who care about there book.
RJ.Reads: *they’re. *there. *their. (smacking forehead repeatedly)
RJ.Reads: Sorry. typing too fast.
BookshopGirl: ? It’s not a big deal. I appreciate you listening.
RJ.Reads: Happy to. And thanks for not judging my typos.
BookshopGirl: How could I judge you when I’m worried I won’t be able to form a coherent sentence when I meet this author?
RJ.Reads: If you’re half as well spoken as you are well written, everyone will be impressed. You’ve always impressed me.
His words give me a warm burst of confidence. I vividly remember when Penelope Adler-Wolf hosted Kenneth Michael Rutherford at her store two years ago. She live-streamed the event, and I watched the whole thing, not only because I loved Rutherford’s book, but because I wanted to memorize how PAW moderated: her command of the crowd, her ease around an author who’d leave me stammering.
That was the moment I decided I wanted to be just like her, a literary tastemaker, facilitating important discussions of books. And here I am, taking another step in that direction.
—
But first: my meeting with Xander.
We meet at Beans, and I give him the good news about the sold-out event tonight while he checks his phone and nods vaguely. Then he launches into his news.
“Josie, your profits are up compared to last June,” he says. “I’m impressed.”
My heart leaps; I know this—I’ve been tracking every penny—but it’s nice to hear him confirm it.
“Unfortunately, you’re slightly behind Ryan,” he says, and my heart drops. “It’s close, though, and you have time to make a comeback. But you better pull out your A game.”
“Of course,” I say through a smile, though internally, I’m wilting.
Xander rattles on about profit margins and expenses as I try not to burst into defeated tears. I’ve been working myself to exhaustion, but it hasn’t been enough.
Thankfully, Xander is never one to linger. He stands, calling over toward Happy Endings.
“Lawson?”
Ryan appears from behind a bookshelf. “Ready when you are.”
Xander glances at his phone, then waves a hand. “Something came up—I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And he’s gone. Ryan looks over at me, one eyebrow cocked, like he’s asking how my meeting went. I give him an easy-breezy smile, and his face falls. Good. Soon enough, he’ll get the news that he’s slightly ahead of me, but until then, let him simmer in worry.
Thank goodness I have this event tonight. It might even help me take the lead.
Ryan turns and walks away, and I squeeze my eyes shut so they don’t watch his backside as he retreats, the way his broad shoulders fill out his cardigan, how he’s wearing another pair of jeans that look so worn and soft I want to rub my cheek against them.
I need to focus on my objectives: meet one of my favorite authors, schmooze the hell out of the sold-out crowd, and sell a shit ton of books.
—
Five minutes into the event, and I’m queasy. Not because of nerves—but because something weird is going on here.
The place is packed, with every seat filled and more standing in the back. Rutherford was gracious as I helped him sign all the orders, plus more stock for the store, and my introduction went off without a hitch.
But I’m getting an odd vibe.
“I’d like to talk about the inspiration behind this newest novel of mine,” Rutherford is saying. “I’m heartened that so many are willing to come hear about something that isn’t…well, comfortable.”
Three or four people in the crowd chuckle knowingly, and that’s when it hits me: every person here is a white man. That’s not typical for my events.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence?
“As many of you know, this novel has been somewhat…controversial,” Rutherford goes on.
Controversial? I discreetly pull out my phone and do a search for the novel title, plus the word “controversy.”
I gasp.
The men in front of me turn, and I try to cover the noise with a cough. When they turn back around, I return to my phone and read, Award-winning author Kenneth Michael Rutherford slammed for “ableist” views in recent novel.
Heart sinking, I skim the headlines—there aren’t many; his book just came out. The few reviews posted on retailer websites are either glowing five-stars praising his “forward thinking” or one-stars calling him “disgusting.”
I google his publisher; it’s a vanity press, which means the author fronts the costs of publication. The only reason a bestselling author like Rutherford would go that route is because no other publisher would work with him.
Up front, Rutherford is still talking: “From the beginning of the human race, those who were unable to contribute to the group were left behind. Our ancestors understood that to succeed as a species, they had to ensure that only the fittest individuals would survive and reproduce.”
Sickened, I try to block out his voice as I pull up BookFriends to message RJ—but stop myself. Aside from the anonymity issue, I’m not sure I want RJ to know I invited this vile human into my store.
Instead, I post in the literary fiction forum, where I never see RJ: Anyone know what’s up with Kenneth Michael Rutherford?
Answers from booksellers across the country appear right away:
DallasBooks: I heard his latest book endorses sterilization of individuals with disabilities.
BeautyandtheBook: No one knew about it until the book came out two days ago, because his publisher didn’t send out ARCs or submit for trade reviews.
IlikeBigBooks: There was a whole discussion about it yesterday in the PubDay forum
How did I miss that? I click over, and my dread grows. Sure enough, Rutherford’s novel promotes forced sterilization and outright eugenics of anyone with mental or physical disabilities, “for the good of the race.” The wording gives me horrified chills. My sister has a disability. This man would like to erase her from the face of the earth?
I fire off a text to Georgia.
Kenneth Michael Rutherford is a horrible human and I didn’t do my homework on his new book and now he’s in my bookstore.
I have to stop this. But before I can figure out what to do, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
Georgia: I just looked him up. He’s DISGUSTING.
Josie: I feel horrible for inviting him. For ever supporting him!
Georgia: How could you have known? The book just came out! It’s not your fault.
But it is my fault—it’s my literal job to know these things. I’ve been focused on winning this competition and beating Ryan, rather than keeping up with the literary community.
Josie: I’m going to ask him to leave. I can’t sit here and allow him to keep spouting this disgusting rhetoric.
Georgia: WAIT!
Georgia: Looks like he’s supported by some scary people—white supremacy organizations and a group that wants to legalize corporal punishments for disobedient wives. You don’t want to upset these people. They could be dangerous.
Josie: I need to do something!
Georgia: Not while you’re alone. Is there anyone at Beans who could stand with you while you ask everyone to leave?
I peer through the bookcases forming the makeshift wall between my store and the coffee shop. Mabel is the only one working, and she’s busy ringing up a late-evening customer.
Josie: No
Georgia: What about at Happy Endings? That awful Ryan guy is tall and intimidating, right?
I almost scoff out loud. Yes, Ryan is at his store—and every glimpse I get of him brings back memories of his mouth, inches from mine, the mocking lilt in his voice, and his smirky smile. There is no way I’m asking him for a damn thing.
Josie: He won’t help me. He hates me. He’d rejoice in my downfall.
Georgia: Then just sit tight. It’ll be over soon.
Rutherford talks for another fifteen minutes, then does a Q&A, followed by a meet and greet. I spend that time looking up organizations that support individuals with disabilities—I’ll donate tonight’s profits to them. There’s no way I can keep this money.
And if Xander asks what happened? I’ll be truthful, even though it might ruin my chances of getting the head manager position.