Confessions on the 7:45(22)

Something stopped her from climbing inside; she turned around instead.

As the form grew closer, Geneva squinted into the dim.

Who was it? When she finally saw, she felt the shock of surprise and dread.

“Oh,” she managed. “It’s you.”



NINE

Pearl

“You shouldn’t do that, should you?”

Charlie had walked into the bookshop back room to find Pearl digging through her mother’s leather tote.

“She doesn’t care,” said Pearl.

She inspected a small notepad shaped like a heart on which nothing was written.

Pearl loved her mother’s purse, which Stella carelessly left all over the place. On the passenger seat of the car, the kitchen counter. She’d leave it in the shopping cart, walk away from it to look for this or that, as if daring someone to take it.

It was a magic pouch, filled with mysteries. Pearl, whenever she got a chance, dug through it shamelessly. Lipsticks, all shades, matches from restaurants and bars Pearl had no idea when Stella had visited. A lighter shaped like the body of a woman. Whatever book she was reading—it might be Kafka, or some obscure foreign writer, or the latest romance bestseller. Literary, romance, thriller, classic, science fiction, fantasy, women’s fiction—her mother did not discriminate.

Story is story, Stella said. It’s a portal you walk through into another world. And this world—which usually sucks—just disappears.

A package of condoms. Mom slept around; just as with her reading, she was not particularly discriminating when it came to men—whoever struck her fancy, construction worker, doctor, businessman, store clerk.

Candy. There was always candy. Swedish Fish, Tic Tacs, Mars Bars—Junior Mints were her favorite. Wadded up bills—why could Stella not put the money in her wallet? Because that would delay its spending, quipped Stella. Don’t even bother trying to hold on to it; it’s gone as quick as it comes. Phone numbers on scraps of papers. Sometimes cigarettes. Once a joint. Floss. Stella was meticulous about her dental hygiene.

“Your mother’s a mystery, isn’t she?” asked Charlie.

“Not really,” said Pearl. As far as Pearl was concerned, her mother was an open book.

“All women are mysteries.”

“Only men think that,” said Pearl. “Largely because they’re not paying attention.”

Charlie was at her mother’s desk, doing something at her computer. Apparently, according to Stella, he was managing the accounting now. He’d been an increasingly large part of their lives for the last couple of months. Certainly, he was around more and for longer than anyone else had been. He was often in the kitchen now when Pearl came down before school, making breakfast. Last week, he’d proofread her English essay and they’d spent a long time talking about it. Pearl liked Charlie, but she wasn’t going to let herself get attached. She knew Stella too well. She’d tire of him eventually.

“The only thing more mysterious than women are teenage girls.”

She was aware of his eyes. He was always watching her. And she was always watching him. Trying to figure him out. He was polite, intelligent. He was always on time. Good with the customers. Good, according to Stella, with the books. He was well-read. He hand-sold, getting to know patrons and recommending books they might like. He’s a throwback, said Stella. A real bookseller, in an industry that had stopped caring about story and only cared about numbers.

But. But. But.

There was something else. Pearl was a watcher. She hid in the stacks, observing. Still, she couldn’t figure him out. Handsome, in a geeky way. Too skinny. Always impeccable—pressed button-down shirts, crisp khakis, sensible shoes. His socks always matched his pants.

“Can you stock some books this afternoon?” he asked. “We just got a big shipment, the new Karin Slaughter.”

He nodded toward some boxes stacked by the door.

“Sure,” said Pearl.

“Not too much homework?”

“No,” she said. “I’m good. Where’s Mom?”

Charlie shrugged. “Like I said. Mysterious.”

“Her purse is here,” said Pearl. She took a piece of Black Jack gum from its wrapper and stuffed it in her mouth.

Charlie frowned, considering.

“I’m pretty sure she had her wallet and her phone. Her keys,” he said finally.

The bell rang outside, and they watched a group of kids enter the store from the monitor that hung on the wall. Charlie got up to greet them, giving her a smile as he left the room.

Their voices carried back to Pearl, laughter bubbling. They’d put out some fliers at her school, and now kids were coming to study in the afternoons. It had been Charlie’s idea, one of many good ones.

Pearl grabbed the box cutter, carefully slicing open the first carton. She loved unpacking—the smell of new paper, the shiny or matte jackets, the raised letters beneath her fingertips, the weight of a real book in her hands, the whisper of paper. She loved hardcovers, and floppy trade paperbacks, the blocky mass markets—each with their own place in the store.

The store outside had grown quiet, the kids who came to study were actually studying. She recognized one of the girls, but not the other two. Pearl’s school was a sprawling concrete monster that looked like a prison. She didn’t know everyone. She didn’t know anyone really. She might sit with the other nerds at lunch; they were nice enough to her. But she mainly kept to herself, her nose in a book.