One True Loves(9)

Sam came out of the back and joined us up by the registers. The customer reading the book came over to the counter with the book in his hand and asked us to keep it on hold for him. No doubt so he could come back and read the same copy tomorrow, as if he owned the thing. My father acted as if he was delighted to do it. My father was very charming to strangers.

Right after the man left, my mom came out of her office in the back of the store. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t see her.

“I should tell your mother it’s time to go,” he said. I tried to stop him but he turned his head slightly and started yelling. “Ashley, Emma and Sam are here!”

“Jesus Christ, Colin,” my mom said, putting a hand to her ear. “I’m right here.”

“Oh, sorry.” He made a scrunched face to show that he’d made a mistake and then he gently touched her ear. It was gestures like that, small acts of intimacy between them, that made me think my parents probably still had sex. I was both repulsed and somewhat assuaged by the thought.

Olive’s parents always seemed on the edge of divorce. Marie’s friend Debbie practically lived at our house for two months a few years earlier when her parents were ironing out their own separation. So I was smart enough to know I was lucky to have parents who still loved each other.

“All right, well, since you’re both here, we will take off,” my mom said, heading toward the back to grab her things.

“I thought you weren’t leaving for your date until later,” I said to my father.

“Yeah, but why would we hang around when our daughter is here to do the work?” he said. “If we hurry, we can get home in time to take a disco nap.”

“What is a disco nap?” Sam asked.

“Don’t, Sam; it’s a trap,” I said.

Sam laughed. I never really made people laugh. I wasn’t funny the way Olive was funny. But, suddenly, around Sam I felt like maybe I could be.

“A disco nap, dear Samuel, is a nap that you take before you go out and party. You see, back in the seventies . . .”

I walked away, preemptively bored, and started reorganizing the table of best sellers by the window. Marie liked to sneak her favorite books on there, giving her best-loved authors a boost. My only interest was in keeping the piles straight. I did not like wayward corners.

I perked up only when I heard Sam respond to my father’s story about winning a disco contest in Boston by laughing and saying, “I’m so sorry to say this, but that’s not a very good story.”

My head shot up and I looked right at Sam, impressed.

My dad laughed and shook his head. “When I was your age and an adult told a bad story, do you know what I did?”

“Memorized it so you could bore us with it?” I piped in.

Sam laughed again. My father, despite wanting to pretend to be hurt, gave a hearty chuckle. “Forget it. You two can stay here and work while I’m out having fun.”

Sam and I shared a glance.

“Aha. Who’s laughing now?” my dad said.

My mom came out with their belongings and within minutes, my parents were gone, out the door to their car, on their way to take disco naps. I was stunned, for a moment, that they had left the store to Sam and me. Two people under the age of seventeen in charge for the evening? I felt mature, suddenly. As if I could be trusted with truly adult responsibilities.

And then Margaret, the assistant manager, pulled in and I realized my parents had called her to supervise.

“I’ll be in the back making the schedule for next week,” Margaret said just as soon as she came in. “If you need anything, holler.”

I looked over at Sam, who was standing by the register, leaning over the counter on his elbows.

I went into the biography section and started straightening that out, too. The store was dead quiet. It seemed almost silly to have two people out in front and one in the back. But I knew that I was here as a punishment and Sam was here because my parents wanted to give him hours.

I resolved to sit on the floor and flip through Fodor’s travel books if nobody else came in.

“So what did you think of Charles Mingus?” Sam asked. I was surprised to see that he had left the area by the cash register and was just a few aisles down, restocking journals.

“Oh,” I said. “Uh . . . Very cool.”

Sam laughed. “You liar,” he said. “You hated it.”

I turned and looked at him, embarrassed to admit the truth. “Sorry,” I said. “I did. I hated it.”

Sam shook his head. “Totally fine. Now you know.”

“Yeah, if someone asks me if I like jazz, I can say no.”

“Well, you might still like jazz,” Sam offered. “Just because you don’t like Mingus doesn’t mean . . .” He trailed off as he saw the look on my face. “You’re already ready to write off all of jazz?”

“Maybe?” I said, embarrassed. “I don’t think jazz is my thing.”

He grabbed his chest as if I’d stabbed him in the heart.

“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “I’m sure there are plenty of things I love that you’d hate.”

“Try me,” he said.

“Romeo + Juliet,” I said confidently. It had proven to be a definitive dividing line between boys and girls at school.