The Summer of Everything Read online

  Wes stares pointedly at the chipped wooden surface of the counter until his heart slows down. It’s fine. He’s fine. This whole adulthood thing isn’t going to ruin his summer.

  Chapter Five

  “It’s so good to have you back.” Mrs. Rossi rests a wrinkled hand over Wes’s on the front counter, looking at him with tired, russet-brown eyes. Afternoon sunlight reflects off her bright pink hair. “These other kids are going to give a sweet old woman gray hair before her time.”

  Wes smirks. Mrs. Rossi is a certified fireball. Even in her late fifties, everything about her is still sparkly and captivating and lethal when handled the wrong way.

  “Careful,” he says in a half-warning, half-joking tone, “Mr. Rossi wouldn’t appreciate that.”

  “Ah, that goofball. He keeps me dancing, you know.”

  Wes does. The Rossis remind him so much of his own parents. After decades together, they’re still sickeningly in love. They have lunch together at least three times a week, go on strolls through Third Street Promenade while holding hands, enjoy the occasional dinner and a movie. They’re that couple.

  Mrs. Rossi sighs. “I don’t know how I’d handle any of this without you.”

  Me neither. Wes’s not exactly the model employee, but he’s the only person under the age of twenty-one whom she trusts with a set of store keys. Well, besides Anna now. None of the others take this job seriously. Not the way Wes does.

  “Well, the place didn’t burn down while I was gone,” Wes says, and the corners of his mouth tick upward. “That’s a good sign. Maybe it won’t be so bad when I…”

  He struggles to finish that sentence. Wes has already told Mrs. Rossi he still wants to work weekends when classes start. But it still feels as though he’s leaving her hanging. He doesn’t know why. This is Mrs. Rossi’s business. She ran it before him; she can do it without him constantly around too.

  “It’ll be fine,” Mrs. Rossi whispers. Wes isn’t sure if she’s talking to him or herself. Another sigh deflates her shoulders. “Anyway, it’s still nice to have you back. You’re much better than…”

  This time, it’s Mrs. Rossi who doesn’t finish. Instead, she stares out the front door with a deeply creased mouth and narrowed eyes. Without looking, Wes can guess why.

  “Sorry, no selfies or autographs. I know you’re all excited to see me, but please remain calm.”

  With a pair of big, dark sunglasses and an oversized, stretched-out sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, Ella struts into the bookstore.

  “You’re late for your shift,” Mrs. Rossi says in a clipped tone.

  “I’m on Eastern time.”

  “Which, you know,” Wes says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “makes you even later, right?”

  “Thanks for the technicalities,” Ella says dryly.

  “This is unacceptable,” Mrs. Rossi says. She’s not typically a firm person, but in these instances, usually the ones involving Ella, she’s fiercely strict. “If you’re not going to be on time, at least communicate with me.”

  “Communication. Is that a mutual thing we’re practicing?” Ella’s smile is forced.

  “Heaven help me,” Mrs. Rossi mumbles, turning to walk toward her office.

  Wes whips his head in Ella’s direction. “What was that about?”

  Ella lowers her sunglasses. “Not worth discussing right now.”

  “She’s gonna fire you one day.”

  “She won’t.” Ella hops up on the front counter, crossing her legs. Every shift, the counter is Ella’s throne, though she’s been told repeatedly to sit on one of the stools like a normal human. She snaps her grape bubble gum. “I just got here and I’m already exhausted.”

  Without question, Ella’s the biggest slacker around here. She helps when asked, which is never if Wes is available. But she also knows her stuff and has hand-sold more books than any employee who’s ever worked at the store.

  The digital clock near the register reads 2:07 p.m. Anticipation builds in Wes’s stomach and bubbles to his chest. In less than an hour, Nico comes in for his shift. And then…

  Wes hasn’t had time to put together a detailed plan.

  Just ask him out.

  It seems simple, but Wes’s execution skills have never been remotely flawless. He distracts himself by listening to Ella ramble about last night’s date. She’s shameless about the details, which Wes usually wouldn’t mind except she doesn’t refrain from any of the more explicit moments while Wes rings up customers.

  “Afterward, I think he started, like, crying,” she complains. “I know I’m amazing, but damn, Daniel.”

  “Oh my god,” Wes mutters as he scans the stack of books in front of him. “Yes, ma’am. Would you be interested in one of our new bookmarks or buttons with your selections today?”

  “It wasn’t even my best effort.” Ella snorts. “Usually I do that thing with my—”

  “Di-did you find everything you were, um, looking for today?” Wes shouts nervously at the middle-aged man who is staring at Ella with wide eyes.

  “He asked if I needed to cuddle, too. Like, dude, check your patriarchal ego at the door, please.” Ella pops her gum. She doesn’t budge from her spot on the counter so customers can lay their books down. “He’s a soft five at best. There will be no follow-up.”

  Wes yells, “Have a page-turning day!” to his final customer before trying to brain himself on the counter. He’s all for Ella destroying the patriarchy, crushing male ego, and having a little fun while she’s at it. But he kind of wants to keep his job too.

  “Oh, great,” says Ella, exasperated. “Lucifer takes a human form.”

  Wearily, Wes lifts his head. Striding through the door is a white guy with gravity-defying sandy-blond hair and gleeful blue eyes. Wes recognizes him from Nico’s Instagram feed—Cooper. He’s shorter than Wes, thankfully, because otherwise he’s quite attractive, one of those guys that needs to be in Urban Outfitters’ social media ads. Wes swears California is nothing but beautiful people and tourists.

  Slung across Cooper’s chest is a messenger bag. His right hand plays with the strap while his left hand holds his phone out in front of him. He’s talking to the camera, probably recording a video.

  “Queen Ella,” Cooper says, shuffling closer. “Say hello to my followers!”

  Ella shoots him the stink eye, then turns to his phone. “Eat shit.”

  “Yup, that’s my co-worker!” Cooper says as if Ella gave him a high-five instead of a verbal middle finger. “She’s hella dope.”

  Wes mouths What the hell to Ella. She sighs, mumbling, “Social media minion.”

  Cooper wanders into the aisles, greeting customers and introducing them to his phone’s camera.

  “Is he always like that?” Wes says.

  Cooper’s cornered Mrs. Rossi and is half-hugging her while trying to take a selfie. She giggles and poses with two fingers up in the peace sign. A short line of customers waits to join the selfie movement.

  “I don’t like him,” Ella says.

  “Why?”

  “Do I need a reason?”

  If you’re Ella Graham? Probably not. But Wes is too entertained by Cooper’s attempts to angle his camera to catch the right lighting while standing with three young Black girls. Wes whispers, “He seems nice.”

  “Vampires seem nice until they find out you’re a virgin who bleeds easily.”

  “You’ve read one too many Savannah Kirk books,” Wes says, shaking his head.

  “Yo, dude.” Cooper slips behind the counter, holding out a fist. “Wes Hudson, correct?”

  Wes warily bumps Cooper’s fist. “Uh. Yeah.”

  Cooper pulls his hand back and makes this intense ka-boom noise with his mouth while wiggling his fingers in a weird, jazz hands way. Ella’s right. This guy obviously can’t be trusted.

&n
bsp; “I’m your replacement,” he says.

  Wes’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

  “I mean, not like…” Cooper’s cheeks flush. “I was your part-time fill-in while you were away. But Mrs. Rossi, the coolest of cool bosses, said she’d like to make my position at the store permanent, which would be sick, because this place is wicked. Books on books on books, you know?”

  Wes nods, pasting on a smile.

  Cooper smiles back, showing off a dimple in his left cheek. He slips off his bag and drops it amongst the other random clutter behind the counter. “It’s a great gig. But don’t touch the comics, right?”

  “Correct.”

  Cooper leans uncomfortably close. His nose nearly touches Wes’s. Personal space much? He whispers, eyes wide, “I heard you once stabbed a guy for dog-earing a Superman book.”

  Wes hadn’t. It was a total accident involving a pen and minimal bloodshed. Also, it was two years ago.

  “I feel you, bro.” Cooper backs away, nodding. “I’m there.”

  Are you? Wes wants to ask. From the corner of his eye, he can spot Ella shooting them aggravated glares.

  “So, like.” Cooper’s thumbs move rapidly over his phone screen. “Follow me back on Twitter. Add me on IG. And TikTok. Accept my Snapchat request. Oh, I’m still on Tumblr even though I’m not down with their censorship issues. I only Marco Polo with close fam and friends. But you fill those categories already.”

  Wes’s own phone vibrates as if it’s having a seizure. He has no less than five notifications from his various social media accounts. He’s being followed on each one by Cooper “Coop” Shaw.

  “FB’s not really my thing anymore, but, you know, I make exceptions if that’s your jam,” Cooper continues.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Feel free to subscribe to my YouTube channel too.” Cooper briefly flashes his phone screen in Wes’s face before returning to tapping away. “Do you Kik?”

  “Um, sometimes?”

  “It’s all good, bro.” Cooper pockets his phone, then rubs his hands together. “All right. Time to get to business. These books won’t sell themselves.”

  Ella repeats, “I don’t like him,” as Cooper disappears into the aisles.

  Wes isn’t sure what the hell just happened, but Cooper’s definitely likeable.

  Thirty minutes later, Cooper’s staring at Wes with an absurdly creepy smile.

  “What?” Wes grunts, too lazy to add any other words. The afternoon is melting perfectly with the weather, slowing time to a crawl. It’s still fifteen minutes to three. It’s been an eternity to Wes.

  “Dude,” Cooper says, dropping his voice to a whisper, leaning far too close again. Wes needs to have a serious discussion about personal boundaries. Soon. “Word on the street is…” Cooper looks around as if they’re being watched. “Savannah Kirk is the beginning of your origin story?”

  “She’s what?”

  “Your mom,” Cooper hisses.

  “Yeah,” Wes says. “Something like that.”

  “Bro.” Cooper smacks his hand on the counter, the noise like a crack of thunder. “Savannah Kirk is your mom.”

  Wide-eyed, Wes leans back. “Okay, first of all, chill,” he says, holding up a hand.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Um. I believe my parents had intercourse?” Wes wants to take those words back immediately. It’s cringeworthy. No, his parents did not have sex. That’s gross. Wes was created from clay and magic like Wonder Woman.

  Cooper repeats, “Savannah Kirk is your—”

  Wes cuts him off. “Stop. I know.” Thing is, Wes has met Cooper’s kind before, the ones who worship authors as if they’re superhuman. But they’re not; his mom’s not. She burns toast and overcooks spaghetti. But a small part of Wes can relate to Cooper’s excitement. He went through a similar phase the first time he read The Lightning Thief. Not that Savannah Kirk has ever written a character as cool as Percy Jackson, but Wes understands the power an author has to unlock parts of yourself you’d never seen before.

  “She’s just a normal mom, you know.” Wes’s foot wiggles on the stool’s bottom rung to whatever’s playing overhead. “Her name’s Jordan Hudson. She’s just a writer.”

  “Just a writer—as if.” There’s so much wax and product in Cooper’s hair, it barely moves when he shakes his head. “She’s a goddess.”

  “Think so? You should try her meatloaf.” Wes pushes fingers into his curls. “She’s a mom. Nothing special.”

  “Uh, hate to break it to you, but moms are epic,” Cooper tells him.

  Wes is sure Ella would disagree, but when it comes to his own mom, she is pretty solid. She knows way too many hashtags, but she’s also massively supportive of who he is. Plus, she gives great hugs. So, yeah, Wes’s mom crushes epic.

  “Sweet Brendon Urie, what is this?” Ella stomps up to the front counter, arms folded across her chest. Her annoyed expression, not to be confused with her burn-in-hell one, is in full effect: scrunched mouth and squinted eyes.

  “What is what?” Cooper asks.

  “This noise.” Ella points toward the ceiling, indicating the music.

  Admittedly, Wes has heard worse, courtesy of Zay. The song sounds vaguely ‘80s, though Wes’s knowledge of that era is restricted to the music he’s heard in movies.

  “Uh. Don Henley,” Cooper says.

  “Don who?”

  Cooper’s jaw drops. “Don Henley, from the Eagles.”

  “You’re sixteen. How do you even know what the Eagles are?” Ella replies.

  “You have to know who Don Henley is.”

  “I do not,” snaps Ella. “Don’t threaten me with your bland music taste.” Her eyebrow lifts sharply and… there it is! Burn-in-hell face activated.

  Carefully, Wes turns his head and laughs into his shoulder.

  “It’s a classic,” Cooper says, as if it’ll matter. It’s not punk and it’s not loud and it’s definitely not Ella.

  She clears her throat. Back arched, hands cupped over her mouth, Ella shouts, “Canceled!”

  “What? No.” Cooper looks mortified.

  Ella slides behind the front counter, reaching for the stereo system. “I’m cutting this shit off. I do not care about the heart of the matter.”

  From the aisles, Anna and Zay say, in unison, “Canceled.”

  Cooper crumples across the counter, head in his hands. “This is a mutiny. I’ve been betrayed.”

  “Sorry.” Wes rests his chin on his knuckles. “It’s a struggle in these streets.”

  There are three simple rules to Once Upon a Page:

  1. Show up for every shift!

  2. Participate in One of These Three Things—a game Wes and Nico invented their first year at the bookstore because they were bored out of their skulls and needed something to pass the time. It’s now a must for all personnel.

  3. Abide by the rules of Canceled!

  As outlined by the handful of employees who have occupied Once Upon a Page before Wes began working at the bookstore: Every staff member gets two daily music vetoes during their shift. No more. If anyone hates the music selection being played, that employee can “cancel’” that band or artist for the remainder of the day. Usually, Wes saves his cancels for Ella or, on his aggressively annoyed days, Zay. There’s no love lost at the bookstore for mediocre musical taste.

  “Don whatever, you’ve been Canceled,” Ella announces, unceremoniously dropping the CD into one of the storage bins without putting it back in its jewel case.

  Delicately, Cooper fishes the CD out and re-cases it. “Did you guys steal the Canceled thing from Empire Records?”

  Ella clutches her chest, feigning astonishment. “We don’t steal around here, Lucifer,” she says, indignant. “We borrow until asked to return.”

  “Damn
right,” Zay says.

  Ella flips through a different bin of CDs. A minute later, she earns a microscopic amount of Wes’s respect by putting on Blink-182. Humming “What’s My Age Again?” under his breath, he shifts around to stare out the window. A neon orange flyer taped to the glass advertises a forgotten book club the bookstore used to host. Outside, the sun tickles gold beams across the sidewalk.

  His heart beats fiercely when the alarm on his phone goes off.

  It’s one minute until three o’clock.

  Chapter Six

  Unlike Ella, Nico’s never late. At exactly three p.m., he whizzes past the bookstore on a skateboard, dodging pedestrians and tourists. He does a kickflip, then doubles back for an ollie. With his back to the store and head sloped, his shoulder blades are sharp angles under smooth tan skin. All his lines are perfect—narrow hips and straight arms.

  Over his shoulder, Nico flashes a lazy smile. Wes’s heart uppercuts his tonsils.

  When Nico’s out of sight again, Wes tries to fix his hair. The bookstore’s air conditioner is inadequate. Pit stains are ruining his lucky shirt. And, unfortunately, he doesn’t have any cologne or even a stick of deodorant stashed in the office.

  Everything’s falling apart.

  Ella hops onto her throne, legs crossed, lips puckered. She’s eagerly watching the door. Wes knows why.

  He whispers, “I’m so dead.”

  “Yup,” she says.

  “This is going to end badly.”

  “I’m counting on it.” She already has her phone out, recording.

  Nico strolls inside, skateboard tucked under one arm. His other hand balances a cardboard cup with the Brews and Views logo on it. He’s wearing a loose-fitting tank top, low-slung black skinnies, and Adidas. His hair’s a little flat from the heat. A bead of sweat dribbles from temple to cheek to jaw.