The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls, page 6
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you’re developing a crush on me,” she says. “I know how boys are. Eyes forward.”
“Seriously,” I say, and point my fluttered eyes forward like she asked. “I was actually thinking of how much I dislike you … Plus, you’re too old for me,” I add.
“Aww, a woman can never get tired of hearing that,” she says, and laughs. “Say it again.”
“Which part? How much I dislike you or you being too old?” I ask.
“The old one.”
“You’re way too old for me,” I say.
“Music to my way too old ears. But still, eyes forward,” she reminds me.
We’re halfway out of the dirt trail near the main road before I wonder where we’re going. Her eyes are so focused on the road and her arms are stiff, gripping the steering wheel so tight it is turning her pink knuckles white. It’s like she’s never driven before. But I’m not going to say anything about it, because I’m in here, and the last thing I want is to have her have a meltdown while driving … But every car is passing us. She’s driving so slowly. What’s her deal?
“Where is this boot camp anyway?” I ask.
“Oh, you’re going to help me at my shop first,” she says, without looking at me. “Boot camp comes later.”
“You own a shop?”
“It’s small and not very fancy, but it’s all mine,” she says.
“What kind of store is it?” I ask.
She turns to me and gives me a most sinister grin. “A place where magic lives.”
“Magic isn’t real,” I say.
“Sure it is. In my shop, you can be anyone, do anything, go anywhere,” she adds.
“Are you a travel agent or something?” I ask, which would explain all the countries in her house. She should have listened to the old saying that you should never bring your work home with you.
She laughs. “No. I own a bookstore.”
Boring. Boring. Boring. I hate bookstores. I hate libraries. They are the most boring places humankind has ever created. Even a thief like me couldn’t find something worth stealing in a bookstore.
“I’m not much of a book person. Maybe I can help out in some other way?” I ask.
“Sure. You can always help Tommy with his plumbing gig. That is, if you don’t mind digging deep into dirty toilets all day?” she says. “Should we turn around?”
“He’s an animal maker, an animal rescuer, and a plumber?” I ask.
“Yep. That man can do it all. Creates the creatures on Monday, saves them on Tuesday, and scoops the poop on Wednesday. Should I turn around, or what?”
“No. Not many things are worse than being surrounded by books all day, but sticking my hands into a bowl full of someone’s exits is definitely one of them,” I say. “Bookstore it is.”
“That’s the spirit,” she says. “Exits, huh? I never heard of crap being called exits before … I guess it makes sense.”
“I never heard of mud being called earth poop before. I guess we learn something new every day,” I say.
“That’s probably the smartest thing you have ever said,” she says.
“You just met me.”
“I know, but I can just tell you’re not the brightest firefly in the field. But don’t worry. You’re young. You still have a lot of glowing up to do.”
I bet she thought that was clever. She and my dad probably sit around all day and compete for who’s most clever in the house. But to me, they’re both dorks. Being clever is a waste of time. She reaches over and turns on the radio. The music plays. It’s a rap song from the Minnesota rapper Kristoff Krane. He’s huge in Duluth. This makes it even harder to dislike her. She’s cool. She likes rap. I wish she liked country or something that I could complain about.
“Oh, I love this song,” she says as she raps along.
I watch her in awe. She even knows the words. If I didn’t dislike her so much, I’d probably even sing along with her right now. I know all the words too. But I won’t chime in. She’s the enemy.
“Eyes forward, Benjamin!”
CHAPTER 7
THE MAZINA’IGAN-MAKAK (BOOK BOX)
We pull into a small parking lot, right off Highway 61. The sign hanging above the door says THE BOOK BOX and looks like a book cover. I bet she thinks that was a clever idea too. I wonder if my dad, the now artist-plumber, made it. I scan the surrounding area. On one side of the store is an old-looking church, and on the other side is a huge casino. I guess a quaint little bookstore is the perfect way to separate the saints from the sinners.
We park the Jeep and step outside. Somehow, it’s even colder now. I need to get a jacket soon. I stuff my hands into my pockets and follow Wendy to the door. She unlocks it and flips the CLOSE YOUR EYES sign over. The sign now reads OPEN YOU MIND. That’s cute, but …
“Shouldn’t it say ‘open YOUR mind,’ not ‘YOU mind’?” I ask.
“Yes. That’s just to make sure whoever enters this place can read. Readers are a must for a bookstore. You just passed the first test. You may enter,” she says with a smile.
So, before boot camp, I’m stuck here in book camp. This sucks.
“It warms my heart every time a young reader approaches me and points it out. And it’s always kids, never adults. Strange, huh?”
“The adults probably assume you can’t spell,” I say.
“Adults always like to assume, don’t they?”
“You just did.”
I follow her inside. The shop is filled with my dad’s ceramic animals. And even though the store is rather small, there are thousands of books neatly organized within its three long aisles. Wendy stops and sniffs the air.
“There’s nothing like the smell of a million stories to welcome you to work, is there?” she asks, smiling with her eyes closed.
“I’m just happy the heater is on,” I say, staring at a two-foot ceramic otter, perched on top of the register, holding a BOOK RECOMMENDATION jar. My dad probably made it. I immediately want to break it.
“All right. It’s cash only. The register is self-explanatory, but if you do need anything, I’ll be in the back doing paperwork.”
“You’re leaving me alone, just like that?” I ask.
“Rumor has it that you’re a big boy. And if you get bored, read a book,” she says, and heads to her office.
I’m starting to feel like picking up trash alongside the highway for community service wasn’t such a bad option. It would suck, but at least I wouldn’t die of boredom.
For the next hour I walk the aisles, pushing in any books that were out of place. It takes everything inside of me not to walk out and go hit up the casino. Gamblers have money. And they drink. I think of all the ways I might steal some cash from a drunk tourist tossing money around. Ugh. I just want to get this day over with so I’m one day closer to going back home.
I’m pacing back and forth in the fantasy section, trying to decide how I’ll spend the next few hours, when I hear a jingle at the door. My first customer.
A family of four enters and begins their search for the perfect book. I head over to the register, so I can avoid them asking me any questions. The father walks to the history section, while the mother takes her two kids toward the children’s section. I need to look busy. No one will approach me if I’m busy. I grab a pen and pull a sheet of paper from a notepad.
I’m doodling when the front door opens again. I look up, curious to see if it’s someone mistaking this place for the casino or the church.
But the person who walks in is no gambler or nun. She is, however, the strangest stranger I have ever laid my eyes on: a girl about my age. She moves like a dancer, walking to a beat only she can hear. Maybe she’s from the church, doing some religious ritual I don’t know about. A ritual where she has to hide her face. Because the top half of her face is hidden by a tightly fitted mask. It’s so weird. Two eyeholes are cut out. It reminds me of Daredevil’s mask, or Batman’s, minus the pointy ears. It’s solid black except for one yellow lightning bolt stitched onto the left side of it, above her eye. One could easily mistake her for an eccentric burglar, but who in their right mind would ever rob a bookstore?
The bottom half of her face is smooth and tan. Her skin, the color of those cinnamon sticks my mom puts in her coffee. And this girl’s lips are as full and red as a blood moon. Her long black hair is tightly braided and hangs down like two sleeping snakes. She’s definitely Native American. I wonder if she’s Ojibwe. I wonder what’s wrong with the rest of her face that she needs to hide it from the world. But mostly, I wonder why a girl that doesn’t have to be in a bookstore would ever willingly come to one. She must be boring.
She wears a button-and-patch-covered denim jacket over a red hooded sweatshirt, Minnesota’s signature camouflage pants, and big black leather boots. She’s too far away for me to read most of the buttons and patches, but I do see a peace sign, a rainbow flag, and a button that looks like the earth.
She strolls directly to the children’s section, where the mother and two kids take notice. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the masked girl bends down and speaks to the kids, and two seconds later, the kids burst out laughing.
I want to get a closer look and maybe listen in, but as soon as I put down my pen, the father of the family approaches the counter and plops down a book on WWII battles.
“I’ll take this,” he says.
“Okay. How much is it?” I ask him. He raises an eyebrow.
“Nineteen ninety-five, I believe,” he responds.
He pulls out his wallet but sets it down on the counter when he hears one of his kids call for him. He heads over and picks up his little girl.
While he’s gone, the man’s wallet stares at me, begging for my attention. I can see three twenty-dollar bills peeking out of it. Something very familiar inside of me wakes up. My blood heats. My heart beats like a drum. My hands sweat. And my brain is wondering why I haven’t taken one of the twenties yet. Normally, it would happen so quickly, I’d barely notice. But I am here to stop stealing. Stealing is bad. But is it, really? In life, you can be a giver or a taker. And only a sucker gives. A survivor, like me, takes.
My mouth begins to salivate from the food I imagine I can get with half of that twenty-dollar bill. Okay. After this one time, I won’t steal anymore. Maybe. This will be the last time. I promise myself. And if I break that promise, oh well, I’ll just make another one … And before I finish my thought, my hand slides over to his wallet, and in one swoop, my fingers pluck one of the twenty-dollar bills from the billfold like an eagle plucks a fish from a lake.
Done.
I stuff it in my jeans pocket and go back to doodling, like it never happened.
The father returns with his daughter in tow. The little girl holds a small book about elephants in her hand. “This one too. And it’s seven dollars,” he says before I can ask him the price.
“Twenty-seven bucks,” I say.
He reaches into his wallet and pulls out two twenty-dollar bills. He hands them to me, giving himself a brief look of confusion, before brushing it off.
I hit the cash button on the till and the drawer pops open. I hand the man a ten-dollar bill and three singles. And a nickel.
“Thanks,” he says, grabs the books, and follows the rest of his family out the door.
A sheet of paper next to the register reads Books sold and has a list of titles along with the date of purchase and price. Maybe I should have written this transaction down. I pick up the pen and write in today’s date and the prices before I forget them. Under title, I jot down WW2 Book and Kids Elephant Book.
As I close the cash drawer, I look up to see where the masked girl is. But she’s gone. I walk around the desk and look into the aisles. She couldn’t have left yet. I would have seen her, or at least heard the door jingle. Maybe she’s a thief and stole a book. That would be awesome. Super nerdy, but awesome.
“I’ll take this book,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn around, and it’s her. And for the first time, I see her eyes. They are light brown and have swirls of gold spiraling around her irises. “Hi,” I say.
She responds by shoving the book into my chest and heading toward the register. That was rude. What’s this girl’s deal? And why does she wear that mask? Is it a weird northern Minnesota fashion trend to block the wind from half her face? Or is she disfigured? My curiosity is piqued.
I carry the book to the desk, but I don’t stop staring at the mask. “Did you find what you were looking for?” I ask, trying to sound like an official employee.
“I’m afraid so,” she says.
That’s an odd response. And even though her voice is upbeat, I detect an attitude.
I finally look down at the book in my hand to see what she chose. It’s a children’s book. The kind for toddlers. There’s a picture of a huge green caterpillar crawling across the cover of the book.
“Spoiler alert. This book ends with the little caterpillar turning into a butterfly,” I say.
“You read it?” she asks.
“No. I just know how the world works,” I say.
“Spoiler alert. This is how your world is going to work. You’re the caterpillar, but instead of turning into a butterfly, you get plucked from the branch and end up in the belly of a bird … a jailbird, to be exact,” she says, but I can’t tell if she’s smiling or being serious.
“I have no idea what any of that means,” I say.
“I think you do.”
“I think I don’t,” I snap back.
“Oh, I think you definitely do,” she says, louder this time. She crosses her arms and tilts her head, daring me to continue this denial.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you snaking that guy’s cash just a minute ago,” she says.
My stomach drops. How did she see that? I moved like a ninja. There’s no way … Maybe I’m losing my touch after all.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, my voice weaker than I want it to be.
“Oh, so you’re a liar too, huh? Wow. What a catch. I guess the only way to figure this out is to call the owner to review the footage,” she says, and points to a camera mounted in the corner, aimed directly at us.
Oh crap. How did I not notice that camera? Wow. I really am getting careless.
“We don’t need to go through all of that. Tell you what, how about I break the twenty, give you half to keep you quiet, and we pretend it never happened?” I say.
“You see, the thing is, quiet really isn’t my thing. I’m more of a turn-it-up-and-make-some-noise kinda girl. Besides, I don’t want your blood money.”
“Blood money?” I blurt out. “That’s kinda dramatic.”
“The guy worked hard for his money. With blood, sweat, and tears, so he can afford to bring his kids into bookstores and pick out an adventure to dive into before bed. You robbed him of that,” she says.
“All right. Calm down. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I want you to ring me up so I can get out of here before you try to rob me.”
“Well, to be fair, out of the two of us, it’s you who looks like the robber in this situation, not me,” I say, eyeing her mask.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
“Or a girl by her mask?” I ask, trying to be funny.
“Ring me up and give me the twenty before that family pulls out of the parking lot,” she says.
“Are you going to tell him I stole it?”
“I should, but if I did, he probably wouldn’t come here again, and this place shouldn’t suffer because of some sticky-fingered weasel like you.”
“Weasel? It was just twenty bucks,” I say and hand her the stolen bill.
“Now ring me up so I can get out of here,” she says.
I ring her up. The book has a clearance sticker on it, stating 50 percent off the original price of sixteen dollars.
“Eight dollars.” I hold out my hand.
“Oh, and you’re going to pay for my book to keep me from ratting you out, got it?” she says.
“But you just said you weren’t going to tell him I stole it,” I say.
“As long as you cooperate. Now buy me this book,” she insists.
I pull out some cash from my pocket. “If I’m buying you things already, shouldn’t I at least know your name?”
“Who I am is not important. You should focus on who you are.”
“I know who I am. I’m Benny. And this is Benny’s eight dollars going into the register. There. I bought you a book,” I say. “Need anything else?”
“I don’t, but you do.”
“Huh?”
“What you need is to wake up the superhero inside of you,” she says.
I laugh. “Superhero? Inside of me? What the heck does that even mean?” I ask.
“You’ll know soon enough.” She takes her book and turns to walk out.
“Wait. Is that why you’re wearing a mask? Captain Miss America?” I ask, laughing, as she reaches for the front door.
“See you around, thief,” she says, and opens the door.
“Now who’s judging a book by the cover? You just see a thief, huh?”
“Oh, no, you’re much more than a thief. You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen that can be surrounded by thousands of people, from thousands of years, from thousands of different places, different worlds even, and still find a way to be bored. You know what I call that kind of person?” she asks.
“A not-a-nerd?”
“Mamiidaawendam,” she says.
Oh cool, sounds like another Ojibwe word. So, she is Ojibwe. Good to know.
“Does that mean I’m cute?” I ask, jokingly.
She releases the door, walks back to the register, snatches the pen off the desk, and writes it down. “You figure it out,” she says, walks out, and approaches the family in the van.
I watch her speak to the man, who is in the driver’s seat. She points to the floor and hands him the twenty-dollar bill. He thanks her and drives off. I rush over to the window to see if she heads toward the church or casino. She doesn’t. Instead, she gets on a red bike propped up against the wall and rides down the street, until she is completely out of view.
