Work Text:
“And what would his reading level be?” Bod blinks, looking at the perky pink-haired American bookkeeper and trying to suss out what she means. Eighteen, two years out of the graveyard, and not even remotely close to being versed in the outside world—er, this world.
“What?” he asks, eloquently.
The lady’s smile does not falter. “How old is—well, the kid you’re buying a book for? What grade is he in?”
Bod hesitates, looking at the mountainous bookshelves out of the corner of his eye. Good Lord, America is confusing. “It’s—ah, a book for me.”
“Oh.” She thinks for a second. “I mean, if you’re looking for a children’s book, you’re in the right place. Are you looking for...coming-of-age? Or books with deep meanings?”
“Uh…” He shrugs. Bod isn't looking for anything in particular. “Yeah, sure. Deep.”
The bookkeeper doesn’t seem to notice his odd answer. “Okay.”
She gestures for him to follow, leading Bod down one of the winding aisles, talking about authors and things he didn’t quite understand. In his head, he remembered Liza talking about how older books were infinitely better than the garbage they were publishing nowadays (nowadays being, indeed, the last hundred years or so). Of course, she had only gone out to...buy a copy of Robinson Crusoe for Bod after a week of begging—
No. Life. Life.
Nevertheless—“Hey...Miss?” Bod taps the fast-speaking lady on the shoulder.
She stops, cocks her head. “Yes?”
“Could we maybe find a book—an older book?” Upon realizing how needy that must sound, Bod quickly backtracks. “I-I mean, o-only if—”
She grins after a beat, seeing him fumble. “No, no, it’s fine! Are we talking late 19th century, or a bit more modern than that?”
Good. Dates were easy. Dates he could do. He smiles. “Yes, that would be great.”
The lady pulls a phone from her pocket, one that seemed to be linked to the store’s catalogue. “Lowry or Orwell would be nice, but they're pretty modern. Oh.” She pauses her rapid mumbles to glance up at him. “Side note—are you interested in musical theatre?”
“Uh…” Bod’s smile falls and he falters, trying to remember anything he could about that subject. The few friends he’d made after coming to America mentioned—what was it, Broadway?—story-singing quite a lot, but Bod has never encountered it himself. “Not really.”
“Okay, just wondering. Usually Hamilton fans prefer historical fiction—that’s all.” She goes back to poking at the screen.
Various people in the graveyard often talked about the American Revolution, the most popular names including this...Hamilton. But Bod didn't pay too much attention to the United States's history, preferring to learn more about—well, where he lived.
The books surrounding them were a bunch of old plays. One in particular stands out to him—The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. He remembers someone telling him ab—
“Oh, here’s a good one.” The bookkeeper grins, briskly galloping to the other side of the shelf and grabbing a single book from the shelf. She holds it out to Bod with a huge smile. “Late 19th century, children’s book, deep meaning. Check, check, check.”
He takes the book—medium sized, not too long—from her outstretched hands tentatively. “What’s it about?”
She smiles playfully. “Well, you’ll just have to figure it out yourself, won’t you?”
Bod internalizes his shrug, and hands her ten dollars, shooting down her protests. He glances at the cover—The Jungle Book, by Rudyard Kipling. He skims it, ignoring the feelings of nostalgia and deja vu.
Yes, he would certainly enjoy this book. He offers a smile at the lady.
“Thank you.”