Chapter Text
Soon after I finished my final exams, my father advised me to pursue a job during the upcoming summer vacation. The idea was met with protest at first and coming from a person as ambitious as me, it surprised him. Throughout my entire senior year of high school, I kept myself busy by all means possible – I signed up for a gym nearby, I joined the art club, the creative writing club, the student council and gave some tutoring lessons in both English and German to earn some pocket money. In all honesty, the exhaustion caught up with my body by the end of the year and I anticipated the long hours of sleep and freedom of sunbathing in our small garden while drinking strawberry smoothies.
When my father advised someone to do something, it always ended up resembling more of a threat than a suggestion. It wasn’t wise to protest, not after I had shown him my capabilities. Therefore we came to an agreement after a short, hateful glare and a lecture – A job at a nearby bookstore.
“Hello?”
“Good evening! Am I speaking to Jean Kirschtein?”
The soft, female voice sounded familiar. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m Mrs. Hamelin. You have recently applied for a summer job as an assistant and cashier at our bookstore at Morrison Street, is that correct?”
My eyes roamed the desk in search of a note pad and a pen. “Yes, I have.”
“Good! Mr. Kirschtein, you were accepted for the job. You will start on Monday.”
“That’s great,” I noted down the date and her name. “Thank you, Mrs. Hamelin."
“Please arrive around 7:30 AM to settle some remaining official matters and to clear up any questions. You will be schooled on your first day; there is nothing to be concerned about.”
“That’s understood,” I jotted down the remaining details and then I placed the pen down and leaned back in my seat. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
We politely spoke our goodbyes until she hung up. My father leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
“I got the job,” I answered his unspoken question with little enthusiasm and returned to my unfinished drawing.
Out of the corner of my eyes I caught him smiling before he walked out the room once again. As I dunked my brush into the tainted water, I hoped to not regret this choice.
I had a habit of raising my expectations instinctively. Essentially, it fuelled my motivation and encouraged me to strut into any situation with an open mind. While the method was excellent at the beginning, it often caused disappointment and therefore my motivation would decrease as well. Gradually I developed a constant look of slight annoyance on my face, which, according to my father, was the reason people refrained from talking to me. He didn’t count the students who would only ask for favours, throw a dismissive “thanks” at me the next day and disappear until the next problem came up. Throughout my senior year I served as a search engine more than a friend to anyone. I was determined to change my reputation during college.
I had too much to think about, as any other young adult did, but I preferred to drown myself in work rather than succumb to these ridiculously stupid concerns. I was a good student, I took care of a small white kitten and I rarely wasted my precious time. I didn’t share their worries about lovers and parties and friendship – these were all useless at my age anyway. My priorities were known to me and should I care enough to endorse in other activities, I would give it a try.
It would have been better to bring a book along, instead of reminiscing during the bus ride.
“Morrison Street,” announced a monotonous voice as the screen flashed the name in bright green letters. I slip the shoulder strap of messenger bag over my head, dusting the black fabric. While I scrolled through my music playlist on the way out, I bumped into someone.
“Fuck, watch it, dude,” hissed the voice back at me and my head jerked up to see the angriest teenager in the world. I muttered my apologies – he didn’t listen anyway – and walked past a pretty black haired girl. I only spared her a glance and discovered she accompanied that angry guy, so I paid little attention to her after that.
The bookstore was situated close to a café down the street. I stood before the wooden entrance door, marvelling over the beautifully carved woodwork as my hands traced every dent with caution.
“Mr. Kirschtein?”
I jumped slightly, withdrawing my hand. Mrs. Hamelin stood to my left side, sporting a flawless teeth revealing smile and gently pushing some dark hair strands away from her eyes.
“Yes!” I replied a little too hastily, but attempted to compensate for it by clearing my throat and straightening my posture.
“Mrs. Hamelin, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, offering a smile and holding out my hand in greeting.
“The pleasure’s entirely mine, Mr. Kirschtein,” she shook my hand, her grip surprisingly firm compared to her delicate features. “Shall we go in?”
After a prompt nod I slipped my hands into my jeans pockets, listening to the soft clicking of Mrs. Hamelin’s high heels. On our way to her office, I stared at the numerous shelves, all in perfect order. The job interview had been held in a small office outside of the library, therefore I hadn’t actually been inside before. The nostalgic atmosphere in the shop was certainly an attraction to customers. What the shop lacked in size it made up for with quality.
It took us approximately two hours to settle everything. The contract was signed and with the little knowledge I obtained after a tour around the bookstore, I found myself arranging the newest delivery of science fiction books at the appropriate shelve. Mrs. Hamelin advised me to stay behind the counter after I was done, for a couple of customers liked to stop by before their morning coffee.
She retreated into her office and as I kept stacking books, two guys arrived at the shop, both of which turned out to be my co-workers. The shorter one’s name was Connie, with his buzz cut and energetic aura. Connie was also an assistant, checking for deliveries and helping out customers. On the contrary, Berthold, the tall cashier standing beside me, seemed to be as quiet as possible, solely focused on his work.
I felt confident with my work after a couple of hours. Berthold helped me when I struggled to operate the cash desk. Connie encouraged me to speak to the customers more, which led to me receiving several comments about my two-toned hair and the undercut. A young boy, who came with his mother, pleaded her to have hair as cool as mine. That brought a smile to my face and I mouthed “Sorry!” to the mother, who simply waved the matter off.
“That’ll be 7.98$, Miss.”
The most interesting part about this job was the individual book choices. I created a mental bookmark whenever I came across an interesting book someone bought. Every purchase came with a free paper bookmark with the bookstore’s name written across it.
“Thank you, have a nice day!”
My eyes followed the customers as they strolled out of the bookstore. When they shifted back to the broad view of all the shelves and remaining customers, I noticed a tall guy with dark brown hair lost in a book from the YA fiction section. I leaned against the counter, watching as this guy read the first page, the middle page and the blurb of every book in that section, thoughtfully choosing those that interest him. An hour passed and I kept serving customers, though my thoughts remained on that brunet guy.
I had to admit I found that guy to be really weird. Who would willingly spend this much time on choosing a good book? The internet could be his best friend and this entire book searching ordeal would conclude much faster. Even Connie’s approach he dismissed with a friendly smile, while he continued to analyse every book as if it was a long lost treasure.
“Jean,” Berthold’s voice cut through my thoughts, stern and almost threatening, “Focus.”
“Ah… Sorry,” I replied, turning to the next person wishing to pay for a copy of 50 Shades of Grey and Twilight.
“Good afternoon, Miss. That’ll be 18.96$.” He couldn’t help but wonder why a pretty blond girl would spend her time reading bad fiction. I didn’t call myself an avid reader, but by now it should have been known that those books were so bad it should be illegal to read them.
“Thank you,” I handed her the change and smiled. “Are you a fan of Twilight?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, no, this is an anniversary gift for my girlfriend. She hates these books.”
My eyes widened, but I chuckled with her. “Well then, my deepest condolences to your girlfriend. Have a nice day.”
“You too,” she grinned, glancing to my name tag, “Mr. Kirschtein.” With the handle of the paper bag held by both hands, she almost skipped out the shop, her flower dress swaying.
When there was only a small amount of people in the shop, I decided to help Connie out with the dusting of the bookshelves. He stood on a ladder, the back of his brown shirt saying “Any questions? Ask me!” in black letters.
“Connie, do you need any help?”
“Nah, man, I’m almost done up here. How’s it going with the job?”
“Good, I mean… it’s nice. It’s rather relaxing.”
“Yeah, the atmosphere and the people do that to you,” Connie remarked, pushing an encyclopaedia back into its place.
“Say, Connie,” I began, watching out for any sight of that brunet guy. “Does that brunet dude always stay here for hours just trying to decide on a book?”
Connie carefully stepped down from the ladder, looking at me. “Occasionally. There are times where he comes in, gets a book and leaves again, but most of the time he just likes to explore, I’m guessing.”
“Maybe he’s a picky reader… Did you ever catch his name?”
“No, I’ve never had that much conversation with him. One time he asked for a book called The Fault in Our Stars and we talked a little about the book, but I never caught the guy’s name. Sorry, man. He seems like a nice dude though.”
“He does,” I concluded, nodding my head in approval. Connie was a good co-worker and easy to get along with. I was about to leave again, when Connie caught me by the sleeve.
“Hey, wait. Did you see a girl with red hair and green eyes here today?”
I thought about the faces I’d seen today, but none of them fit the description. “No, not really. You could ask Berthold?”
“I doubt he allows his gaze to wander off as much as you do, Jean.”
“Hey!” I frowned, gently nudging Connie’s shoulder. “It was only that weird guy that distracted me, I’m usually very attentive.”
“Sure you are,” he rolled his eyes and my blood began to boil a little, “Listen, I’m going to go get these boxes to the storage room. You should go and join Bertl for a while. Maybe you can get him to talk?”
I sighed. “Fine,” I nodded, “I’ll make sure to look out for any green-eyed redheads!” he called after Connie, who already paraded away with the empty boxes underneath his arm.
Berthold, or Bertl as Connie called him, was cleaning the counter when I arrived. I considered following Connie’s advice and starting some conversation with him, but obviously neither of us felt it was appropriate to disturb the comfortable silence surrounding us.
Finally, the brunet guy from earlier approached the counter and since someone already stood in Berthold’s queue and I was free, he stopped in front of me.
Three books. He spent at least two hours to decide on three books. Fuck, that guy was weird.
I scanned the back of the books, my eyes remaining on the counter.
“That will be,” I began, but I stuttered a little the second I saw his face up close, “T-Twenty-five dollars, Sir.”
His hand went inside his pocket, before he placed the money onto the counter. As I slowly put the bills into the register, I heard him speak in this incredibly soft voice.
“Hey Bertl, how are things going?”
“Alright. Reiner might come over this weekend, so I’m looking forward to that. You, Marco?”
Marco.
I cleared my throat, still phased by the fact that Berthold comfortably spoke with Marco, a customer, about something rather personal. Perhaps they were acquaintances by any chance – after all, our town wasn’t particularly big.
The pounding of my heart resonated within my ear, which was something I only read books about. This guy’s tanned skin was covered in freckles, it was almost ridiculous.
“Here you go, Sir–”
“–Marco,” he interrupted me, taking the paper bag from me. He quickly glanced to my name tag. “Thank you, Mr. Kirscht–”
“–Jean. Just Jean,” I interrupted him this time, smiling a little wider. “Have a nice day.”
“You too, Jean,” he said. “See you soon, Bertl!”
Fifteen minutes before my first day of work would end. I looked at Berthold when Marco was gone.
“What?” he deadpanned.
“You know him?”
“He’s a friend.”
“Why does he spend so much time choosing books?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He never said.”
“You’ve never asked?”
Another shrug. “No.”
Seriously, did no one find this guy’s reading habits to be strange?