Jenna.
“You really did it this time!” She wastes no time setting her bags down on the counter. I assume they’re from a recent shopping trip until I see one of my old t-shirts spill out.
I gulp.
“Mom said to drop this here before my shift. Let me guess, you’ll crash on your Grams’ couch for a few days ‘til you beg for forgiveness?”
“I didn’t even doanything.” I sigh, peering inside the bags. They’re packed with as much care as garbage thrown into a bin, and I cringe as an old trophy from the swim team tumbles out.
At least, now, if I toss it in the dumpster behind Grams’ place, the raccoons will have a chance to feel like champions.
“Put this somewhere.” She orders “Our customers already have to deal with you—let’s not let them see this junk on top of it.”
There’s no time for a witty comeback. By the time I’ve even processed the insult, the door to the back office has closed with a thud. Jenna and I thankfully never work the sales floor together. For all her faults, she’s good at Excel, and someone here has to be able to handle that and social media.
I stare into a bag with an old shoebox inside. There’s a layer of dust disrupted by fingerprints, presumably from when Jenna took it off the shelf.
My notebooks, at least the ones Aunt Andrea hasn’t thrown away, with their messy covers and bent spirals, stare up at me like old friends. Dust floats like glitter when I flip through the crumpled pages.
Maybe one day I’ll know what it feels like to be wanted.
I cringe, flipping through the melancholy entries. It’s a stark reminder that though time has passed, not much has changed. There’s only one time I remember filling out pages of happyjournal entries from our summers at camp. But there’s no way that notebook is in the pile. Still, with hurried fingers, I search.
“You’re making such a mess,” Jenna groans, coming out to lean on the counter.
“You’re the one who brought it here,” I argue, setting the book down. But as soon as it’s out of my hands, it’s in Jenna’s. She snickers, flipping through the pages.
“Jenna, give it back already,” I say, trying to sound firm and unbothered, knowing full well any sign of emotion will spur my cousin on. Except, here she is: holding my adolescent heart in her hands. Historically, that’s something she’s never been gentle with. The smirk on Jenna’s face is proof my tone has already betrayed me. I try to ignore it at first, and then the dramatic reading starts. Despite towering over her, she’s nimble, dodging and jumping to avoid my reach. In an instant, we’re far from the adults we’ve grown into.
“‘Aunt Andrea said she won’t take me to Grams’ anymore,’” Jenna reads, pressing a hand to her forehead with dramatic flair. “‘AndJenna—I don’t understand why she doesn’t likeme.’”
“Seriously, cut it out!” I shout, knocking into a clothing rack as I lunge for it—only to have the book swiftly moved out of the way.
She flips through the pages, holding it high in the air.
“We never hung out because you moped around all the time writing in your journals like some sad Victorian orphan,” she says. “You’ve practically haunted the house all these years with the moody piano playing and—ew, can you stop that?”
I pause. I hadn’t even realized I’d started scratching at my neck. A nervous tick that, considering the newly formed smile on her face, has signaled to her she’s won this little feud. Rage twists in the pit of my stomach. Jumping up, I pull at the corner of the book and—
Rip!
“Shit,” Jenna gasps, and to her credit, she actually looks upset as she presses the paper back together—a sad attempt to fix what she’d broken. Soon enough, she gives the journal back.
tattered paper heart, so easily torn, a lifetime ago of broken pieces still too fresh to mourn.
Lyrics jump to the forefront of my mind as I hold the journal as tenderly as a bruised heart—but no—that’s not the song I want to sing.
Something needs to change.
The chime of the bell at the door causes my back to reflexively straighten, my feelings just another thing shoved into a box today. A practiced smile pulls at the edges of my lips as Jenna retreats to the office.
“Welcome!” I say, as a customer in an Ole Reliables T-shirt rushes up with a smile on their face. An ache inside me grows; maybe soon I’ll be able to make something just as special as the music my parents left behind.
Chapter 2
Marina
When it comes to my life as an old chair, there’s only one person who gets to really see my seams pull.
