“Ugh!” Charlotte growled as she stormed through the door of the pawnshop with the kind of drama only a thirteen-year-old could successfully adopt.
I didn’t even know her all that long, but it felt like time was going too fast. Even as I planned her extravagant birthday party (which included an overnight sleepover in a bookstore and the biggest sweet treat buffet known to mankind), it felt like it was too soon to have another teenager in the house.
“What happened?” I asked, dusting off a shelf of Russian nesting dolls that had been sitting in the shop as long as I’d been running it.
“My teacher is making me do an assignment with Asher.”
“Asher… popular guy who once made fun of you for your book, Asher?” I clarified. There were three guys in her grade with different versions of Ash/Ashton/Asher. All of them sounded like little assholes. Or maybe that was just the age.
“Yeah.” Charlotte slammed her bag down on the counter with an exaggerated sigh.
“What’s the assignment for?”
“We have to read and do a report together. On a book.”
“How’d that go?” A guilty look crossed her face. One that she usually reserved for when her temper got the better of her and she said something she maybedidmean but also regretted. “Charlotte…”
“I maybe asked him if he even knew how to read.”
A snort escaped me at that.
“Good one.”
And that right there was why it was probably a good thing no one let me raise any small children. I was a terrible influence.
“What’d he say?”
“That if I liked books so much, I could just do all the work.”
“Group assignments suck because it’s always one or two people doing all the work while everyone else goofs off. But that is an option. Just do the work, get the good grade, and avoid the fights.”
“Oh, no,” she said, a fierce look in her eyes as she crossed her arms. “I’m going to make him work too.”
“There are those Costa genes,” I said with a little laugh. “So, how do you plan to make that happen?”
“He’s meeting me here,” she said, chin lifting. “And we’re going to the bookstore to work. Whether he likes it or not.”
Not ten minutes later, the bell chimed.
And there was Asher.
He was kind of in that stage all boys go through where he was all arms and legs and couldn’t seem to keep any weight on. But he was golden-haired, blue-eyed, and had the bone structure that suggested he was going to have no problem becoming the prom king in a few years.
“I’m here,” he announced, holding out his arms in an ‘are you happy?’ way.
“Do you want an award?” Charlotte asked, making me cover a snorting laugh with a fake cough. Judging by the way Asher’s lips twitched ever so slightly, he was amused by it as well.
“So, what book are you guys working on?” I asked.
“I gave him a list of three,” Charlotte said, and I was having a hard time reconciling this take-charge, bossy teenager with the sweet, shy little girl that had come to New York just six or sevenmonths ago. “Scythe, The Hate U Give,orThe Perks of Being a Wallflower.”
“Perkssounds good,” Asher said, shrugging.
“That’s a good choice,” I said.
“He picked it because it’s the shortest,” Charlotte said, being uncharacteristically ungracious.
“Charlotte,” I said, a soft warning in my voice.
