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Maybe if I’d have specialized in psychiatrics, I’d understand all of this shit better, but alas, that was never my calling.
The second I slam my locker shut, I happen to catch Kendra, curled up in the corner, mindlessly munching on green apple slices while her nose is buried in a book—some bodice-ripper with a buxom blonde and a barely-clothed Fabio-looking guy on the cover.
“Good book?” I ask, remembering Stassi and her little reading challenge. She was always such a nerd, but damn if seeing a pretty girl reading isn’t my biggest turn on. My horny teenaged self would have all sorts of fantasies of us getting it on in the library. The computer lab. Doing experiments in the bio lab. I never knew anyone could make reading so fucking hot.
“Eh.” Kendra pops another apple slice in her mouth. “It helps to pass the time.”
I wonder if Stassi has finished Charlotte’s Web yet. Probably. And then she’ll move on to …
Huh. It dawns on me, what I need to do.
Instead of going out to the sub shop, I make my way to the parking garage. The shops of downtown Portland are pretty removed from the Maine Medical Center, so I have to park in the garage by the public market and walk a few blocks to the nearest book shop, A Likely Story. This indie shop is small and so crowded with books that I have to crab-walk sideways down the aisles in order to fit. It doesn’t bother carrying the latest books from the hottest bestsellers—it’s mostly classics and used books. I go to the P section and search out Pasternak.
Nothing. No Doctor Zhivago.
I meander to the counter. I’m the only person in the store, and the older gentleman sitting behind the desk, who must own the place, is reading a copy of Dante’s Inferno.
“What can I do you for?” he asks, licking his finger before turning to a new page.
“You don’t have Doctor Zhivago by chance, do you?”
He frowns. “Believe it or not, I don’t have every book ever written in this shoebox-sized store. Crazy, right?”
I’m fluent in sarcasm, but I’m short on time.
“Okay.” I force a smile. Twenty minutes ago, I could’ve given two shits about Pasternak. But now, much like the woman haunting my every thought, it’s become my mission. I’ll secure that damn book or die trying. “Do you know where the next nearest bookstore is that might have it?”
“Nope.” He flicks to another page.
“That’s great. Really helpful.”
I start to back away when he says, “I can order it. Have it shipped to you.”
I’ll have to forgo the instant gratification, but it’s an option.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s do that.” I reach for my wallet as he chicken-pecks at the keyboard of an old laptop.
The machine is thick, with a loud fan, and probably older than I am.
The man exhales, staring over his reading glasses at the results. “Paperback? Hardcover?”
“Hardcover.” I decide Stassi is the type to keep books once she’s read them. “Thanks.”
As I pull out my card to pay, he turns the computer screen toward me. “Take your pick.”
There are a number of hardcover editions. Most are under twenty bucks, but I scan down to the bottom one, which is, for some reason, $327.
It’s signed. First edition.
Stassi’s a book nerd. She’d probably get off on it. I point. “That’s the one.”
He looks over at it, impressed. “All right. Address?”
“201 Main Street, Apartment C, Sapphire Shores.”
After about a half hour, he finally gets that in. “Looks like it’ll arrive on the 2nd.”
“The 2nd?” That’s two weeks away. “Can you get it to me faster?”
He fixes me with a look. “You’re really desperate, aren’t you?”
“It’s a gift for a friend.” Not that I owe him an explanation.
“I can get it here in two days if you pay rush shipping,” he says as he adjusts his glasses, “but if you ask me, that book’s overrated.”
So I’ve heard. “Rush shipping is fine.”
“Okay, your dime.” He takes my credit card.
$327 plus twenty dollars shipping later, I have another excuse to talk to her, even if only to prove that while Doctor Zhivago might be overrated, this doctor isn’t.
13
Stassi
“You look like a hermit crab.” Mad plops down on the sofa next to me.
I’m sitting in the cocoon of my giant wearable velour blanket, trying to read my book and enjoy my freshly poured Diet Coke before the ice melts and waters it down. “Your point?”
“Don’t have one. Just making an observation,” she says with a shrug. “Also, you’ve worn that same outfit every day for a week.” She lifts her palms. “Just another observation.”
“I’m surprised you have time to notice all of that between you and Joe the Sex Machine going at it like rabbits …” My wearable blanket is the greatest thing ever. And the pajamas under it are triple-thick fleece. My slippers make my feet look like little pancakes. “Anyway, I’m not a crab. I’m adorable. Like a walking teddy bear.”
