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you've reached sam [ Chapter-5 pg 1 to 5 ]

CHAPTER FIVE

I’ve been working at Mr. Lee’s bookstore for almost three years now. It is a relic of a place, filled with leather-bounds, rare foreign books, and collectables, and has been around for two generations despite more people shopping online these days. It is the last bookstore in town. I found it by accident the first week I moved here. The store is nameless with no storefront signs outside. The only indication are the books stacked in spiral towers in the windows. Many of our customers wander in out of curiosity.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how long the job would last when I applied. Every time I turn that corner on my way to work, I worry I’ll find the lights off and the CLOSED sign unturned at the door. I’m surprised Mr. Lee still manages to keep us around when there’s so little to do. I can’t thank him enough for his kindness.

The crystal wind chime jangles against the glass door as I come in. It’s the next day, and I decide to stop by after school to check in on things. After a week of radio silence on my end, it’s time. When I step inside, it feels like I’ve gone through a portal. Light bulbs hang from strings at different heights in the air, blinking occasionally. The place looks small from the outside, but the sixteen long rows of hand-painted bookshelves that nearly touch the ceiling make the store seem massive.

The store looks empty at first. More quiet than usual. Then I hear the struggling of a box being torn open, followed by the ripping of tape, then the sound of several books tumbling onto the floor, and someone’s voice.

“Oh geez.”

I figured Tristan would be working today. I follow the voice and find him crouched down in the back of the fantasy section, mumbling to himself, picking up fallen books. I kneel down to help him out.

“Need a hand?” “Huh? Ouch—”

Tristan turns too fast, bumping his head against the bookshelf ladder. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally fine.” Tristan winces, smiling through some pain. He blinks at me with recognition. “Julie? When did you get here?”

“Just a second ago,” I say as I check his forehead. “Maybe we should put something on that.”

Tristan waves it off. “No, really, I’m fine,” he says again, and laughs a little unconvincingly. “It happens to me all the time around here.”

“That worries me a little.” “Don’t worry! It’s only a bump.”

After we stack the books together, I help Tristan to his feet. He straightens up and runs his hand a few times through his brown curls, even though they bounce right back. It’s a nervous tic of his.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says, dusting his sleeves off. “I was little surprised, that’s all. Didn’t know you were coming in today.”

“I felt like checking in. I know it’s been a while.” I glance around the store for changes. But it’s exactly as I left it. I turn to Tristan. “Sorry for leaving you guys out of the blue. I heard you volunteered to take over my shifts. I never thanked you.”

“Oh, no need to thank me. I mean, I’m glad I could help.”

Besides Mr. Lee, it’s only me and Tristan working here. If one of us is sick, the other one is responsible for their hours and closing the store. We rely a lot on each other, especially around finals when we have to coordinate our exam schedules. I hate that I sprung an entire week on him without a word. Tristan is a junior, so we never have class together. The first time we spoke was when we both sat down with Mr. Lee during our interview for this job. Mr. Lee said he was impressed with our knowledge of books and chose us specifically for the genres we read most. He noticed I’m well-read in young adult and literary fiction, and praised Tristan’s expertise in science fiction and fantasy. We later learned we were the only ones who even applied.

“I still feel guilty,” I say.

“You shouldn’t,” Tristan says, shaking his head. “You should take off however much time as you need. I like being here. So don’t feel bad.”

The wind chimes jingle, letting us know a customer has come in. Tristan looks over his shoulder, and runs a hand through his hair. He whispers, somewhat carefully, “So how are you doing, by the way? I’ve

been wanting to reach out, but I wasn’t sure if it was too soon, you know? I’m sorry about what happened to Sam. Things must be hard right now…”

I stare at the floor, wondering what to say. Ever since Sam picked up, it’s as if the whole world flipped again, and I’m no longer sure how to respond to these questions. How do you bridge grief and hopefulness, without having someone take it the wrong way? Without hinting at your secret? “I’m just taking it one day at a time…”

Tristan nods. “That makes sense…”

The wind chime jingles again. I use this momentary distraction to change the subject. I run a hand along the shelves. “Anyway, how’s the store been?”

“Pretty good,” Tristan says, understanding. “Actually, you should see this.” He takes my arm, pulling me to another section of the store. A woman and her son are perusing some used books by the front window. Tristan smiles at them. “Let me know if you guys need anything,” he says.

We arrive at science fiction, his favorite section.

“Look—the entire Space Ninja series, collector’s edition,” Tristan says, showing me the shelf he’s been working on. “They only have fifty of them in the world.”

“Oh, wow.”

Tristan opens up the book with careful hands. “It has a holographic map of the entire NexPod Galaxy. Isn’t that cool?” He turns the page. “Here’s a picture of Captain Mega Claws—also holographic. If you tilt it a little, his claw moves.”

“It’s beautiful.” I touch the holographic paper as it glimmers. “Looks expensive, though.”

“It’s already sold.”

“Oh—so why is it still here?”

“I still have to ship it,” he explains. “Someone bought it online.” “We’re online?”

“Only since last week,” Tristan says. “We have an online store now and everything. It’s really expanding our customer base.”

“That’s amazing. And Mr. Lee is okay with it?”

“Of course. He even asked me to update our f*******: page. And we have a Twitter now, by the way.”

“Do people still use that?”

“You’d be surprised.” “Interesting.”

Tristan returns the book to the shelf. “I also reached out to the author, Steve Anders. I asked him to come do a signing here and got a response.”

“Oh my god. When’s he coming?”

“He’s not,” Tristan says, frowning. “His publicist said they’ve never even heard of Ellensburg.”

“Most people haven’t,” I say with a sigh. “At least you tried.” “Yeah. That’s what Mr. Lee said.”

The wind chimes jingle again, bringing in another customer. It’s always great to see people come into the store, even if they don’t buy anything. After a quiet moment, I catch the scent of sage and tea leaves. A calm energy embraces the store. I turn to see the back room’s door propped open, and Mr. Lee standing beside Tristan, a hand on his shoulder. He has that tendency to appear as if from nowhere.

“Good afternoon, Julie.”

“Mr. Lee…” is all I get out. I was hoping he would be here today. I feel a pang of guilt in my chest for not reaching out sooner, but I know he understands. No one knows this, but Mr. Lee was with me the day I found out Sam died. In fact, it was right here in this store when I got that phone call from Mika in the morning. Mr. Lee picked me up off the floor, closed down the bookstore early, drove me to the hospital, and waited to bring me home. He always loved having Sam around.

Mr. Lee said he “brought in good luck.” “What did I bring in?” I once asked him. “You brought in Sam.”

“The books missed you,” Mr. Lee says with a lift of a hand. While someone else might find his words strange, I’ve grown accustomed to how he imbues personalities into the books of the store, bringing them to life. For instance, when a new book would come in, he’d say, “We’ll need to find this one a home.” It always makes me smile.

“I’ve kept them in my mind,” I say.

He nods. “I had a feeling you were stopping by,” he says. “Perfect timing. There’s something I would like you to see.”

We leave Tristan with the customers as we head to the back office. The room is behind a secret bookcase that isn’t really a secret. Every time I step

through it and follow the blinking string of lights and paper ornaments along the ceiling, I feel like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

The room is filled with stacks of brown boxes, each filled with various books we either don’t have a place for yet or just haven’t sorted through. Mr. Lee asks me to wait here while he disappears inside the little office in the corner. When he returns, he’s holding a book I don’t recognize right away.

“I found this in last week’s donation box. Take a look—” He hands it to

me.

I run my hand over the cover. It is a beautiful brown clothbound, soft to

the touch, with embroidered floral patterns that appear dusted with gold with nothing written on top. Maybe the book sleeve is missing. I skim through some pages in search of the title. But everything’s blank.

“It’s a notebook,” Mr. Lee says. “Quite a beautiful one, don’t you agree?”

“It is…” I whisper, admiring the quality of the pages. “I can’t believe someone gave this away. It hasn’t even been used yet.”

“I immediately thought of you,” he says, and points to the old computer on the back table. “I’ve noticed you stealing paper from the printer to write on. So I figured you might appreciate this gift. Who knows … maybe if you change the medium in which you wrote, it might inspire something.”

“I was only borrowing the paper,” I say. Mr. Lee chuckles and waves it off.

I look down at the notebook. “I can have this?”

“As long as you make good use of it,” Mr. Lee says with a nod. “I think of it as an investment.”

“How so?”

“You see—once you finish your book, we can put it on the shelves, right in the front of the store,” he explains. “And I can tell customers she wrote it here, you know? In the journal I gave her.”

I smile as I hold the journal close to me. Mr. Lee is always encouraging me to write more. “Use your time at the store. Talk with the books for inspiration. They’re full of ideas.” Sometimes I share my stories with him to get his thoughts. Unlike my English teachers at school, Mr. Lee is well versed in the world of literature and always finds beauty in my words. He understands what it is I’m trying to say even when I’m not sure myself. “I

don’t know if I could write a whole book, though,” I admit. “I’m having trouble just thinking lately. I’m not sure what to write about anymore.”

“What have you been thinking about?” he asks.

I run my hand along the spine of the journal. “Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” And Sam, of course.

“Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”

I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”

“Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”