SO, THIS IS PROBABLY MY own fault for being a smartass, but I’m actually a little nervous about starting work. Even though this isn’t a brain surgery residency. I’m very glad this isn’t a brain surgery residency. I don’t think anyone wants me operating on their brain right now, or ever. Especially because my hands are shaking—just a little—on the door handle.
The store looks the same as it always does—which is to say, it looks like Zooey Deschanel exploded into five thousand tablecloths and painted plates and letterpress notecards. It’s called Bissel. Not like the vacuum. Like the Yiddish word, meaning “a little bit.” As in, good luck only spending a bissel of money when you walk into Bissel. Good luck not spending your entire paycheck on a bissel of handcrafted artisan jewelry.
I can’t believe I’m walking into Bissel as an employee.
I’m an employee.
Deborah and Ari Wertheim, the owners, are behind the counter, and I feel this wave of shyness. “Hi,” I say, and my voice comes out comically high. Squeaky Molly. Super professional.
Deborah looks up from the register. “Molly—hi! Oh great, you’re here.” She presses both palms against the counter, beaming. “We are so, so glad you’re joining us.”
She’s intensely nice. They both are. That’s the main thing I remember about the Wertheims from my interview. They’re nice in the way therapists are—like, you get the impression they’d be up for hearing your thoughts about life and humanity. They’re married, and they’re a perfect matched set: tall and big-boned, with thick-framed glasses. Ari’s bald, and Deborah has this kind of wild black hair she wears knotted into a messy bun. Or sometimes two meatball Sailor Moon buns, even though she’s probably in her forties. I really love that. Also, they both have these brightly colored, amazingly intricate tattoos all up and down their arms. Literally, they are the two coolest adult humans on the planet, or at least in Maryland.
“Hmm, so I guess we probably went over most of this stuff at the interview. You remember how to use the register?”
I nod, even though I definitely don’t remember how to use the register.
“Cool. Though the register is being an asshole today, so I’ll probably stick you in the back room with Reid. And he can kind of show you around. You’ve met Reid?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I’ll introduce you.” Deborah gives me a little shoulder squeeze. “One sec.”
She walks toward the back of the store, through the baby section, and I try to act casual. There’s music playing—something soft and indie. Cassie would know the band. And right beside me, there’s a display of ceramic mugs shaped like whales. Of course Bissel sells ceramic mugs shaped like whales. Of course those exist. I literally don’t understand how anyone could walk into this store and not fall in love.
Deborah comes back a minute later with a guy I’ve actually seen here before. He’s tall and kind of big, in that way people describe as husky. His shirt has a map of Middle Earth on it. And his sneakers are so electric white, they’re either brand-new, or he puts them in the laundry.
“Molly, this is Reid. Reid, Molly.”
“Hi,” he says, smiling shyly.
“Hi.” I smile back.
Deborah turns to me. “Molly, you’re going to be a senior, right?”
I nod.
“Perfect! You guys are the same age. I bet you have a lot in common.”
Classic adult logic. Reid and I are vaguely the same age, so of course we’re basically soul mates. It’s like horoscopes. Somehow I’m supposed to believe that I’m similar in some meaningful way to every single person born on my birthday. Or every single Sagittarius. I mean, I barely have anything in common with Cassie, and we were born six minutes apart.
Sorry, but this guy is literally choosing to advertise Lord of the Rings on his body. I don’t think there’s going to be a whole lot of common ground.
We walk through the baby section, and the whole time, I get the impression that he’s trying to think of things to say. It reminds me a lot of those meaningless syllables people spew, like “Um, yeah, so . . .”
Reid doesn’t actually spew the syllables. He’s like the personification of those syllables. I wish there were a secret signal you could use to communicate: HELLO. I AM OFFICIALLY COOL WITH SILENCE.
Not that I actually am cool with silence, but maybe it would help him relax.
For a moment, we just stand there in the entryway to the back room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and rustic wooden furniture. I bite my lip, feeling awkward and unsettled.
“Welcome to your first day,” he says finally.
“Thanks.” I smile, looking up at him. He’s so tall, I actually have to tilt my head back. He’s not awful looking. He definitely has good hair. It’s this perfect, tousled boy hair—brown and soft and sort of curly. And he wears glasses. And there’s this sweetness to his mouth. I always notice people’s mouths.
“You’ve been working here for years, right?” I say. “I’ve seen you before.”
As soon as I say it, I blush. I don’t want him to think I’ve NOTICED him. I mean, I have noticed him. But not in that way. I’ve noticed him because he sticks out here. He doesn’t quite fit. I think of Bissel as a place for people who care about tiny details—like the texture of a woven place mat or the painted pattern on the handle of a serving spoon.
I would say Reid gives a pretty strong impression that he doesn’t notice patterns on serving spoons.
“Yeah, I’m here all the time. Kind of unavoidable.” He shrugs. “My parents.”
“Your parents?”
“Ari and Deborah.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “Ari and Deborah are your parents?”
“You didn’t know that?” He looks amused.
I shake my head slowly. “Okay. You just blew my mind.”
“Really?” He laughs. “Why?”
“Because! I don’t know. Deborah and Ari just seem so . . .” Punk rock and badass and not into Lord of the Rings. “They have tattoos,” I say finally.
He nods. “They do.”
I just gape for a minute.
He laughs again. “You seem so surprised.”
“No, I’m just . . .” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
There’s this silence.
“Um. So, do you want to unpack some baby stuff?” Reid asks, nudging a cardboard box with the toe of his sneaker. We settle onto the floor next to it, cross-legged. I’m suddenly glad to be wearing leggings under my dress.
Reid lifts a stack of onesies out of the box. “So these need price stickers,” he says. “Do you know how to do that?”
“Do I know how to use stickers?”
“It’s pretty complicated,” he says. We grin at each other.
I pick up a onesie. “This is very Takoma Park.”
It’s undyed cotton, gender neutral, printed with a picture of vegetables. Seriously. Babies here are forced to declare their allegiance to vegetables before they’re old enough to say, “Suck it, Mom, I want ice cream.”
“This is actually a reorder. We sold out of them last week,” Reid says.
“Of course it’s a reorder.”
“Vegetables are just really popular right now.” He looks down and smiles.