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station,ā€ a mechanical sounding female voice announced; pre-recorded, of course.

Ten minutes and Iā€™d be in the Heights, ten minutes and this could be just another day. My hand tightened around the baggie in my coat pocket, eyes clenching shut even tighter. Somehow, I didnā€™t believe it. I could feel change in the air.

The bell rang behind me as I entered the bookstore, pulling the zipper quickly across my pocket so that my morning activities would not be discovered. I whispered a silent plea under my breath, praying that their contents would not be discovered.

Emma was at the front desk, twirling a piece of her thin, brown hair around her finger as she noisily chewed gum, splotches of her lipstick smearing across her chin. I debated telling her about the lipstick, but then she opened her mouth, ā€œyouā€™re just in time, lots of ā€˜interestingā€™ characters around here today,ā€ she said pointing at the shelves to the left of her, not bothering to lower her voice. ā€œBoss told some guy he can do space studies of the stacks, whatever that means. And, wellā€¦ youā€™re going to have to talk to that old woman near the cookbook section, if you know what I mean. Donā€™t know why she thought she could come in here, she practically has the word written across her head.ā€

ā€œDonā€™t you think we could just leave her be?ā€ I asked, stepping behind her to pull my apron off the coat rack. A dark green apron to cover my street clothes, Ableā€™s books written across it in white letters. I knew that just asking was a futile thing, but still.

ā€œRight,ā€ Emmaā€™s bubble popped and I saw a hint of teeth as she dragged her chewing gum back into her mouth, ā€œand then weā€™ll start letting in all of the other freaks as well; brilliant idea, Lyra.ā€ She shook her head, withdrawing her phone from her pocket as she dismissed me, ā€œcā€™mon, you know theyā€™re practically useless when itā€™s raining. Just take off your nametag and that bat canā€™t do anything, sheā€™s still a little soaked from getting here. Sheā€™s not going to curse you or anything,ā€ she lowered her phone, looking me in the eyes as she quipped, ā€œand if she did, just take a shower and wash it off.ā€

ā€œYeah but,ā€ I said awkwardly, my eyes drifting to the row of bookshelves that the cookbook section lay in. ā€œI always do it.ā€ Anything to stall just a moment longer. I felt good about myself from helping the little girl earlier, just a little bit; couldnā€™t Emma let that feeling stay a while longer?

ā€œSeniority,ā€ Emma replied, once again pointing to the aisle, ā€œduh.ā€ She rolled her eyes, as if just asking such a question made me stupid. Nevermind the fact that her perceived seniority shouldnā€™t have counted since sheā€™d only started a week before me. ā€œListen,ā€ she took pity on me, ā€œyou can shelve some of the new stock, make sure our ā€˜artistā€™ isnā€™t stealing anything, and then kick her out. Just do it before it comes time to check out, you know how I hate dealing with them. Itā€™s always so awkward, like weā€™re really going to let a witch walk around with a bag with our logo on it. Puh-lease.ā€

Oh the irony.

I kept silent, taking the large stack of books that sat behind the desk and throwing them onto a book cart. There were things I wished I could say to Emma but I never did, and it was good that I didnā€™t. Emma was Ableā€™s favorite and when it came down to it, the old man would choose her over me.

Especially if I let a witch stay in his store.

Still, as I worked my way through the stacks and shelved book after book, I wished that it would never end and that I would never have to face her. Emma could tell she was a witch by the way that she looked, I wondered what features she counted in that description. What traits defined one as a witch?

I pushed my cart, the wheels squealing in protest. It was brand new, but somehow louder than the one before it. Thatā€™s the funny thing about book carts, thereā€™s never been a quiet one. Still, the regulars didnā€™t mind. I suppose that was how it was in libraries too, the wheels seemed louder and more intrusive to you while you were shelving, but not to anyone else.

Or maybe not. I felt eyes on me as I entered the next aisle, my eyes trained on the ground as a faint blush spread across my cheeks. I always hated the idea of disturbing someone at Ableā€™s. Much like a library, a good bookstore was a quiet one. My eyes drifted up to catch a peak at the customer, a glance just out of the corner of my eye so that it didnā€™t seem so obvious.

The angle wasnā€™t right, I only saw the edge of a dark green cableknit sweater and something, a firm, gray blob that looked to be putty, in a decidingly male hand. The artist. His hand didnā€™t move anymore, and I had the embarrassing realization that he could likely see me, even if I couldnā€™t see him.

I tucked my head down, shoving the last book into the shelf without properly aligning it with the other books. I decided as I pushed the cart away and skipped the artistā€™s aisle that Iā€™d lie and say it must have been moved by a customer if Able questioned it, which he likely would seeing as how he walked around the shelves every night with the eyes of a hawk. Something about just the manā€™s hand reaffirmed what I felt on the platform, a strange, breathless feeling, as if I was anticipating something.

Truthfully, the only thing I should have been anticipating was the appearance of the florist from across the street later today, seeing as how the book he ordered finally came in. I tried to focus on him instead, daydreaming about Oliver

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