Page 10 of Battle of the Bookstores

“You have copies of the same book right there.” He nods at the display. “Can’t you refund me your current selling price?”

I smile and stick to my guns, repeating the policy.

He exhales in frustration. “Where’s your manager?”

“I’m the manager, actually.”

Cue the usual response: eyeing me suspiciously as the wheels turn in his mind.This small, young woman cannot have any sort of actual influence or authority.I am in fact thirty years old and of average height, but I was cursed with a baby face that makes me look at least five years younger—which is why I dress professionally and always wear my hair up.

“I mean the head manager,” he says. “Is he here?”

My smile freezes. “You’re looking at her.”

He huffs. “This is ridiculous. The book was—” He flips open the cover and points. “Twenty-nine ninety-nine! Plus tax! That’s an absurd amount of money for a book.”

My jaw tightens. The foil accents on the dust jacket, the deckled edges on the paper…it’s a freaking work of art! This man clearly has no appreciation for the craftsmanship that goes into creating a beautiful hardcover.

“Sir, I don’t set the prices, but—”

“I want a refund. Now. I don’t have time to argue with a checkout girl. Understand?”

The words are a swift kick to my chest. I’m proud of what I do; my job is so much more than running a register.

“Oh, I understand,” I say, my smile disappearing. “But if I give you twenty-nine ninety-nine—plus tax!—for a book that may not have been purchased here—”

“It was—”

“Even if I do sell it at some point, I won’t make any profit. Furthermore…” I take off the dust jacket and inspect the book; the spine is visibly cracked. “This book has been read.”

“That’s not—”

“So technically speaking, it’s not in sellable condition.” My hands shake as I hand it back to him, but I keep my voice calm and cool. “If I give you twenty-nine ninety-nine plus tax for this unsellable book, I will lose that money. And if I do that for other customers, I will not be able to afford to keep the lights on and replace the paper rolls in my register and pay my own meager wages, and eventually this store will close, and you, sir, will have contributed to the demise of one of Boston’s mostbeloved literary establishments, a store that has stood in this spot and served this community for over sixty years.”

He’s flustered, pink in the face, and for a moment I think he’s going to start yelling…

But then he wheels around and stomps away. Before leaving, he turns back and shouts, “I will never set foot in this store again!”

“We’ll miss you terribly,” I say.

“Bitch,” he mutters.

My stomach bottoms out, but he’s already gone.

Behind me, my sister slow-claps. “That dude just got Josie’d,” she says, grinning. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen that.”

She must not have heard the last thing he said. I sigh, trying to shake off the nastiness of that final insult. I hate that I’m now questioning myself, wondering ifIwas rude. It’s a constant tightrope act, running a business as a woman, wanting to be respected for my abilities but knowing that no one will take me seriously unless I’mnice.

“He was just…”

“Oh, he deserved it,” she says. “But if you have the emotional energy, it may be useful to explore why you react like that when people disparage your career.”

“Because it’s incredibly rude!” Though of course, it’s much more than that. It’s the fear that maybe they’re right, that I’ll never amount to anything of importance and I don’t deserve this job anyway.

“Yes,” Georgia says, “andmaybe it’s a wound you haven’t fully healed yet?”

I purse my lips and remind myself that I am absolutely, positively thrilled that my sister is studying what she loves.

“You know what? I think it’s time for coffee,” I say, and head out into the early morning sunshine.

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