Page 9 of Battle of the Bookstores

If I lose this job, I lose them, too—and we all lose the store, this quiet refuge of words and stories.

When the bell on the front door chimes, I’m sitting in the back room of the shop, surrounded by boxes I haven’t opened. All I can do is stare into the middle distance while panic churns in my stomach.

A voice calls, “It’s me!” and a huge sigh of relief rushes out of my lungs. It’s my little sister (for her, I’d throw every book I own in front of a moving train—plus myself, for good measure).

“I’m in the back!” I call.

The front door closes, followed by the familiarstep-step-tapas she makes her way across the polished wood floor.

“I brought rugelach,” Georgia says. She sets her cane against the desk, puts down a white to-go bag from Mamaleh’sin Cambridge, and finally her backpack. She’s heading to class at Tufts after this, and I feel a pinch of envy.

“Thank you, dear sister,” I say, grabbing one of the pastries.

Georgia takes a bite, too, and we chew in silence. It tastes like buttery chocolate comfort. Our neighbor, Mrs. Goldstein, would bring rugelach over when our mom was having one of her “hard times”—though I doubt she had any idea how scary things could get. Georgia and I have kept up the tradition, buying it whenever one of us has a bad day.

My sister is a more relaxed, optimistic version of me, with the dark hair and green eyes we got from our dad (before he skipped out of our lives when I was five and Georgia was a baby)—but my sister’s hair is loose and wild, curling from the early summer humidity. We both have the soft curves we inherited from our mom, but I’m in a tailored pencil skirt, while she’s wearing a floral dress that flutters to the floor, partially obscuring the brace on her right leg. She’s fearless and unguarded and fun—my opposite.

“So…” she says. “Didn’t sleep much?”

I grimace; she’s alsotooperceptive. Ever since she started graduate school in psychology, she’s adopted a new tone that sneaks out when we’re talking. Concerned; professional. Like she’s trying to burrow into my brain and analyze me.

“I’m stressed,” I say. “But I’ve been brainstorming ways to win this competition.”

Georgia picks up my notebook and reads: “Number one: Cut expenses. Number two: Sell more books.” She raises an eyebrow. “I hate to break it to you, Jojo, but those aren’t exactly actionable strategies.”

“I know,” I say, sighing.

“How are you going to cut expenses? You already run this place pretty lean.”

She’s right. Since my part-timers left, I’ve been doing it all: buying, receiving, and stocking; paying the utilities; managing the website. I even clean the toilet in the back room. Georgia helps out, but she won’t let me pay her. She says she “owes me for saving her life,” which isn’t technically true, though I appreciate the thought. What she doesn’t know is that I set aside what I would have paid her in an account she can use if and when she needs it.

“And how are you going to increase your sales during the summer?” she continues. “That’s not a big season for literary fiction.”

Again, she’s right. This time of year, people want beach reads: light, engaging, easily digestible. I get it—sometimes people just want to unwind. What’s-his-name at Happy Endings probably sells a boatload of books in the summer.

(Brian, I remind myself. Brian, who wears cardigans and weird pins and hates my bookstore. Brian, the man who has been given the power byanotherman to ruin my life.)

“Why couldn’t this happen in the fall?” I say. My highest season for sales—aside from the holidays—is September through November, when publishers release their most anticipated titles. “I’d be unbeatable.”

“Maybe you should lean into that,” Georgia says. “Target people who prefer reading books that require you to have a dictionary on hand?”

She’s teasing me, but it’s not a bad idea. “Maybe I could host a literary salon where people can discuss books they’re reading?”

A banging sound distracts us: someone knocking on theglass door of the store. When I step out of the back room, a man is peering in the window. He waves, so I head to the door and open it a crack, trying not to let the AC escape (Strategy 1: Cut expenses).

“Hi there, we’re not open yet—”

“I need to return a book.” He’s the picture of impatience—crisp suit, shiny shoes, probably on his way to a Very Important Meeting—and I decide it’s easier to do the return than tell him to come back later. He’s not a regular customer, but if he has a good experience, maybe he’ll become one (Strategy 2: Sell more books).

I give him my most welcoming smile. “Of course. Come on in.”

He follows me to the register and plunks the book down. It’s the latest Oprah’s Book Club choice; I’ve sold dozens of copies.

“I’ll just need your receipt,” I say.

He frowns. “It was a gift.”

“I’m sorry, but we only accept returns or exchanges with receipts.” I point toward the printed sign next to my register.

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