Page 5 of The Summer of Everything

I believe Once Upon a Page is my gateway to being myself.

Paseo Del Mar is a pastel pink building that sits proudly on the corner of Colorado and Ocean Avenues. It’s framed by gray sidewalks and palm trees. A series of twinkling fairy lights connects the property to the metal fence surrounding Tongva Park. A few paces down the sidewalk, a giant pedestrian intersection is mobbed with people, no matter the hour, all entering and exiting Santa Monica Pier.

But that’s not why Wes is standing in front of this building as the dying sunset melts the peach from the skyline.

He’s not here for the landmark of Paseo Del Mar, a mom-and-pop pizzeria named Little Tony’s Big Slice that hogs a corner of the turf. It’s still open; the glass door swings ajar to exhale the scent of basil and flour and greasy pepperoni slices.

He doesn’t want to slide into Brews and Views, the coffeehouse where Kyra works and where all the anti-corporate coffee people huddle instead of the three nearby Starbucks. Aerial, the surf shop, is already closed, though there’s a light in the back indicating JoJo, the owner, is probably sleeking new boards before she hangs them in the display window tomorrow morning.

Wes is here for the place sandwiched between Little Tony’s and Aerial: Once Upon a Page. He’s here for the independent bookstore that he knows better than his own bedroom. Like Aerial, the bookstore is already closed, but Wes doesn’t care. He just wants to look. He wants to absorb that last bit of charge—one he can never name or describe—from the parents who were dragged into the store today by their excited children or the quiet girl who camped in a corner, devouring every mystery book she could find. He wants to imagine himself behind that front counter, ringing up customers or introducing a new, wide-eyed teen to all his favorite comic series.

At the pier entrance, a young amateur rapper spits rapid-fire lyrics. From farther out come screams from Pacific Park, where patrons ride the solar-powered Ferris wheel or the rollercoaster. But all Wes can hear is the collection of ‘90s tunes he usually plays while he’s at work.

Once Upon a Page is Wes’s first job. It’s hisonlyjob, so far.

He stares into the store’s display window. Someone forgot to turn off the BOOKS sign. Its pink neon light illuminates the New Releases display, a tower of books whose covers show dragons and blood and flowers and breathtaking colors.

In the reflection, Wes swears he sees a small boy with out-of-control curly hair and large eyes bouncing in anticipation of getting his sticky fingers on the newest issue ofGreen Lanternwith John Stewart on the cover. A boy who huddled in a corner of the bookstore for hours, reading. A boy who had to be escorted home more than a few times by Mrs. Rossi, the bookstore’s owner, because he missed dinner or had homework to finish.

Wes isn’t that boy anymore.

“Let’s talk priorities,” says Ella as she stands next to him. “Like hauling your luggage upstairs. Taking a shower because, while I love you, you’re foul from being on an airplane for half a day.”

“I don’t stink,” Wes replies with a curled lip.

He doesn’t. After disembarking the plane, he very discreetly took a whiff under both armpits and, as a precaution, applied a thin layer of deodorant in a tiny restroom stall. Gym class and an awkward puberty had taught Wes many valuable lessons about hygiene.

“Fine, you don’t.” Ella sighs dramatically. “Are you gonna go inside?”

He could. Unlike the rest of the teen staff, Wes has a set of store keys. “No.” He shakes his head. “Tomorrow.”

“I’m going upstairs.” Ella elbows his hip. “I have a date to get ready for. Don’t hump the glass while you’re down here.”

“Gross. I’d never do that,” Wes says, but Ella’s already turning the corner, headed for the side entrance. He stands there for another second, smiling at his reflection. Then he remembers what she said. “Wait! You have adate?”

“Are you eating, Wes? Youlook frail.”

Wes refrains from exhaling loudly through his nose when he looks at his mom on FaceTime. He flops backward onto his bed. “Mom, I just left you like twenty hours ago.”

“You look like you’re losing weight,” his mom comments.

Wes shrugs lazily. Maybe sixteen hours on a plane snacking on salt and vinegar chips and pretzels have left him starved and gaunt. Or maybe his mom is a natural worrier.

Probably the latter.

“Why are you up so early?” he asks, glancing at the time in the top corner of his phone. 9:01 p.m. “What time’s it there?”

“Just after six.”

In the screen’s background, Wes can spot the rising sun leaving the sky a bleeding pink. She must be outside the house his parents are renting for the summer. Savannah is wide-eyed, her graying brown hair is tied in a messy ponytail, her lips stretch into that smile he loves.

“I had to get an early start on this next book,” she says, as though he should already know. As if Wes hasn’t watched his mom wake up early, for as long as he remembers, to sip coffee and stare blankly at a laptop screen until words magically appear. “I couldn’t disappoint my five-a.m. writers’ club.”

“That’s just a social media hashtag, Mom. It’s not really a thing.”

“It is!” Her giggle crackles in his phone’s speaker. “I’m already at ten thousand words.”

Savannah doesn’t call anything she writes an official book until she’s pecked out at least ten thousand words on her ancient laptop.

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