Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

up when their greeting smooch was done. It was not a word you thought of in the same sentence as my father. My father's girlfriend . No. It just didn't work.
    It was little consolation, but Alicia Highsmith didn't seem the type of person who would appreciate the title either. For one thing, she was middle-aged, almost fifty, maybe. And the professional overachiever type, Tessa thought. She was CEO of a medical technology company in Portland that made prosthetics. She was attractive, with auburn hair cut into a sleek bob and big brown eyes that were currently fastened on her father's face. Girlfriend . Tessa sighed. It was too weird.
    "Busy today?" Alicia asked.
    "So far, you mean?" Tessa's father put his glasses back on and looked around. His chubby face looked hopeful, as if he expected a stampede of voracious book lovers to suddenly appear from behind the stacks. "Well. Not too," he admitted.
    Alicia smiled. "You know, Jackson ..."
    "I know, I know." He raised a hand with a good-natured shake of his head. "We could turn a profit if we closed the store, kept the books in a warehouse and sold exclusively online. You're right." He beamed at her, his face animated and his eyes dancing. "My practical Alicia. But this is my dream job. Besides," he added, "we would lose the immense satisfaction of dealing face to face with the reading public. Not to mention all this charm. Right, Tessa?"
    "Right." Tessa was still on autopilot. She looked around the store with a smile. Old books, check. Dust, drafty windows, creaky floors, all check. But charm? Maybe if it was dark, and you squinted, she mused. But the store was comfortable. And it was home.
    Anyway, it didn't matter what "his" Alicia said, thought Tessa. Eww, by the way. The bookstore really was her father's dream. It would take a tsunami to move him out. He'd sat in a corporate cubicle for years but had always dreamed of having a bookstore. After her mother had died, he'd decided to pursue that dream. And he made no secret about the fact that he hoped Tessa would help run it, after getting her business degree.
    Business. Such a weird-sounding major, when you thought about it. As in "I'm going to major in making money." Valuable, no doubt, but somehow it wasn't what Tessa thought her life would be about. Then again, she didn't have a clue what would be better.
    Why was it so much easier to know what she didn't want than what she did?
    "We're going to try that new Thai place down the street," said her father. "Would you like to come along?"
    "No thanks. You guys have fun," Tessa said with a wave. "I want to hang out at home tonight anyway. Opal's coming over. We're doing our usual raid on the magazine rack."
    Opal walked into Tessa's room and immediately sprawled across the bed. She kicked off her shoes and threw half of the carefully arranged pillows to the floor to make room for her usual supply of snacks.
    Tessa surveyed the jumbled pile of cellophane-wrapped candy. "You are a nutritional disaster, Kandinsky."
    "Not true," Opal mumbled around a licorice whip. She picked up a bag and shook it at Tessa. "I have raisins. Fruit."
    "Those are chocolate-covered."
    "Of course. For the antioxidants."
    As they munched, Tessa looked through a glossy photography magazine while Opal flipped open a copy of Guitar World .
    "Take a look at this Les Paul," Opal said. She pushed her wispy bangs out of her eyes and tapped the picture, as if she could make a riff come out of the glossy paper.
    "Nice," said Tessa with a glance. She didn't know a thing about guitars, but Opal sure did. In fact, Opal could pretty much play any instrument she laid her hands on. She had a gift for music, and planned to go to the New England Conservatory after graduation.
    Restless, Tessa dropped the magazine, got up and straightened the few items on her desk: a picture of her with her mom and dad, a calendar book and a small jar of multicolored beach glass she'd collected over the years. Finally she walked over to where the tapestry hung on the wall.
    Opal glanced up, and noticing the tapestry, she let the magazine drop from her hands. "Cool unicorn," she commented. Then she made a slight grimace. "Not exactly My Pretty Pony, is it?"
    It was true, Tessa thought, considering it. The unicorn in the tapestry didn't look like the gentle creatures from fairy-tale illustrations. And definitely not like the chubby pastel versions that had decorated her pillowcases when she was a little girl.
    It had a savage kind of