Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

2

By the time they got back home, Tessa felt better. Her father told her not to worry about the boxes, he'd bring them in later, and Tessa didn't argue. From the push to get the front door open (it always stuck when it rained) to the jingle of the brass bell and the comfortable squish of her favorite armchair in the corner, everything felt normal again. Brody's Bookstore was home. Tessa closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
    The scent of the little balsam-stuffed pillow stitched with the words "Don't Make Me Shush You" mingled with the fresh coffee Mrs. Petoskey, the part-time cashier, had brewing behind the register. Tessa sprawled back into the lumpy seat cushions and tried to forget about the weirdness at the auction house. Too much caffeine, she thought, or maybe the dust from all those old books, had caused some kind of short circuit in her brain. An allergic reaction, she decided. With special effects.
    It was almost closing time, but there were still a few customers browsing in the store. Tessa noticed a little blond girl wearing a denim jumper walking slowly down the middle aisle. Heel-toe-heel-toe. Heel--The girl looked up and caught Tessa watching her.
    "I like the creaky sound," she said, rocking back and forth on the dark, gleaming floorboards.
    Tessa smiled. "Me too." She pointed out a worn spot in front of Mystery and Suspense. "There's a good one over there," she said.
    The girl nodded, tugged on her ponytail and went to investigate. A tall woman carrying an armful of books peered out from the children's nook. She had blond hair too. "Sloane?" she called. Catching sight of the little girl, she hurried over. "Look what I found! About a mouse and a motorcycle. Should we read this one tonight?" She bent down close to the little girl and showed her the pictures. The two of them laughed.
    Watching them, Tessa felt a familiar ache in her chest. Like a punch, only from the inside. She stood. "Dad," she called. "I'm going upstairs." Her father looked up and nodded from the front counter, where he was checking the day's receipts.
    Tessa climbed the stairs to the second floor, went through the door to their apartment and closed it. It was kind of nice living right over the store, though sometimes Tessa wished they lived in a normal house. It seemed there was always something that needed doing in the store. She must have put a thousand miles on those stair treads by now.
    In the kitchen she flicked on the lights and took a portion of lasagna out of the freezer for her dad's dinner. She wasn't hungry, and Hunter would be coming to pick her up at seven. Maybe she shouldn't go out tonight, Tessa thought, pushing the microwave buttons. She wasn't up for it, what with all the smiling and talking. Both would be expected on a first date. Her face hurt just thinking about it.
    She grabbed a bowl of salad from the fridge and nibbled on a slice of carrot. Then again, she'd already told her father about going out. Now if she didn't go, he'd want to know why. Here's the thing, Dad. I'm feeling a little weird and moody, and earlier, I hallucinated a teensy bit . It could very well lead to a discussion about her menstrual cycle. God.
    Tessa put a single placemat at the head of the table and arranged the plate and silverware. Ever since her mother had died four years ago, her father had done his best. She knew that. She frowned and adjusted the knife and fork to equal distances from the table's edge. But she was seventeen now. She could take care of herself. Besides, her father had something else on his mind lately. Or rather, some one else.
    The timer dinged. She was fine, Tessa decided. She would go out. Smiley talk, here I come .
    Her father came into the kitchen, carrying the wooden crate from the auction. "The store's all closed up," he said. "I left the other boxes downstairs. We can go through them tomorrow. But I thought you might want this up here." He set the crate on the table.
    Tessa didn't answer. She stared at the crate. There was absolutely nothing scary about it. So why did her legs feel wobbly all of a sudden? She glanced down and loosened the white-knuckle grip she had taken on the kitchen chair.
    Her father lifted the lid. He peered inside. "Tessa," he said in a low, excited voice. "Get me those cotton gloves in the junk drawer, would you?"
    She got the gloves and handed them to her father, who put them on and reached in to lift out the large book. "Holy smokes," he murmured, turning the weighty volume in his