I first met Aden six months ago.
It had been a slow day at the store. Tamika had called in sick, so I was manning both the
register and the café. The café was a stroke of genius my dad had a few years back. It not
only gave our customers an area to relax in while browsing our stock; it also offered
overpriced coffee and snacks with funny names. If the other big chain bookstores were
doing it, he reasoned, why can't we? Strangely enough, the concept did appeal to customers
and we were doubling our profits within the first two months.
That day, however, there were only four other people in the store aside from myself. Joe
MacGuffin was a regular and fit almost every conceivable stereotype about comic book
nerds. I knew better than to try to help him, as his knowledge of comics far surpassed mine.
Besides, he had this uncanny knack for making me feel like a complete imbecile every time
I tried to strike up a conversation. There was also a woman looking for a birthday present
for her seven-year-old son and I had recommended several titles. But it was the high school
kids that had me worried: two shifty looking boys around my age. They kept whispering to
each other, throwing obvious looks over their shoulder in my direction every now and
then. Any idiot could have seen they were about to try to steal something. It must have
been their first time or they would have been subtler about it.
The door chimed and I turned to see someone else enter the store; another teenager with
hair so black I was almost sure it had to be dyed. He nodded at me - that head jerk thing
that all guys seemed to do when greeting each other - and wandered towards the indie
section.
It was then that I heard the commotion and knew that the boys had tried to make a break
for it. I turned back to see them struggling to get up off the floor. By the time I reached
them, they had attracted the attention of everyone else in the store. One of the boys was
frowning at his feet; his shoelaces had come undone. He must have tripped over them,
knocking into his friend, sending the both of them crashing to the floor. His backpack had
been unzipped and half its contents were strewn across the tile. And peeking out of the
open backpack was the corner of a plastic wrapped comic book.
I moved to pick it up, but someone else beat me to it.
The black haired teen turned the book over in his hands, levelling a cool stare at the other
two boys. No one said a word as an uncomfortable silence descended on the store. Even I
felt the urge to fidget after a while. The would-be thieves avoided our eyes; attempting to
muster whatever dignity they had left as they helped each other up, shovelling their
possessions back into the backpack. Finally, the teen spoke.
"Were you planning on paying for this?" he asked, his voice quiet and politely curious. The
boys flinched, as if he had struck them instead. When they did not answer him, he turned to
me, holding out the comic book. "You might want to call the police."
The boys blanched. I felt sorry for them.
"It's all right," I said as I took back the book. "No harm, no foul."
Joe sputtered indignantly. The woman frowned. The boys stared at me in a mixture of
confusion and suspicion. The black haired teen merely shrugged.
"Whatever."
He turned away, seemingly bored with the whole thing, and headed back towards the indie
aisle. The two boys pushed past me, practically running out of the store. Joe protested.
"Hey! Come back here! Blair! How could you just let them go? When your dad finds out
about this"
"I doubt he'd care much either," I said, cutting him off. "Besides, did you really want to hang
around to deal with the police?"
That shut Joe up. In a town like ours, the local police force tended to have an overdeveloped
sense of entitlement. I did not want them stomping through the store, and I could certainly
do without their condescension.
In the end, the woman left without buying anything. Joe returned to browsing our new
arrivals and I went back to my post behind the café's counter. Fifteen minutes later, I was
slipping into a bored stupor when someone dropped a stack of comics onto the countertop.
My head snapped up violently to find the teenage boy with black hair standing in front of
me, his gray eyes twinkling in obvious amusement. I felt my cheeks heat up in
embarrassment.
"Will that be all?" I asked, picking up the books and moving towards the register.
"Yeah. Do you know when you'll get the new Kitchener?"
I looked down at the stack of comics I was holding and, sure enough, they were all by local
independent artist, Eric Kitchener. His art was known for being particularly violent and his
characters were usually the dark, brooding, anti-hero type. I arched a brow and slid a
notepad across the counter towards him.
"Just leave your name and number and we'll give you a call when it comes in," I said, as I
proceeded to ring up his purchases. He wrote down his contact details in an almost illegible
scrawl.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" he asked.
"Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" I retorted.
"Well, I asked first." I resisted the impulse to scowl at him. He was a customer and I really
should not have been arguing with him. Not that I believed that the customer was always
right, but letting them think they were usually ensured repeat business.
"Home schooled," I said simply.
"Taking a break before college," he replied.
"So your dad owns the store, huh?"
I nodded, counting out his change.
"Growing up, his parents wouldn't let him read comics. So, as soon as he raised the money,
he went out and set up his own comic book store," I explained.
He laughed appreciatively.
"And what does your mom think about all this?"
I shrugged, handing him his change and his books.
"I wouldn't know."
He took the hint and abruptly changed the subject.
"So, the Kitchener…can you give me a rough estimate on when it'll come in?"
"Probably within the next two months or so. I'm afraid he's pretty unpredictable with his
updates."
"That's all right. You have my number."
"We'll call you," I reassured him.