𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

the moment you doubt
whether you can fly,
you cease for ever
to be able to do it.
-J.M. Barrie

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Summer 2007,

There was a summer where me and Tenny discovered the public library. It was a big brick building with some dead-man's name, and Tenny said the inside smelled like his house after a flood. A lady there with swishy hair and squinty eyes said we could read all the books we wanted, so long as we brought them back.

We thought that was pretty neat.

We started on the furthest left shelf of the children's section and worked our way over. Tenny liked the picture books, unless I was reading to him, and then he liked anything. I liked Peter and Wendy, and I called Tenny my Lost Boy for the next few weeks. That seemed to make him smile again.

He ended up stealing that book for me.

We had to stop going to the library, after that.

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I work at the bookstore in the student union, three nights a week. I spend my time stocking shelves, browsing aisles, and chatting with my co-worker. Ash has an eccentric style; short colorful hair, a dozen metal rods and rings hanging from their face, and Ash changes glasses as often as they change clothes. The only time we hang-out is in the aisles of the bookstore, on the clock.

"Need any help in the back room?" I ask.

"No, that's alright," Ash says. "Someone has to keep an eye on the customers."

I nod, and Ash heads to the back to unload a shipment of fresh books. Which means I am alone on the floor. Which means I actually have to converse with the customers. That, in my opinion, is the worst part of the job. The customers. And the talking.

I snag a pile of books from the front counter to place them back on the shelves, zig-zagging through aisles of red and navy bookcases. It is the second week of classes, and the place is buzzing. Students still gathering their required reading, and some scoping out the store for the first time. I tuck a copy of Space and Time into the shelf and catch a glimpse of Tennessee Walsh.

Tenny. He leans against the bookcase, flipping through the pages of an open book. His hair is less curly than that first time I met him, falling in soft waves over his eyes. And his brows are furrowed, like he's focusing real hard on each word that he reads. My chest aches.

I walk over, slip a book into a space near his arm. He goes to side-step out of the way, but his eyes catch onto mine. He freezes. We are the only ones in the aisle—but even if we weren't, he'd be the only one I'd see.

"Hey," I say.

He stares at his shoes. "Hey."

"You know you can speak to me, right? I'm not like the boogey-man or something." But he doesn't laugh like I wanted him to. Tenny doesn't even smile, he just runs a nervous hand through his hair and keeps staring at his shoes.