It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon, the kind that turns your hair into a frizzball and your mood into a soggy paper towel. My mom had dropped me and my BFF, Zoey, off at “Second Look Books,” a massive, cramped used bookstore downtown that looked like it had been built by stacking old cottages on top of each other. The owner, Mr. Pumble, had a white beard and wore cardigans with elbow patches, and he didn't care if you sat in the aisles for three hours as long as you didn't bend the spines.
Zoey thought for a moment. “Well, you can’t give it back to her. That would be social suicide. But you also can’t keep it. That’s weird.” dork diaries used books
We split up. Zoey took the “Young Readers” section near the front, which was really just three shelves of Goosebumps and old Baby-Sitters Club books. I headed for the labyrinth in the back, where the shelves leaned like tired grandparents and the categories made no sense. “Fiction” bled into “Self-Help” which bled into “Cookbooks from 1987.” It was a drizzly Saturday afternoon, the kind
I showed her the book.
This book belongs to Mackenzie Hollister. If lost, return to locker 119. And yes, I know I’m fabulous. 💅 Pumble, had a white beard and wore cardigans
“This book belongs to Nikki Maxwell. If lost, return to the art room. Bring cupcakes.”
Inside the front cover, in sparkly purple gel pen, someone had written: