Slung across Cooper’s chest is a messenger bag. His right hand plays with the strap while his left hand holds his phone out in front of him. He’s talking to the camera, probably recording a video.
“Queen Ella,” Cooper says, shuffling closer. “Say hello to my followers!”
Ella shoots him the stink eye, then turns to his phone. “Eat shit.”
“Yup, that’s my co-worker!” Cooper says as if Ella gave him a high-five instead of a verbal middle finger. “She’s hella dope.”
Wes mouths What the hell to Ella. She sighs, mumbling, “Social media minion.”
Cooper wanders into the aisles, greeting customers and introducing them to his phone’s camera.
“Is he always like that?” Wes says.
Cooper’s cornered Mrs. Rossi and is half-hugging her while trying to take a selfie. She giggles and poses with two fingers up in the peace sign. A short line of customers waits to join the selfie movement.
“I don’t like him,” Ella says.
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason?”
If you’re Ella Graham? Probably not. But Wes is too entertained by Cooper’s attempts to angle his camera to catch the right lighting while standing with three young Black girls. Wes whispers, “He seems nice.”
“Vampires seem nice until they find out you’re a virgin who bleeds easily.”
“You’ve read one too many Savannah Kirk books,” Wes says, shaking his head.
“Yo, dude.” Cooper slips behind the counter, holding out a fist. “Wes Hudson, correct?”
Wes warily bumps Cooper’s fist. “Uh. Yeah.”
Cooper pulls his hand back and makes this intense ka-boom noise with his mouth while wiggling his fingers in a weird, jazz hands way. Ella’s right. This guy obviously can’t be trusted.
“I’m your replacement,” he says.
Wes’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead.
“I mean, not like…” Cooper’s cheeks flush. “I was your part-time fill-in while you were away. But Mrs. Rossi, the coolest of cool bosses, said she’d like to make my position at the store permanent, which would be sick, because this place is wicked. Books on books on books, you know?”
Wes nods, pasting on a smile.
Cooper smiles back, showing off a dimple in his left cheek. He slips off his bag and drops it amongst the other random clutter behind the counter. “It’s a great gig. But don’t touch the comics, right?”
“Correct.”
Cooper leans uncomfortably close. His nose nearly touches Wes’s. Personal space much? He whispers, eyes wide, “I heard you once stabbed a guy for dog-earing a Superman book.”
Wes hadn’t. It was a total accident involving a pen and minimal bloodshed. Also, it was two years ago.
“I feel you, bro.” Cooper backs away, nodding. “I’m there.”
Are you? Wes wants to ask. From the corner of his eye, he can spot Ella shooting them aggravated glares.
“So, like.” Cooper’s thumbs move rapidly over his phone screen. “Follow me back on Twitter. Add me on IG. And TikTok. Accept my Snapchat request. Oh, I’m still on Tumblr even though I’m not down with their censorship issues. I only Marco Polo with close fam and friends. But you fill those categories already.”
Wes’s own phone vibrates as if it’s having a seizure. He has no less than five notifications from his various social media accounts. He’s being followed on each one by Cooper “Coop” Shaw.
“FB’s not really my thing anymore, but, you know, I make exceptions if that’s your jam,” Cooper continues.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Feel free to subscribe to my YouTube channel too.” Cooper briefly flashes his phone screen in Wes’s face before returning to tapping away. “Do you Kik?”
“Um, sometimes?”
“It’s all good, bro.” Cooper pockets his phone, then rubs his hands together. “All right. Time to get to business. These books won’t sell themselves.”
Ella repeats, “I don’t like him,” as Cooper disappears into the aisles.
Wes isn’t sure what the hell just happened, but Cooper’s definitely likeable.
Thirty minutes later, Cooper’s staring at Wes with an absurdly creepy smile.
“What?” Wes grunts, too lazy to add any other words. The afternoon is melting perfectly with the weather, slowing time to a crawl. It’s still fifteen minutes to three. It’s been an eternity to Wes.
“Dude,” Cooper says, dropping his voice to a whisper, leaning far too close again. Wes needs to have a serious discussion about personal boundaries. Soon. “Word on the street is…” Cooper looks around as if they’re being watched. “Savannah Kirk is the beginning of your origin story?”
“She’s what?”
“Your mom,” Cooper hisses.
“Yeah,” Wes says. “Something like that.”
“Bro.” Cooper smacks his hand on the counter, the noise like a crack of thunder. “Savannah Kirk is your mom.”
Wide-eyed, Wes leans back. “Okay, first of all, chill,” he says, holding up a hand.
“How is that possible?”
“Um. I believe my parents had intercourse?” Wes wants to take those words back immediately. It’s cringeworthy. No, his parents did not have sex. That’s gross. Wes was created from clay and magic like Wonder Woman.
Cooper repeats, “Savannah Kirk is your—”
Wes cuts him off. “Stop. I know.” Thing is, Wes has met Cooper’s kind before, the ones who worship authors as if they’re superhuman. But they’re not; his mom’s not. She burns toast and overcooks spaghetti. But a small part of Wes can relate to Cooper’s excitement. He went through a similar phase the first time he read The Lightning Thief. Not that Savannah Kirk has ever written a character as cool as Percy Jackson, but Wes understands the power an author has to unlock parts of yourself you’d never seen before.
“She’s just a normal mom, you know.” Wes’s foot wiggles on the stool’s bottom rung to whatever’s playing overhead. “Her name’s Jordan Hudson. She’s just a writer.”
“Just a writer—as if.” There’s so much wax and product in Cooper’s hair, it barely moves when he shakes his head. “She’s a goddess.”
“Think so? You should try her meatloaf.” Wes pushes fingers into his curls. “She’s a mom. Nothing special.”