Despite its great beginning, that first day back at school year 16 was a bit awkward. Once we were inside the doors, he quickly dropped my hand, offering some excuse of having something to take care of as he quickly disappeared down the year 14 hallway. The next time I saw him, outside in the courtyard at lunch, I headed his way. I’m sure he saw me, but he quickly slipped into the closest entrance back in to the school and headed early to his new classroom from lunch—he didn’t have Ms. Oscar that year like I did. It actually left me a bit confused. It was always awkward for us at school; it was like he was embarrassed to be seen with me. Because things were normal and fun between us when we weren’t in school, I left it alone, enjoying his attention when I could get it.
So when I heard that he had gotten back together with Kinsley, I was confused. Wasn’t I his girlfriend? He never officially asked me out, so I guess he didn’t think he needed to officially break it off either. Was I just a filler, a girl to cuddle and kiss between girlfriends?
That afternoon as we headed out to the line of waiting pods, I decided to take my own, instead of joining Ryan as I usually did. Monday afternoons we usually went to her house where we would play the latest choose-your-own adventure show. To be honest, I never was that into choose-your-own adventure—what’s the point of a show if you could manipulate the characters? It’d be more fun to write your own show than have to start with the weak material that the writers gave you. One time I tried to kill off the current characters—in a nuclear attack—to see if it would generate new, better ones. Somehow they all survived thanks to the heroic actions of the only character that I actually somewhat liked, but of course he didn’t make it through. The choose-your-own adventure shows always had too many insipid blondes—male and female—and it seemed like a week couldn’t go by without at least one character dying because of a rare virus or a runaway pod crash. Ryan was always saying that I can hardly claim to be a teen in the 22nd century without religiously following choose-your-own-adventure shows. I was okay with that.
Not getting into Ryan’s pod was easier than I thought. I was sure she would fight me for breaking our routine. All I did was mention the need to confront Sebastian about his shady behavior, and with a hug she sent me off in my own pod. As my pod pulled away, I saw the vacant look in her eyes, the tell-tale sign she was chipping. Was she already chipping someone about Sebastian and me?
Despite my usual Monday afternoon plans, I knew Mom would expect me to come straight home after that morning’s fight. She hadn’t officially grounded me—after all, my weekly allowance of eCreds was still in my account—but I knew she would claim this as an opportunity for me to “show my maturity.”
No, I wanted her to think that I was independent and didn’t need her. Let her think that I was hanging out with Sebastian against her wishes.
When I entered my solitary pod, I didn’t enter Sebastian’s address and I most certainly didn’t enter my own. Instead, I entered my favorite destination into the pod’s computer, and the small compartment sped away quickly and quietly on its track. Twenty minutes later, I was on the other side of the Triangle stepping out onto the sidewalk of an old shopping mall. Confidently walking the few steps from the curb to the door, I entered the store as the door opened for me. The red sign above the store read in hard-to-read script, “Millennial Antiques.”
Millennial Antiques is where I spent a lot of time before Sebastian. As much as I missed having someone to hang out with most afternoons, walking into the familiar smell of old books was welcoming.
Contrary to the name over the door, Millennial Antiques doesn’t just sell antiques from the turn of the millennium, though that’s what interested me. It has some stuff that is even older, and even some things from my mom’s childhood in the 50s and 60s. I’m not sure she’d appreciate a doll like the one she had in a display case in her room being called an “antique.”
“My dear Amala, where have you been?” A low, gentle voice from the back of the store greeted me. Though my eyes were still adjusting to the dimmer light inside the store, I knew right away who was behind the familiar voice.
I squinted toward where the greeting was coming from and exclaimed, “Uncle Hasan! So good to see you!”
The elderly shopkeeper of Turkish descent, Hasan, had known me for years, ever since I first entered his store as a curious 10-year-old. I had long since started calling him uncle, though we were not related. I used to daydream about him being my father, doing all the father-daughter activities I had seen in the 2000s movies: making indoor tents, ice skating, and dancing in the living room, me standing on his feet. While I do have a father, I haven’t seen him since he moved to Chicago for work three years ago. The five-hour pod ride back to North Carolina is simply too costly, though he promised to visit when he could. I just didn’t think it’d take him this long.
“You say that as if it were I who has kept myself away. If you wanted to see me, I’ve been here the whole time. How long has it been since your last visit? Two months? I don’t think I’ve seen you in the new year.”
“Yeah, I guess not. I’ve been busy, Hasan. My high school work is getting harder, you know.”
“Sure, sure. And boys can be such a distraction, too.”
“What boy?” I said with a blush, giving myself away. I had no idea Hasan knew I had been with Sebastian, but perhaps he knew the signs, having raised two teenage daughters of his own. I certainly had never brought Sebastian to the store—I assumed he’d have the same reaction Ryan had. Liking antiques was definitely not cool in high school. Actually, it wasn’t cool after high school, either, if I could guess by how few customers I ever saw walking through the doors at Millennial.
“Oh, you can’t hide a boy from me,” Hasan replied with a smile. “I could see it in your face the last time you came in.” He paused. “But it’s over, isn’t it?” He said, as he studied me carefully. “What happened? Surely you broke his heart!” Hasan tweaked my arm.
“Uh, something like that. Well, it’s good to see you again, Hasan,” I said curtly. “I’m going to check and see what new antiques you have.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I am getting more and more. Seems like people no longer have room on their bookshelves for, well, books. Sure, you can access any of them just as easily through the chips, but there’s just something like holding a book in your hand. Right, Amala?”
“You don’t have to tell me, Hasan. I’m the one coming here to do just that.”
As I slipped back into the stacks, an elderly Chinese woman walked in the door. Hasan offered her a seat and went behind his counter to start the tea pot.
Though the sign over the door said “antiques,” Hasan focused almost exclusively on books. These days, books were a hard item to sell as there wasn’t much interest. Hasan was old-fashioned like me—which is why we bonded so easily—and wouldn’t let the books go. I suspect he didn’t make money off of his shop but simply kept the antique store to have all those volumes at his fingertips. When he did sell a book he would always pack it carefully as if he was strapping a newborn into a pod seat for the first time.
Hasan’s store was arranged loosely by time period, though he wasn’t the best at organizing. I made a beeline for my favorite section, the turn of the millennium. Unfortunately, since most books were recycled in the 50s and 60s to make building materials to erect apartments, the books in Hasan’s store were way out of my price range, starting at 100 eCreds. If you wanted something less common and more valuable than Twilight or Stephen King, you could easily pay over 200 or 300 eCreds. With my weekly allowance of 15 eCreds, it would take me a long time to save up for a book.
Though he knew I couldn’t afford anything in his store, Hasan was great about letting me browse. He didn’t mind it when I took books off the shelf and read them in the overstuffed chair conveniently located nearby. He understood that I appreciated the value of the printed word. If he could afford it, I’m sure he’d just turn this store into a library open to the public, to encourage
people to come and appreciate his books.
Browsing the first bookcase of 2000s books, I glanced over towards the door where Hasan was still talking to the elderly woman. They sat in the reading chairs near the front, as Hasan poured them both some Turkish tea. She was dressed too warm for this late February date, but there was something in the unfamiliar lady’s face that was inviting, and I had the urge to go up to her and simply listen to her speak.
When I was 14, I asked my grandmother, my mom’s mother, what she knew of the 2000s. At first she was offended, as if I thought she had firsthand knowledge.
“Why do you feel the need to ask me about things that happened a decade before I was born?” Grandma sighed. “Not to mention how long that is before you were born! Stuff in the past is in the past for a reason, let’s leave it there.”
“But, Grandma, you were born in 2013 right?”
“Yes, I was born in 2013,” Grandma responded, emphasizing her words with her whole body. “It’s not like I remember much before 2020. And you’re asking about the 2000s.”
“Exactly. I know you weren’t there, but surely your parents talked about it. I mean, September 11th was a big deal back then. Hurricane Katrina. The election of the first black president of the United States. Surely these were things that your parents would have mentioned to you, right? You know, ‘I remember when…’ “
“Well, not really. I guess if they did, I forgot. I really don’t remember many political or global events before the U.S. took in Canada and became the United States of North America...and that was when I was 19. I was much more interested in pop culture. Wouldn’t you rather learn about the 2030s?”
“No, Grandma. I don’t. I can’t explain it, but I just want to learn all I can about the 2000s. No other time period interests me as much.”
After that, I didn’t bring up the 2000s again with Grandma. There wasn’t a lot she was willing to talk to me about—or not a lot that I was really interested in. Still, she was my only living grandparent as her husband had died when I was young, and my father’s parents died before I was even born.
As I turned my attention back to the shelf, I scanned past Hunger Games (a book I enjoyed but already finished), a Michael Crichton book (not really my style), and The Life of Pi (quite strange, but something I connected with). I kept looking for a book to catch my eye, and though I picked up a dozen or so and glanced inside, none drew me in. About an hour later, I was about to pick up The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, but something behind it caught my eye.
Though most of Hasan’s books were lined up semi-neatly on the shelves in no particular order, sometimes something would be pushed behind the others. Hasan would try to keep them in an orderly fashion at least for appearance’s sake, but he too found the books too alluring, and often would spend an afternoon reading instead of straightening the shelves after customers. But if you asked him about any book in particular, he would often be able to find it, even if it might take him 45 minutes to do so. He always knew whether or not he had a certain book, but would seldom remember where it was currently shelved.
I reached past the books on the shelf, and grabbed out what had caught my eye. I looked at a dusty brown cover, but didn’t see any author or title on the cover, which struck me as odd. Then I opened it and found that it wasn’t a book at all.
It was a journal.
Earning
When I was in year 10, it became popular with my classmates to blog. Perhaps it was because we had reached the age where we felt like we had something to say to the world or just that we wanted to share hilarious links, pics, and vids with one another—we still didn’t have access to the complete web—I don’t know. Some of them still blogged, though I had given it up years ago as had most of my classmates as we were given greater freedom on the net as we got older.
I had heard that the blog originally started as private paper journals, but I had never seen one. The closest I had ever come to one was seeing those in The Importance of Being Earnest, a movie I had seen last year. The idea had always intrigued me though it did seem a little self-absorbed and silly, and I certainly didn’t have the handwriting practice to be able to attempt to write a journal myself. I didn’t know where I could find that much blank paper either.
Looking at the journal that I found, I first glanced at the inside of the front cover and read the inscription:
This is the journal of Elizabeth Ann Pratt
August 27, 2001 - January 15, 2002
The second date was clearly written at a different time, as it was in faded blue ink, while the rest of it was in what clearly used to be a red ink. It was difficult for me to read even this much, not just because of the faded ink, but because I was never really taught how to read handwriting. It simply wasn’t a useful skill in a world without pen and paper. For each word I read, I had to mentally translate each letter to a printed letter before I could grasp the word as a whole.
I quickly and carefully flipped through the pages. Every page was full of handwriting, sometimes neat, sometimes sloppy, but obviously written by the same hand. I couldn’t wait to dive right in and read. As I sat down in my usual brown chair, my chip chirped, alerting me that it was 17:30. Mom usually got home from work at 18:00, so I knew that I only had a few minutes before I must leave if I was to make it home shortly after she did. I wanted to make a statement by being late and making her think I was with Sebastian against her wishes, but I didn’t want to be too late or she might ground me. Knowing where the line was between annoyance and behavior earning me grounding took years of practice, but I thought I had it down.
As I held the journal in my hand, I nervously swayed my weight from one leg to the other. I knew I couldn’t afford to buy the journal. Though it had no tag, I knew it would be priced well out of my price-range as it was obviously one-of-a-kind and from the 2000s. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to put it down, so I walked to the front with it still in my hands. The thought of sneaking it into my purse crossed my mind, but I just couldn’t do that to Hasan. Besides, I would make a poor first-time thief as I was already in Hasan’s line of sight when this thought crossed my mind.
Perhaps I could arrange with Hasan to re-hide the journal to ensure that because I couldn’t buy it, no one else would either. At least until I could read it.
As I walked towards him, Hasan was busy cleaning up the cups and saucers from the tea he had with his pleasant visitor. Hasan had a gentle smile on his face as he saw me, so I knew it was the time to ask him to save the journal for me.
“Hasan?” I asked hesitantly, not knowing how to approach the subject with him.
“I suppose it is about time for you to head home. What were you reading? Found something new to catch your interest? Have you read The Help yet?”
“No, I haven’t read that. Actually, it took me a while, but I did finally find what I want to read next.” I shyly held out the journal for Hasan to see.
“What is this?” he asked as he took the proffered journal. He was silent for a few moments as he inspected the journal. He looked genuinely puzzled. Finally, he responded,”I don’t think I’ve ever seen this before. Did you bring this in? Where in the world did you find it? This looks like it’s from the 2000s!”
“Uh, yeah, I think it is. Says it was written in 2001 and 2002.” I opened it, showing him the handwritten dates. “I found it back on your shelves.” I paused. “Wait, you didn’t know you had it?”
“Never mind that. I don’t always remember everything I have,” Hasan was quick to silence my astonishment. I knew that wasn’t true, but I didn’t press him further.
“I suppose you want me to save it back for you, huh?” he continued. “I don’t see why not, especially since I didn’t know I had it in the first place.” Hasan stopped and ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “You know, I have an idea for you. Would you like to own this journal?”
I was stunned. When I found my words, I exclaimed my pleasure. “Well, of course I would! But I can
’t afford it on my 15-eCred-a-week allowance! It would take me months to save up, and that’s if I stopped taking the pods except to go to school!”
“No, I know you can’t afford to buy it,” Hasan assured me. “What I had in mind was something a little different. How about helping me around the shop in exchange for the journal?”
This surprised me. In the time that I’ve been coming to Hasan’s shop, I had never seen anyone working here but him. I always assumed he didn’t trust anyone else enough to work here. “Could I?”
“Of course! You’re old enough. Surely you could get a work permit to work here a couple days after school. I’ll even call your mother to ask permission, if that’d make her more likely to say yes. I could use the help...you’ve seen the condition of my shelves. You could write a Dickens novel in all the dust that’s collected there! And I’ve never been one for organization—perhaps I’d sell more if I had my books better arranged.”
Why not work at Hasan’s shop? I had the free time now that Sebastian wasn’t in the picture. I could still hang out with Ryan a few days a week, so I wouldn’t be missing out.
“I’d love to work for you. No need to call my mother though—she’s been wanting me to look for a job anyway,” I fibbed. “How long would I need to work here before I could take the journal home?” I was already antsy to open it up and see what I would discover. After Hasan had looked briefly at it, I quickly grabbed it back from him.
“Well, I think a fair rate would be if you would work two hours an afternoon, three days a week for six weeks. Does that sound fair to you?”
“Six weeks? Sure, I’d love to!”
“And if you’re as hard a worker as I know you will be, we could arrange for you to work more to earn some of the other books I know you’ve had your eye on. I’d love to see them go to a good home, and there just seems to be fewer and fewer people interested in buying them. Still, I can’t bear to see them go.”