WHEN THEY heard about the bookstore reopening on Market Street, in Depauville, New York, Johnny and Autumn Briarman were far from impressed. Although they didn’t live far away, bookstores were about as useful to them as washing machines. Why wash a perfectly good pair of jeans when you could wear them all week? No, reading was something they had to do, but never something they did—even in school—if they could avoid it. They were alike in that way.
But on the bus ride home from school, Johnny and Autumn saw that the plain, little store had been repainted. Now it looked a bit like a gingerbread house, and its old sign had been replaced with a thick, wooden placard that hung over the sidewalk: A Likely Story Book Shoppe.
Johnny shrugged and turned around.
Autumn looked a little closer. There was a handmade sign in the window: TODAY ONLY! A PRIZE FOR EVERYONE WHO COMES IN!
Autumn tapped her brother on the shoulder repeatedly. “Johnny, did you see that?”
“’S a bookstore, Sis,” he said. “So what.”
“But there was a little sign. Said anyone who comes in gets a prize.”
“Yawn,” he replied, patting a hand over his mouth. “Big deal. Probably just some book. What’s a guy need a book for?”
“I dunno. Maybe to learn how to use all those power tools?”
Johnny chuckled.
“I think we should go check it out,” said Autumn.
“You can.”
“You know, . . .” said Autumn, a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, “the prize could be candy.”
Johnny scratched his chin. “I guess . . . it wouldn’t hurt to go in, just this once.”
“Where are you both going in such a hurry?” called Mrs. Briarman as two blond streaks whooshed out of the house and the screen door slammed shut.
“We’ll be back before dinner!” Johnny yelled.
“I know,” she replied, stepping to the door. “But where are you—? ”
“To the new bookstore,” was all Johnny said as they peeled out of the driveway on their bikes.
Bookstore? thought Mrs. Briarman. Well, that can’t be a bad thing. Can it?
Johnny would never admit it, but he was a bit nervous as they approached the entrance to A Likely Story Book Shoppe, although he didn’t really know why. The door was propped open to welcome the mild afternoon air, as well as any passersby who might wander in. Johnny folded his hands once or twice—bike-chain grease from a little repair on the way and sweat making his hands slippery.
Johnny stopped a pace in front of her.
“What is it?” Autumn whispered.
Johnny jerked around. “Why are you whispering?”
“Why are you stopping?”
Johnny shrugged his shoulders, and Autumn nudged him on. “Just go, would ya!”
“What’s the hurry?” he asked.
“Oh, brother,” she said, blowing an S-shaped strand of blond hair out of her mouth and shouldering past him into the store.
Johnny was broad and muscular for his age. Though his own lack of courage made him feel anything but strong, he frightened some of the smaller kids at school and was even thought of as a bully. But he dutifully followed her into the store.
Once inside, the two squinted in the low light and found themselves enveloped in scents, a strange combination of musty old house, fresh-cut flowers, and warm sugar cookies. There were couches and easy chairs. And, of course, books. Books everywhere: books filling shelves, book towers climbing haphazardly from tabletop to the ceiling, books spilling off reading desks, books in stacks on the floor. The crazy organization reminded Johnny of his room at home . . . minus the books, of course.
Brother and sister walked down the first aisle and scanned row after row of bound editions and paperbacks. They didn’t see too many titles they recognized. A lot of the books looked really old.
“Can I help you find something?”
Johnny and Autumn spun around. A woman smiled at them. The woman had red hair, freckles, and the most wonderful green eyes. She wore a white and yellow sundress and a white ribbon in her hair.
“We’re just . . .” Autumn couldn’t think what to say.
“Reading,” said Johnny. “Err, looking.”
“I see. Well, you’ve come to the right place for that.”
Autumn stared at the floor. Johnny let his eyes trace along the tangled path of books as if it were a maze.
“Oh, I see,” said the woman. “You don’t really like to read much, do you?”
“We did come to the old store a couple of years back,” Johnny jumped in, saving them both embarrassment. He thought the bookstore lady was pretty, in an older-person sort of way. “It used to look kinda . . . uh, lame, but now I almost feel like I like the place.”
“Almost feel like you like the bookstore?” the lady replied. For a moment she had a misty, faraway look in her eyes and wore an odd smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s uncommonly kind of you.”
Autumn asked, “So do you own this place, Mrs. . . . um?”
“Annelle Brookeheart is my name. But call me Nelly,” she said. “Look after it, I suppose you could say. I just watch and make sure customers find what they need.”
“A fine thing for a business owner to say,” Johnny said, trying to sound older.
“Why, thank you,” replied Nelly with a chuckle. “But ‘owning’ is such a misunderstood term. I’m more like a guardian or . . . or a steward. Yes, a steward, that’s it.” She paused. “I like to think I introduce people to their dreams.”
Something about the way she spoke these last words made Johnny and Autumn feel odd. Not threatened or even uncomfortable, just different. It was as if Nelly had some unique authority, a peculiar confidence, or perhaps a secret that only she knew.
“And only young adult fiction, to be exact. No grown-up novels here.”
Just then three kids came bounding in through the front door.
“Would you excuse me?” Nelly asked, and then turned to greet the other children. “How was school, Sam?”
Listening enthusiastically to their school-day tales, Nelly went to work helping the new kids find a few books, making her own suggestions of course, and answering questions. The most urgent one seemed to be: “Do we get a prize again today, Miss Nelly?”
She smiled, went back behind the counter, and bent down. Johnny and Autumn couldn’t see what she was doing, but they heard a muted thump. In a few heartbeats, Nelly returned with several ice-cream cones. She doled them out, each child happily getting his or her favorite. Then Nelly turned back to Johnny and Autumn.
Autumn raised an eyebrow. “Have they gotten prizes before?”
Nelly put a hand to her lips. “That’s kind of an inside joke here. The sign says, ‘Today Only,’ but every day is kind of a prize day.”
“It’s a good day for ice cream,” said Johnny.
“Indeed it is,” she said, going back behind the counter. “So, what can I get for the two of you?”
Looking through the choices, Autumn said, “Cookie dough would be nice.”
“Chocolate-chip cookie dough in a waffle cone. Mmm . . . good choice.” Nelly wrinkled her nose. “But . . . are you sure that’s all you want, Autumn? A bit of sugar and frozen milk, melted and gone in moments? I might have something much better.”
“Really? Hey . . . wait a second—how did you know her name?” Johnny asked. The two kids looked at her, confused.
“Come with me,” replied Nelly, looking first to Johnny and then to Autumn. “You may find I know many things about you and your . . . brother.”