Read an Excerpt
One
Trey’s playlist: “Let It Snow”
by Boyz II Men
Seventeen days till Christmas
I’m about two seconds away from committing murder.
“But I thought it was two for one? I saw the deal in the bookshop window down the road,” the white woman with blonde highlights says.
She means Books! Books! Books! It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that we’re clearly a different bookshop, but instead I flash my best smile—all white teeth. Next to her, her daughter’s eyes flicker with interest.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love a bargain as much as the next person, but we’re independent.” I say “independent” real slow. “So you’re helping the community when you buy from Wonderland. Plus, we’re a Black-owned, family-run bookshop.”
Now the woman looks uncomfortable, catching eyes with her daughter, who huffs and says, “Mum, it’s fine. Just pay.”
The women looks like she’s struggling to decide what to do. I bet now she thinks that if she doesn’t support the bookshop I’ll think she’s racist. Truth is, I just think she’s cheap.
“Look, I’ll even throw in a couple of bookmarks.” I grab two from behind the counter and hand them to her. One says Indie Bookshops Rule! and the other says Black Lives Matter. We’re such a subtle family.
The woman’s eyes widen when she reads them. Then she reaches into her purse, pulling out her credit card, and I have to stop myself from punching the air in celebration. With this sale, we’ve reached our daily target, and Mum agreed that, if we did, I can leave early for Bebe’s Christmas party. Bebe Richards is one of the girls in my friendship group at college, and one thing about her is she knows how to throw down. I have no idea why she’s having a Christmas party on a Wednesday, over two weeks before Christmas Day, but I don’t care. Anything that’s not the bookshop or homework sounds good to me.
“Thanks for shopping at Wonderland,” I say as I hand the woman her books with a grin. “Merry Christmas.”
“And you.” She smiles back, but it looks forced. Her daughter, on the other hand, gives me a wink before they walk off. I smile and shake my head.
“Flirting with the customers again?” Dad walks up to the till and opens it, staring at the money and scratching the back of his head.
“We’re on target. Slam dunk!” I shoot up my arms and flick my wrists, pretending to dunk like Kobe.
“Wasn’t it busier this time last year?” Dad looks around the bookshop and I follow his gaze.
He’s right. It’s kind of quiet, but I’m sure it will pick up once it gets closer to Christmas. Dad’s been paranoid ever since Books! Books! Books! opened. He thinks they’ve stolen all of our customers and tells me so after every shift. But we’ve been doing okay, and I think part of that is down to my epic playlist: “The Best Christmas Songs by Black Artists”: “8 Days of Christmas” by Destiny’s Child, “Merry Christmas, Baby” by Otis Redding . . . and is it even Christmas without Mariah?
“Relax, Dad.” I put an arm round him. We’re pretty much the same height now at six foot one, and with my wide-set eyes, broad nose, strong jawline and lean physique, I’m my dad thirty-odd years ago.
Dad huffs in response.
“I’m leaving soon, but I can do a quick tidy and chat to some customers first,” I say.
Dad shuts the till and points in front of him. “If those kids aren’t buying, tell them to scat. How many times do I have to remind you, Trey? We’re not a library. One day the bookshop will be yours and you can’t have customers loitering around.”
I don’t want the bookshop, I want to say, but—like always—I swallow it down. Wonderland was founded by my great-grandad and is my family’s legacy. It’s the first and only Black-owned, independent bookshop on Stoke Newington High Street. Stoke Newington used to be a working-class area with mixes of nationalities—African, West Indians, Turkish and Jewish people—but over the years it’s become more bohemian. The rise of the “yummy mummies” as Mum calls them. Over the past ten years it has undergone a significant gentrification with houses that now cost over a million. Dad grew up here, and all he wanted to do when he was a kid was take over and be the boss. I want to be a singer, selling out arenas, but there are two problems. The first is my parents assume that Wonderland is my future, and I don’t want to disappoint them. I pray all the time that my little brother Reon will be up for the task of running the bookshop. The second problem is I have a fear of singing in front of large crowds. I even get nervous when it’s a small one. But if I close my eyes, or have a couple of drinks for liquid courage, I can sing no problem. Part of my New Year’s resolution is going to be to enter singing competitions, because I want to overcome my fear and really see where singing could take me, even though I know how hard it is to break into the music industry.
The loitering kids are gone now, but they’ve carelessly left a few books on the floor—no wonder Dad wanted them out. I return the books to the shelves and check in with a few customers to make sure they’re okay before circling the rest of the shop.
I start quietly singing along to “Let It Snow,” which is playing through the speakers.
“Ooh, sing it, DeVante,” Boogs calls over at me as he walks into the shop.
I laugh. “Wrong group, genius.”
“Is it?” Boogs frowns. “Isn’t this Jodeci?”
“Boyz II Men.” We dap and I hug the petite girl in the colourful patchwork coat next to him. “Hey, Santi.”
Santi flicks her long braided twists over her shoulder and raises her eyebrows. “DeVante?”
“How would you know?” Boogs says. “All you listen to is Coldplay.”
Boogs and Santi go back and forth and I shake my head. Boogs, real name Dre Deton, is my best friend. He moved to Stoke Newington just over a year ago. There was a rumour going round he used to be part of a gang in his old ends. The rumour was true, but we hit it off straight away. He’s all light-skinned, light eyes, breaking girls’ hearts with his pretty-boy face and fire dance moves (hence the nickname Boogs, short for Boogie), but that was until he met Santi Bailey. Technically, I got them together, because I’m dating Santi’s twin sister, Blair. Identical twins with non-identical personalities—Santi dresses like she was a hippy in a past life, and she’s always asking me for book recommendations, whereas Blair is a walking ad for Fashion Nova, and I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve spoken about books. But somehow Blair and I work. I guess opposites really do attract.
Santi turns back to me. “Have you got the new Estee Mase?”
Estee Mase is a bestselling YA author. We used to sell out of our stock all the time before Books! Books! Books! came along.
“Yeah, it’s by the register,” I reply.
She wanders off and Boogs whispers, “Don’t let her buy it. I already got it for her.”
My eyes narrow. “You did? Wait? From where? I haven’t seen you in here recently.”
Boogs rubs his face. “Don’t get mad, but I bought it from Books! Books! Books!”
“You what?” I stare at him in disbelief.
“I know, but you had sold out . . .” Boogs says sheepishly.
“Not cool, man. It’ll be your own people.” I shake my head.
“My bad, bro. So what have you got Blair?”
I frown. “For what?”
Boogs looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “The twins’ birthday is tomorrow.”
What? No, that can’t be right. I take out my phone and look at the calendar. Shit! Today is December 8th.
Boogs whistles. “She’s gonna kill you.”
He’s not lying. I can’t buy her a book because she won’t read it, plus she’ll know it’s from the shop so she’ll think it’s free. Blair loves jewellery and has been eyeing this gold heart necklace for months. I meant to order it online but now it won’t come in time. The high street is rammed because of Christmas.
“What did you get Santi?” I ask, hoping against odds that Boogs has made a half-hearted effort.
“That Estee book and some wellness hamper I found on Etsy. You know she’s not fussy about presents—unlike your girl.”
I groan. How did this happen? It was only last week that I was talking to Blair about her birthday, but with working overtime at the bookshop and all the Boxing Day sale prep it must have slipped my mind. She’s going to be pissed if Santi has a better present than her. Blair thinks that because we were together first, we should set the standard, which makes no sense to me. But it means that anytime Boogs does something romantic for Santi, Blair expects me to go bigger.
“I’ll think of something,” I mumble. “At least she’s not coming to the party tonight, so she can’t grill me.”
“Blair didn’t tell you?” Boogs says. “Santi said Blair changed her mind. She’s coming tonight.”
Before I can reply, Santi walks over to us holding the Estee Mase book. Boogs and I glance at each other and Santi notices.
“What present did you get Blair?” Santi asks.
I smile. “It’s a surprise.”
“That’s code for he forgot,” Boogs whispers.
Bro code! I shoot him a death glare.
“Trey!” Santi says. “That’s terrible.”
“Boogs bought it from Books! Books! Books!” I quickly say, and Boogs actually gasps.
Santi puts her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe you would do something like that!”
I spot Mum walking into the office and follow her, a smile creeping over my face as I hear Santi laying into Boogs. Santi’s pro-independent shops and Boogs deserves to be cussed out with his disloyal self. Mum looks startled when she sees me at the door and quickly shields the letter she’s reading. Her black, shoulder-length hair, which is usually immaculate, is tied in a messy ponytail.
“Trey, baby, you scared me.” Mum takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.
I don’t think she’s been sleeping very well. I’ve been hearing her and Dad having hushed conversations late at night, but every time I ask her what’s up she brushes me off. I tilt my head to look at the logo on the letter in her hand.
“Who’s Raymond and Raymond?” I ask.
Mum follows my gaze and folds up the letter. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Mum, come on.” I sit down opposite her. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
Mum looks down at the letter and doesn’t respond. I have an urge to snatch it from her and read it for myself, but I value my life too much to do that, so instead I just wait. Mum eventually looks up and sighs. “Raymond and Raymond are developers.”
I frown. “Developers? I don’t understand.”
“The bookshop’s not doing too well, Trey. We’re not hitting the numbers like we used to, and we’re a month behind on mortgage and supplier payments.” She puts her hand to her forehead. “Customers just aren’t spending enough and Raymond and Raymond have offered to buy Wonderland before we completely sink.”
Behind on the mortgage? I mean, I know Wonderland hasn’t been super busy, but I had no idea things were this bad.
“What’s Dad said?” I ask, concern creeping into my voice.
“He doesn’t want to hear it.” Mum tuts. “But if we can’t get back on track by Christmas, I don’t think we have any other choice but to sell to Raymond and Raymond. At least then we can get some money for this place.”
I don’t know what to say. Sell Wonderland? How did we get into this mess? For months Dad has been saying how quiet the shop’s been and I’ve dismissed him every time, when I should have been working harder and trying to bring in more sales. What would we even do without the bookshop? This is our livelihood, our legacy. I don’t want to run Wonderland, but I can’t imagine it not being in my life. And what would my parents do for money? Mum could go back to nursing, I guess, but what about Dad? Wonderland is all he’s ever known. Selling the shop would destroy him.
Mum reaches for my hand. “I don’t want you to stress, baby. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a way to fix things.” I want to believe her, but she sounds uncertain. “Anyway, don’t you have a party to go to?”
I ignore her question. “I can stay and help with sales.”
Mum stands up with her arms outstretched and I follow suit. She has a small frame, but I find myself folding into her hug as if I’m a little boy. I thought I wanted to know what was happening at Wonderland, but now I wish I hadn’t asked. The idea of losing this place makes me feel like someone is squeezing and twisting my stomach.
Mum pulls away and looks at me. “It’s Christmas. Go and have fun with your friends, okay?”
She pats my arm and I nod, but I’m not in the mood to party anymore.
