Finders Keepers

It happens as I’m walking on Seventeenth Street, my tote bag swinging against my shins, Taylor Swift’s “Begin Again” in my AirPods. It’s early spring, the skies are blue, the air is clear, and the hem of my dress floats a little with every step. I’m on my way back from work—returns desk at a department store, seventeen-fifty an hour, two days a week—to meet Ben for a drink before we start our shifts at the restaurant. Would it have made a difference if I’d turned left instead of right and walked down another street? Unlikely. The book is already a bestseller, or at least well on its way. I would have found out about it sooner or later.

I glance at the window of Logan Books, and I guess my body registers it before I do because from nowhere, a wave of nausea hits me. It’s the window display. It’s taken up with dozens of copies of the one book. They hang from the ceiling at various heights, bright yellow covers flapping faintly like giant butterflies.

Diary of an Octopus.

An ocean rushes in my ears. Don’t be stupid, Rose. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to see it, that stupid title that makes me want to punch my own face whenever I think of it, which is never. I push air down in my lungs as I tell myself I’m getting worked up over nothing. It’s just a funny book, the autobiography of a famous person, someone who writes sketches for late-night TV shows. Whatever it is, it’s nothing to do with me. But I’m inside anyway, elbowing my way past people who grunt at me while I stumble through, aiming for a pyramid of that same book with its loud yellow cover and its stupid title. I take one, my mouth dry. I’m already opening it, only vaguely aware I’ve sent a column of books toppling.

Dear Diary,

The day I turned thirteen, my dad told me and my mom that he was moving in with Mrs. L., his secretary at the meatpacking plant. The one with the two little boys and the husband who died last year in that accident.

The words start flying all over the page, zooming in and out of focus and coming back together in the wrong order so it’s gibberish now. I drop the book, and it lands on the floor, cover open. I bend down to pick it up, but someone is already doing it. A woman’s hand with short, buffed nails and a silver ring on her index finger.

“Well, somebody is a little overwhelmed!”

I look up. She has short, dark hair, a flat nose, and a plastic card hanging from her neck that reads Hi, I’m Sally.

“Sorry,” I mumble. I gather the books from the floor and stack them on the table, trying to restore the pile to its original shape, but she shoos me away.

“Don’t worry. We’re used to it. Emily has a lot of fans.”

“Emily?”

“God, don’t you love her?” she breathes, eyes wide. Her eyes flick up, and I follow her gaze to a tall poster hanging from the ceiling, where a woman with long blond hair reads a copy of her own book. I only say her own book because it’s her name on the cover, but by now I already know it isn’t remotely her own book. I stare at the name until it comes into focus.

Emily Harper.

“Have you bought your copy yet?”

Sally points at the book I’m holding. I’m still struggling to breathe.

I shake my head.

She checks her watch. “Well, she’s here for another ten minutes, although there’s a bit of a crowd at the cash register and a line waiting at the signing desk…”

“Signing desk?”

“You go and get your book signed and then come and see me. I’ll get you fixed up at the cash register. You’ll be okay. Just get in there before she leaves.”

And finally, it dawns on me. That’s why there are so many copies of the same book displayed in elaborate pyramids everywhere.

It’s a book signing. I glance at the line of people holding their copy of my diary against their chests.

Whatever it is, it will be momentous.

This is it. It’s happening. The moment I’ve been dreading.

They’re going to know what I did.

I’m going to jail.