Dad is at the kitchen table, buried in the newspaper. Neither of us say hello when I walk in.  I bolt down a bowl of cheerio’s and leave him sitting there in his cold silence.  He never says hello.  Neither do I.

            I take the warm glow of the conversation with my mother to bed with me. It’s hard to fall asleep, since my mind is spinning in crazy circles.  I wish a million different things at once. I wish I wasn’t here in bed, I wish I was with her, I wish we had talked longer, I wish I could tell dad I had met her.  I could never tell him that; he would lock me in my bedroom and throw away the key. Then I would truly be like Anastasia, locked in the castle with a fire-breathing dragon guarding the way out.

               Anastasia would have the courage to tell him what she thought; she would speak her mind.  Most of all, I wish I was truly sure of my mother.  How can I know what she'll do? She’s taken off and left me behind before, years ago - what’s to say she won't do the same thing? Two days ago I didn’t have a mother; I didn’t have anyone to miss. What if I spend time with her and love her and then she pulls her vanishing act and abandons me a second time?  I’d like to tell myself she won't do that, but how do I know? She seems warm and wonderful, everything I pictured a mother should be, but I don't really know her.

               I think about her parting words, how she hugged me like she’d never let go and begged me to call her. I know the little scrap of paper with her cell number scribbled on it is buried at the bottom of my knapsack. It will be there when I need it. Of course, I gave her my cell number as well, and I wonder which one of us will call first. When I told her I was always hanging out at Legend art gallery she seemed delighted, demanded I come see her whenever I was there.  I know I should be angrier, I should be furious at her, for thinking she can come into my life after all this time, but it would be almost too much effort to stay angry with her.   She's so much the opposite of dad and I know instinctively that I missed that growing up; it was what I needed. 

               I fall asleep that night and dream I'm painting with my mother. She paints rainbows and sunsets, but all I can do is put globs of runny paint onto the canvas, which drip down over her beautiful landscapes, blurring and destroying them. She screams that I'm ruining her masterpiece again, that she'll have to leave.

               On the days I don't work, which are four out of seven, it doesn't feel like work is that bad.  I learn anew each workday that it truly is as awful as I remembered.

               Today is Sunday, my last day as a muffin shop prisoner for a few days.   I only work Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so I'm free for a whole four days in a row after today.  Sundays I don't mind, since Mrs. Beth has her one day off that day, which is just dandy if you ask me.  You can feel the tension in the shop dissipate, like some kind of nervous smog had been hanging over the shop when the boss was present, and it  thinned out over night while she was gone.  The only downside is that I'm working with Crystal and Rachel today. 

               Crystal, in all her radiantly-annoying beauty, is there when I come in.  Rachel is the baker in the back - she’s more tall and gangly then as I am, and she has frizzy blonde hair that sticks out in fly-away strands around her face; even when she attempts to put it in a pony tail, it's still frizzed. Rachel reminds me of a newborn colt, all stilt-like arms and legs and still getting used to her own body.  She even has a laugh like a horse, a high-pitched whinny that makes me cringe every time.  I would take Rachel over Crystal any day though.  Rachel is another odd bird, like me.  People like her, but there isn't anyone falling over themselves in high school to be friends, nobody wishing they could be like her, nobody about to vote her as homecoming queen.  Crystal on the other hand, Crystal makes me twitch. How is someone that perfect?  I watch her as she gabs, wondering if she ever gets up in the morning with greasy hair or laughs too loudly at an inappropriate moment, or talks to someone without realizing she has something in her teeth.  Probably not. I listen to her natter on about her boyfriend for an entire four hours before I excuse myself for lunch break.  I decide that Anastasia will meet a new character tonight, a perfect princess who talks non-stop about her amazing prince, and then near the end of the story the princess will fall into a giant pit of ravenous trolls.  As I eat my sandwich, I muse that one troll probably would have done just fine, but somehow an entire pit of them seems more satisfying.

               After work it's tempting to take the bus downtown, but I know if I do that I’ll want to go see her again. The temptation would be too much.  I don’t want to appear desperate to see her every day. What if that scares her off?

               Instead I force myself to walk home.  Dad isn’t home yet and I sneak some postage stamps from the drawer in the kitchen. I always do it when he’s gone.  The last time he asked me what I wanted to use the stamps for and I told him I was mailing my writing to a publisher, he told me it was a waste of stamps.  Thanks dad.

               Today I send one of my poems out.  It is a short piece and there's really no sense to it, but I like the rhythm of the words.  Poetry doesn’t have to make sense, it’s the reader’s perspective that counts, or how the words roll off the tongue.  You might think you're writing about the beautiful sunset you saw, but Bob from Minnesota thinks it’s a wonderful interpretation of how the world will end in fire. It’s all in how you look at it.

     I tuck the envelope in my knapsack, knowing I'll mail it tomorrow.

Tonight Anastasia breaks free of the castle and starts her quest into the great forests of Amberland, where she will meet many interesting creatures and people, one of which will be a proper pink princess.

     Monday morning is grey and I take care to dress appropriately, donning my red sweater and a pair of jeans, a jacket with a hood and a pair of boots I hide underneath my pant legs.  I decide today will be a bookstore day. The Chapters downtown has a Starbucks in it, and as far as I'm concerned that means I can comfortably stay there all day - heck I’d live there if that were possible.  I would survive off of lemon bread and double whip chocolate chip frappuccinos. At night I would curl up on the leather couch to sleep; I would just spend the rest of my life reading.  That would be living.  I wonder, how long would it take to read every book in the Chapters bookstore?  How would I get a shower? I guess after living there for a few years and reading all the books I would be very well educated, but very smelly.

               Does anyone else think of these weird scenarios?

               My bus ride is spent with my nose in a book; I want to get a head start on reading everything in sight.

               Chapters is always full of people, even on a Monday morning. The insides are bright and busy, with a Starbucks right in the heart of it, a collision of the coffee industry and the book business. It's nice actually.  Some people are laughing and chatting over coffee, some are sitting at tables immersed in their books, a few daring people are attempting both.  Caffeine and literature - I suppose it ensures you could stay up all night to finish that novel.  Chapters is one of my favourite places and I haunt it regularly, I love the endless rows of books and the soft red carpet, the smell of the fresh coffee,  the feel of the books beneath my fingertips. The sounds of quiet murmuring, the discussion of books, people immersed in Charles Dickens, Jane Austin and Oscar Wilde. I cannot dream of a better place, this is my best fantasy world.    The wall on the street side is nearly all full-length windows, and you can watch people going by on the sidewalk below, see the street lights come on as it gets dark. 

I know right were I'm headed, making a beeline for the fantasy section, which is smushed right between Comics and Science fiction.  I'm always happy when bookstores separate the fantasy and science fiction.  It makes me crazy when people lump them all together.  It’s not the same thing at all. Fantasy is wonderful: dragons, witches, heroes and princes, plucky females with swords and talking animals.  Why compare that to floating around in a cold and impersonal space?  There's nothing fun about spaceships, nothing magical. The two genres simply cannot be compared to one another.  There is so much potential with fantasy, so much you can do in the worlds you create. 

               I start off in the Z section, intending to work my way up to A, searching for new authors or the next book in any of the series I am reading. I’ve always got at least three books on the go: one for the bus, one for home, one for work, and another when I’m in school.  Sometimes if a book is scary I’ll read that one during the day and have a separate one for the evening just before bed because I’m a total wimp.

               I revel in the fact that I literally have all day. Dad is at work, there's no muffin horror today, or school, and I can spend as long as I like browsing through books.  In my world it doesn’t get any better than this.

               I'm halfway through the G section when a boy walks up to the comic section on my left. He's tall and skinny and his curly mop of hair badly needs a trim.  He shoves his glasses up his nose and gives me a nervous smile.

               “Hey.”

               I'm surprised, since the normal, albeit unwritten, bookstore etiquette is not to greet other browsers unless you bump into someone accidentally or both go for the same book or something, in which case you just apologize and go on your way.

I wonder if maybe he isn't aware of normal bookstore etiquette, so I decide to humour him. What can it hurt?

               “Hi.”

               We go back to browsing, resume normality. 

               I make my way into the F section and pick up a paperback, pretending to read but secretly peering at the boy out of the corner of my eye.  On second glace, he's probably about the same age as me, the unkempt mop of hair makes him look younger.  I decide he's not how I would picture a comic book nerd. His glasses aren't thick enough and his pants fit him fine. His t-shirt has no “Star Wars” or “Batman” logo on it either. It's just a plain black collared shirt.  He doesn’t smell of stale sweat or unwashed clothing. 

               I'm disappointed he doesn’t fit my idea of a proper comic book fan. 

I put the book back and start working on the E section now. I already have four books cradled protectively in one arm, and I know I'm going to have to make the difficult choice of leaving some behind.  I find a book in the B section, the third part of a series I've been waiting months to get my hands on and add it to the stack, sighing a little. Which one will get the axe?

               By the time I reach section A, I am up to eight books, and as I shift to pull another off the shelf I feel the books in my arm wiggle alarmingly.

               “Oh shoot!” I yelp. There's a series of soft thumps as my books topple from the pile and hit the carpeted floor. 

               Crouching down, I gather them up, grumbling to myself, aware that the comic book boy is watching me. When I stand up he's holding out a book to me, the last one I picked off of the shelf.

               “Thanks.” I take it from him.

               “Your welcome.” He flashes his smile again.  It’s a little crooked. I like it.

I notice his eyes are blue even though his hair is brown, and think about telling him he’s a Mary Sue.  I smile a little, imagining myself saying that to him - he’d think I was crazy.

               “You bit off more than you can chew, huh?” he says, and I notice he is holding two thick comic books with colourful illustrations on the covers.

               “I always do.” I look down at my armful of books. “I’ll have to put some of them back.”

               “Yeah.” He nods at his comic books ruefully. “I made myself narrow it down to two.”

               I glance at the two comics he is holding out. “Japanese comics?” I realize my voice sounds doubtful.

               “Manga.” He stares at me like he’s gauging my expression, trying to figure out if I’m going to make fun of him.

               “I mostly do fantasy. Never got the hang of those. They’re...backwards, right?”

               He smiles again, “Yeah, they read from right to left. It takes awhile to get used to, but there are some that are left to right here. A few that girls like...if you’re interested.” He plucks one off the shelf that features a yellow background, a perky looking girl and a large panda.

               “Like the Ranma ½ series. It’s about a boy that gets turned into a girl when he comes into contact with hot water.”

               “What?” I pick up the comic book and flip through it. “That sounds weird.”

               “Weirder then some of the fantasy stuff?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.

               “Good point.”

               “At least test it out.” He gestures toward the middle of the store. “Go to the Starbucks and have an ice cappuccino, or whatever girls have there, and read it.”

               “Maybe I will.” I grin, taking the comic he offers.

               “I’m Jacob, by the way.”

               “Samantha, but everyone calls me Sam.”

               “Do you like being called Sam?”

               “I don't know...it’s better than Samantha.” I think about dad and his refusal to ever call me “Sam”.

               “Would you like me to call you something different all together?”

               I consider this for a moment. “How about Anastasia?” I smile.

               “Is that a better name?”

               I feel embarrassed all of a sudden. “It’s better, but I’m still just Sam."

               “Well, ‘Just Sam’, you want to go sit down, maybe grab a coffee and you can tell me what you think of the comic?”

               I nod, smiling as I follow Jacob’s tall form down the fantasy and comic aisle. My mind is racing. He's clearly interested, right? I'm no good at reading guys.  I’m in grade eleven and still haven’t had a boyfriend.  No one in high school is interested in the girl that just sits in the corner and scribbles madly in notebooks all day.  But this Jacob, he's definitely flirting.

               Isn’t he? 

               “What do you want?” He's asking me as I get comfy on a large brown armchair

               “What?” I put my armload of books down on the glossy table.

               “Coffee, tea, fancy drink with “low fat whip” in the name?”

               “Hot chocolate?”

               “Ah, a low maintenance girl. I like it.”

He's paying for my drink? Doesn't that mean this is a date? But then he didn't ask me on a date. How do these things work? Is there some sort of secret code I don't know about? This is ridiculous.

               “Read the book!” Jacob waves at me from the line, so I nod and open the comic, burying my glowing face in the pages, hoping to hide my growing blush. There is no way I can concentrate on the storyline, not when I can see him glancing over his shoulder at me from time to time.

               By the time he comes sauntering back I am six or seven pages in and have no idea what the story is about.

               “You like it so far?” Jacob leans in to hand me my hot chocolate and I catch a whiff of some kind of light cologne.

               “Yeah...it’s great.” I put it down to receive the hot chocolate, grateful to be able to stop fake-reading.

               “Well, you obviously like fantasy.” He's looking down at the books on the table. “So which ones do you think you’ll keep?”

               “I don’t know.” I sigh and shuffle through them. “It’s so hard to choose.”

               “Choose whichever one you want the most,” he says.

               I consider the books for a little while; one of them is the third in a series I’m currently engrossed in and I point to that one. “This one, for sure.”

               “Alright...and the one you want second most of all?”

               I laugh. “I suppose it needs to be done.”

               We go through the books until I have just three.

               “I guess I should put the rest back.”

               “Nah, just leave them,” Jacob says. “Maybe some guy will pick one up while he’s drinking his coffee and really like it. You never know.”

               I smile and blow on my hot chocolate, thinking of what I should say next. I feel nervous, like I might make an idiot of myself. 

               Luckily Jacob is already saying something again,

“So, what school do you go to?”

               “Lambrick Park. You?”

               “Just graduated.” Jacob sticks his hands behind his head and leans back with a satisfied sigh. “I’m a free man.”

               “Lucky you.” I grin. “I wish I could say the same thing. I still have one more grade to go.”

               “Ah... grade twelve isn’t so bad, depending on the number of spares you get.” 

               “Spares are great. I tend to get a lot of writing done.”

               “You’re a writer?” Jacob suddenly leans towards me and I feel embarrassed that he looks so intrigued.

               “Well not really. I don’t have anything published.”

               He laughs. “I doubt that has much to do with it. If you write, you’re a writer.  Why do other people have to approve and put it in their glossy magazine to make you a “writer”? That’s just dumb.”

               “I suppose so.” I doubt he could convince me of that.

               “What do you write?”

               “Stories and poems mostly.”

               “Tragic poems and stories?”

               “No way. I can’t stand tragic poems. They make me feel all disgusted at the person who wrote them.”

               “You want to tell them to quit whining.” Jacob laughs.

               “Precisely!”

               I like Jacob’s laugh. It could actually be defined as a chuckle.

               “I have never met a girl that said ‘precisely’ before,” he says.

               “Well, now you have.”

               “It strikes me as sort of a Mary Poppins type word.”

               “And I've never met a boy who makes references to Mary Poppins before.”

               “Well, we’re quite the pair.”

               I don't notice I'm finished my hot chocolate, and I'm apparently attempting to drink the dregs at the bottom.  Jacob laughs at me, presumably at the face I'm making.

               “Oh, that’s strong.”

               Before either of us said anything else we both became aware of a small tinny rendition of Handle's Messiah coming from somewhere underneath our chairs.

               “Oh!” I reach down and grab my bag, “Sorry, that’s me.” It's either Dad calling me from work or my work calling to ask me to cover for someone who has mysteriously come down with some kind of last-minute flue .I pick up the phone, dreading the possible. The call display instantly allays my fears though, revealing tiny block letters that spell out “MOM” across the screen. 

               “Sorry, I just have to grab this.” I flip open the phone, feeling a little silly at my eagerness to talk to her. “Hello?”

               “Hi Samantha, it’s me.”

               I can't keep the stupid grin off my face.  “Hi.” It's silly that I want to call her mom; maybe she’d think I’m weird if I say that. We’d just met after all.

               “Sorry to bug you...I know I should have waited a bit longer to call you, but I couldn’t help myself.”

               “I’m glad you called,” I manage to get out, hoping I don't sound too emotional in front of Jacob.  I can see him casually flipping through one of the reject books on the table beside him, pretending not to hear my side of the conversation.

               “I'm just wondering if you're going to be in town today?  I know you said you go to the art gallery a lot.”

               “I’m in town right now.” My stomach does back flips at the thought of seeing her again.

               “Great! Are you at the gallery?”

               “No, I’m at Chapters, just down the street. Want me to come over after I'm done here?”

               “Absolutely!”

               “Okay, I’ll be over in a little bit.”