When You Reach Me

Things You Hold On To

According to Jimmy, there’s a two-dollar bill in circulation for every twelve one-dollar bills.

“But people hold on to them,” he said while I was putting on my jacket to go to the store. The lightbulb over the sink in the back room had burned out, and Jimmy didn’t have any extras. “People think two-dollar bills are special. That’s why you don’t see them around much.”

Yeah, I thought. People like you! But I kept my face blank, because I wasn’t supposed to know what was in his Fred Flintstone bank.

“They hate ’em over at the A&P, though. No space in a cash register for a two-dollar bill. They gotta pull out the tray and store them underneath. And they always forget they’re in there. That’s why you have to ask for them.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll ask.”

Annemarie was behind the counter with her apron on, looking happy. Some kids from school had come in—paying customers—and she was writing their names in mayonnaise on their sandwiches before pressing her perfect V-tops down onto them. Colin was next to her, doing the same. Annemarie gestured me over. I noticed that she was either very warm or she was wearing makeup.

“I’m going to ask Jimmy if we can have meatballs for lunch,” she whispered. “Since it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow”

“Great,” I said, even though I didn’t find those meatballs any more appealing than my usual cheese sandwich. They just sat there in the pot, day after day. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told her. “If anyone orders hot chocolate, tell them to wait for me.”

There were no two-dollar bills at the A&P, and when I got back to Jimmy’s with the lightbulbs, the kids were gone and Julia herself was standing in front of the sandwich counter. Annemarie and Colin had started making their lunches already. Jimmy had said no, I guessed, to the meatballs, because they were picking through the cheese.

Julia, who was pretending I hadn’t just walked in, seemed to be in the middle of a long speech about how American cheese wasn’t even real cheese, strictly speaking. I saw her long fingers gesturing toward the not-cheese, and I knew instantly that her V-cut would be flawless, that by Monday she would be behind that counter with Annemarie and Colin, and that her apron, the same kind that looked gray and baggy on everyone else, would somehow be perfect on her. She would have a way of tucking it up to fit, some trick a waiter in Paris had taught her.

Then Jimmy came out from the back room holding a stack of dripping plastic trays. “You.” He pointed at Julia with an armful of trays. “Out. I already told you once.”

Julia snatched her hand back from the setup tray. Annemarie flushed. “We’re just talking,” Annemarie said. “There’s no customers here now.”

“Actually, I’m a customer,” Julia said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I came to buy a sandwich. I have money.” She stuck out one pretty boot so that the green leather tip pointed at the ceiling.

“Out,” Jimmy said, practically growling. “Now.”

After she left, I pretended along with Annemarie that Jimmy was a little bit crazy, but as we walked back to school with our cheese-and-lettuce sandwiches, I carried a new warm feeling inside. Jimmy could be a grouch, but he saw right through Julia, just like I did.