The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

by Gabrielle Zevin

Her talents also include multitasking, selecting the right wine at dinner (and the coordinating skill, tending friends who’ve had too much to drink), houseplants, strays, and other lost causes.

Still, she is glad for the diversion and she doesn’t want to become the kind of person who thinks that good news can only come from calls one was already expecting and callers one already knows.

In Amelia’s experience, most people’s problems would be solved if they would only give more things a chance.

They had only ever discussed books but what, in this life, is more personal than books?

There are many challenges to long-distance running, but one of the greatest is the question of where to put one’s house keys.

But me-also-thinks my latter-day reaction speaks to the necessity of encountering stories at precisely the right time in our lives. Remember, Maya: the things we respond to at twenty are not necessarily the same things we will respond to at forty and vice versa. This is true in books and also in life.

“Love you,” Maya says. “Yes, she keeps saying that,” A.J. says. “I warned her about giving love that hasn’t yet been earned, but honestly, I think it’s the influence of that insidious Elmo. He loves everyone, you know?”

and he feels a vaguely familiar, slightly intolerable bubbling inside of him. He wants to laugh out loud or punch a wall. He feels drunk or at least carbonated. Insane. At first, he thinks this is happiness, but then he determines it’s love. Fucking love, he thinks. What a bother.

The most annoying thing about it is that once a person gives a shit about one thing, he finds he has to start giving a shit about everything.

And then, despite the fact that A.J. does not believe in God, he closes his eyes and thanks whomever, the higher power, with all his porcupine heart.

What is “the same kind of black”? She looks at her hands and wonders. Here are some other things she wonders about. How do you learn to read? Why do grown-ups like books without pictures? Will Daddy ever die? What is for lunch?

In the afternoon, she draws reviews. An apple means the book’s smell is approved. A block of cheese means the book is ripe. A self-portrait means she likes the pictures. She signs these reports maya and passes them on to A.J. for his approval.

Maya knows that her mother left her in Island Books. But maybe that’s what happens to all children at a certain age. Some children are left in shoe stores. And some children are left in toy stores. And some children are left in sandwich shops. And your whole life is determined by what store you get left in. She does not want to live in the sandwich shop.

feels naked when speaking about things he really loves.

Someday, you may think of marrying. Pick someone who thinks you’re the only person in the room.

Their happiness is not her unhappiness. Unless it is. What if there is only an equal ratio of happiness to unhappiness in the world at any given time?

Though it’s just a gymnasium (the scent of balls of both varieties is still palpable) and the ceremony hasn’t started yet, everyone speaks in hushed tones, like it’s church. Something important and literary is about to happen here.

“Do you think I should really have this surgery?” Amelia rolls her eyes. “Yes, I do. Number one, it’s happening in twenty minutes, so we probably couldn’t get our money back anyway. And number two, you’ve had your head shaved, and you look like a terrorist. I don’t see what the point is in turning back now,” Amelia says.

“FUCK!” A.J. thinks something must be seriously wrong because Amelia never curses. “What is it?” “Well, the thing is, I rather like your brain.” He laughs at her, and she weeps a little. “Oh, enough with the tears. I don’t want your pity.” “I’m not crying for you. I’m crying for me. Do you know how long it took me to find you? Do you know how many awful dates I’ve been on? I can’t”—she is breathless now—“I can’t join Match.com again. I just can’t.”

We read to know we’re not alone. We read because we are alone. We read and we are not alone. We are not alone.

“Maya, we are what we love. We are that we love.” Maya is shaking her head. “Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” “We aren’t the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.” She is still shaking her head. “I can’t understand you, Dad. I wish I could. Do you want me to get Amy? Or maybe you could try to type it?” He is sweating. Conversing isn’t fun anymore. It used to be so easy. All right, he thinks. If it’s gotta be one word, it’s gotta be one word. “Love?” he asks. He prays it has come out right.

“I’ve lived in Alice my whole life. It’s the only place I’ve ever known. It’s a nice place, and I intend to keep it that way. A place ain’t a place without a bookstore, Izzie.”