Page 29 of Upstate

“That’s cool. What’d you teach?”

“Creative writing mostly. How about you, how’s Schuywich doing with remote learning?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, no, I go to the Doane Stuart School in Rensselaer. Our teachers have been pretty great, actually, but the seniors are bummed we’re missing out on graduation.”

I’m confused by her use of “Rensselaer” until I remember it’s a city as well as a surname. “Isn’t that near Albany?”

“Yeah, I live in Albany, but my parents are both first responders and they were worried about being exposed. They sent me to stay with Gramma Lulu so I’d be safe and she wouldn’t be all alone. I’m going into the entrepreneurship program at Ithaca College this fall, and part of it is doing an internship over the summer. I had one lined up at a tech startup in Troy, but that got canceled with the shutdown. When Gramma Lulu heard from Miss Tate that you were reopening Red Barn Books, she thought maybe I could do one here?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything entrepreneurial for you to do, Aisha. I’m mostly focused on listing the rare books online. It’s pretty tedious, nothing like a startup.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Beacon, if you don’t mind me saying so? People don’t like buying from new sellers with no reviews. You’ve gotta sell lots of books to get your rating up before someone’s gonna trust you with, like, twenty thousand dollars. Look at this.” Aisha takes out her phone. Soon, mine pings. “I was researching the online book business last night and I found this app that scans ISBNs so you can list newer titles quickly. Maybe I could work on that while you do the rare books?”

I read the description for the app she’s shared with me. “That would be amazing, actually.”

“I can also set up your social media channels. Like I said, it’s really photogenic here. A website can wait a minute, I guess, since you’re using a bookselling platform for your ecommerce, but you should reserve the URL, if you haven’t already?”

I shake my head. “How do you do that?”

“Well, you need a credit card, so I can’t do it for you, but I’ll send the link.” She stares intently at her phone, thumbs flying. “There, sent. Do it soon, okay, while RedBarnBooks.com is still available. You want all your platforms to be consistent.”

“I’ll take care of it. Oh, and I need a way to process credit cards for people who show up in person. Do you have any suggestions?”

“You don’t have a Square account yet?” Aisha looks at me like a disappointed teacher whose student has failed to do their homework. “Do you know anything about running a business, Miss Beacon?”

“Call me Audrey, please, and no, not really,” I admit. “Listen, Aisha, I’m not in a position to hire anyone right now, but if you want to do an internship here, I’d be stupid to turn you down.”

Aisha frowns. “Well, most internships are unpaid, but Gramma Lulu says I shouldn’t sell myself short. We were thinking maybe you could reimburse me for the cost of my credits?”

Ithaca’s tuition is probably on par with what my college charges; three credits will make it practically impossible for me to pay off my credit card before my last paycheck. Then I remember Sam saying to make hay while the sun shines. Listing rare books is something I can do all year round. Aisha’s internship has to happen this summer. “I guess I can do that.”

Aisha smiles. “Good. I like it here, Miss Beacon—I mean, Audrey. Your wi-fi makes it great for working outside, and the barn’s so big and open, it feels pretty safe. You do have a mask policy though, right? I didn’t see a sign. You have to put up a sign.”

“I will,” I promise.

“Cool. If you wanna grab your laptop, I can talk you through getting a Square account.”

“That’d be fantastic, thanks. I just have to check on something first.”

I’m about to explain about Wren poking around the place when a scream carries across the lawn.

Aisha shoots to her feet. “What was that?”

“There’s a man here, looking at furniture in the outbuildings.” I get up, too, swiveling my neck side to side. It’s hard to tell where the sound is coming from. Before I can shout back, Wren comes running out of the barn, arms spinning like pinwheels.

“Bees!” Wren runs toward us, stopping a few yards away and planting his hands on his knees, panting. “I got stung by a bee.”

“Are you allergic?” I ask, panicking.

“No, just freaked out.” Wren straightens up and gingerly touches his face. A red welt swells on his cheek, another on his forehead. “I was up in the barn loft. I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden there were bees everywhere.”

The three of us look toward the barn. An angry yellow cloud is spilling from the eaves, swirling like a pointillist tornado.

“I’m out of here!” Dashing for the safety of her car, Aisha yells back over her shoulder, “Call me when you’ve got those bees under control!”

The insects loop and dip and lift above the lawn. Suddenly, the swarm coalesces into a cartoon arrow that shoots itself toward the oak. I notice, now, a hollow in its trunk ten feet above the ground. The swarm lands there, bees on top of bees on top of bees.

“Come on!” I yell, leading Wren toward the house.