He’d left no list today. Nothing to separate my mind from six months. From the lease and my mother’s morning hangover. I was at work, in a place I loved, but the memory of yesterday played and replayed like an earworm tune.
My phone dinged in my bag. Marisol texting, of course. Still no sign of Mr. Winston, so I fished it out.
Marisol: Mama invited you over Saturday. Small dinner
Me: Define small
Marisol: Just the family
Me: Define family
Marisol: The usual
Which could mean anything from her immediate seven, to a Robles extravaganza with the Mexican half of her family, requiring two extra folding tables set up on the lawn. Either way, I wasn’t about to say no to Mama Robles’s cooking.
Me: I’ll be there
Marisol: Boom
Apparently, I had plans for Saturday. Laptop plugged in for homework, I crossed the shop to peer through the picture window and found my boss. He stood on the sidewalk with his ex-wife, arms crossed like they always were when he was talking to Tess. A striped oxford shirt and tweed cap teetered off his beanpole frame—also like always, even in eighty-degree weather.
The pair parted when they spotted me. “Hey there, Miss Darcy-Diva!” Tess called out, her brassy trumpet voice muffled through the window glass. She added a cheery wave, which I returned. Today, her hair frothed over her shoulders in platinum blond. Who knew what tomorrow’s wig would be? I’d worked here for two years and had never seen her real hair.
An educated guess: Mr. Winston probably had, even though they were only married for one tragic year and had been divorced for more than thirty. During the settlement, neither party wanted to surrender their co-owned, historic North Park building. The solution was to split 386 University Avenue into two shops: Yellow Feather Books on the right, Tops Wig Emporium on the left.
A bell chimed as Mr. Winston barreled through the front door. I made an effort to look busy—fluffing embroidered armchair pillows, turning the large potted plants to catch more window light.
“Hmmph,” he muttered. Then a quick chin lift in my general direction. Ooh, a good mood today.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Winston.” I tucked myself behind the counter.
He approached the archway leading to his office, pausing beneath the large antique oil painting of an eighteenth-century scribe armed with a bright yellow quill. “Well, it would be, if that woman next door would get her expenditure report in on time. Bookkeepers don’t like to be kept waiting.” He removed his cap, raking stubby fingers through sweaty gray-blond hair. It matched his mustache, forever dingy from years of smoking, even though he quit last spring. That April was a fun month around here.
“I’m sure they don’t. The, um, bookkeepers.”
He made a low, rumbly sound. “Don’t grow up, Darcy. As if you’re able to help that.” Ratty sigh as he slammed his office door.
The words settled over me like a second skin. Dry and itchy. Don’t grow up?
I clenched my hands around the lip of the worn counter. All day, my mind had flipped from stiff memory, to blank forgetting. Back and forth. It stopped now at the scene in my apartment at seven-thirty this morning, when I was just trying to be a senior at Thomas Jefferson High School. Just trying to start my college application for San Diego State University over breakfast. Even now, I could clearly picture my mother’s bewildered stare as she stood by the kitchen counter.
“Something’s different,” she’d said, sipping the black coffee I’d made. “Wait, what happened to all the Williams Sonoma café plates?”
Peanut butter toast in hand, I sprang up from the table. Cursed her radar for things. “You mean the plates you shattered? The ones I cleaned up while you slept?”
Mom’s puffy but fully made-up face paled baby powder white. I caught the exact moment she remembered. Maybe not all of it, but enough to say, “Oh. Darcy, I...”
I sighed heavily. “It’s done. Over, okay?” I slid the stack of bills toward her. “These are from yesterday. Car insurance. Cell phone. One of your credit cards.” No doubt maxed out.
“Yes, of course.” Another sip of coffee as she stared at her phone.
“Mom.”
“One second, hon. Crate and Barrel geode coasters are on clearance. Before they sell out, I need to—”
“Mom!” Stop. Remember what the psychologist said. Stay calm. No emotion. Simple statements. I took her phone and locked my eyes on to hers. “Please, just listen. Pay the bills first. You can’t do without your phone or car insurance. And maybe pay down your card a little?”
“Yes. Today.”
How many times had I heard this? But the lease renewal meant I had to start inching her forward. My mind abandoned the moment for books. Chapters and scenes fluttered across my brain like an old Rolodex, until I recalled a trick a secretary had used with her flighty private detective boss.
I breathed deeply, then said, “How about this? Can you text me later to tell me you paid them? It might help you stay on track.”
Mom flicked her eyes back to her phone, which I’d already cleared to the home screen. “Oh.” Her brows furrowed. “Okay. I guess I could do that.”
Now, with the bookstore empty and Mr. Winston in the back, I opened the search engine on my computer. Homework would have to wait. If I had any hope of protecting my home, I first had to educate myself in topics not covered in AP Government. I keyed in a few search terms and scanned the results.
When your apartment lease is up, what happens?
Your rights as a renter.
United States property law.
I heard the dusty echo of my boss’s voice. Don’t grow up, Darcy.
Too late, Mr. Winston. Too late.
* * *
“Darcy. Miss Wells!”
Jolted, I looked up. Mr. Winston was rapping his fingers on my counter.
“You must’ve been swimming in stories again. Goodness.” He leveled a stiff glare at me. “I called your name three times.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I shook my head to clear it and shut my laptop. “Just preoccupied. Homework, err, problem.” The small fib jiggled against my ribs, especially when I considered what my research had revealed.
The bad news: our landlord could deny our lease renewal for any reason.
The good news: he’d have to give us at least thirty days’ notice to vacate.
I prayed our situation would literally clear up before it came to that. I set a mental date and would plug it into my calendar later. If nothing changed in three months, I would present this information to my mother. The psychologist had cautioned me against calling direct attention to the hoard, but the looming threat of losing our apartment left me with no choice. Until then, I’d try to explore some positive new strategies.
Mr. Winston tossed two envelopes in front of me. “Penny-pinching lawyer mailed her trust documents to my place. Couldn’t be bothered to spring for extra postage to her house. Figures.”
Inner eye roll as he left. He didn’t have to tell me what to do with the papers. Apparently, five steps out Yellow Feather’s front door to Tess’s mailbox was miles too far.
But I did Tess and Tops Wig Emporium one better—hand delivery. I liked Tess, even spent most of my breaks out of Mr. Winston’s earshot, chatting with her at Tops. She loved to fuss extensions or sparkly barrettes into my hair, always brewing green tea I didn’t love but drank anyway.
As I pushed open the door to the wig shop, my ears were assaulted by the deafening whirr of a drill battling persistent drywall. I peered around, but found no Tess. Only Asher Fleet, a recent Jefferson High graduate.
I barely knew Asher. We were never friends and never had any classes together. But I knew of him, especially the notable and notorious points. Everyone at Jefferson did.
“Stupid piece of shit!” Asher roared, even louder than the drill racket. Furious hands yanked the metal drill bit off the tip. He cursed again richly, then tore through a nearby box, replaced the bit, and st
arted up again. Whoa. But he still hadn’t seen me.
And I hadn’t seen him since May, when the entire school learned he’d survived a tragic car accident. Who would’ve guessed the only Jefferson student to hold a pilot’s license would suffer a life-threatening accident—not flying solo in his dad’s plane, but driving to meet a friend? All I knew of the rest of Asher’s story was him finishing out his senior year in a hospital bed. He missed prom, Disneyland Grad Night, walking at graduation. Everything.
Blessedly, the noise ceased. Asher plunked the drill on Tess’s counter and pushed two fingers into his temples. He looked different from how I remembered him. I studied his profile first, a full sweep of cheek ending in a rough, squarish jaw. But his cool-toned brown hair fell longer than ever, curling slightly above his collar. One section flopped over his forehead, partly concealing a jagged scar.
When he shifted around, I poked my head farther into the shop, eyes wide. He gazed right past me to a box of metal rivets. Huh? Fifteen feet away, and he didn’t even notice me? “Hello?” I voiced, stepping closer.
His body jerked, but his mouth remained frozen in a turned-down scowl. “Oh. Thought you were just another head.” No smile as he angled away from me.
What? I only recalled bits about Asher, but rudeness wasn’t one of them. My eyes flitted around, hummingbird-like. It was true, though; heads were everywhere. Shelves of female and male mannequin busts lined the walls. A bit creepy, like standing in the middle of a stadium. By now I was used to the hundreds of forward-fixed eyes with no bodies. Just static heads and necks topped with wigs of all colors and styles.
But here I stood, and not made of plastic. Skin and flesh and bone, a beating heart. Each of my five foot nine inches being invisible to boys was nothing new. But a mannequin? Just another head? The words, the notion stung, and I had to push it back.
Asher raked one hand through his hair. The dark scowl remained—one I imagined coming from Mr. Darcy, of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. I’d pictured the book version dozens of times. It used to be my mother’s favorite, hence my name: Darcy Jane Wells.
Language master that I was, my own word game never clicked well with guys. I’d never quite mastered the art of the perfect response, either. But books held all the experiences I needed. If Asher Fleet was going to put on his best Fitzwilliam Darcy wig, I could reach into literature myself. I had no clue what to do with a boy with prickly words and a prideful, impenetrable stare. But what would Jane Austen’s book heroine, Elizabeth Bennet, have done with him? I mentally scanned pages and donned her character, finding my next move.
I adjusted my body—spine long and lifted, eyes narrowed, straight mouth. I stomped three steps forward over his rudeness and stated, “Look. I need to get back to work, so is Tess around?”
Asher’s stance softened a bit. He recognized me; I knew it. But no way would I let him know I recognized him.
“She went out. Something about a croissant from that new bakery down the street.” Asher leaned forward on the counter, avenues of veins pushing through tanned arms.
Small victory. But heat still pooled beneath my cheeks. I dropped the envelopes near the register. “Well, you can tell her Darcy brought these by. And they’re important, so don’t forget or lose them.” I halted just before the door and faced Asher with a dignified smile—because Elizabeth Bennet was polite and classy, if nothing else. “Thank you,” I added before I launched into a dramatic pivot...
And crashed into the metal accessory rack near the entrance. Ouch! I’d definitely be sporting a nasty bruise by dinnertime, but that wasn’t the height of my mortification. No, that honor went to the decidedly non-Austen shriek I’d made when my shoulder met metal. Not to mention the scatter of displaced statement necklaces, headbands, and gauzy scarves Tess recently started carrying.
And Asher had seen everything. Oh, now he’d seen me for sure.
I couldn’t look. Didn’t turn. I couldn’t handle the disapproving twist that must’ve returned to his features.
As quickly as possible, I righted my blue sleeveless top and replaced the accessories. Then I scurried out the door.
Back at an empty Yellow Feather Books, my heart pounded. Sweat coated my palms. I rubbed my throbbing shoulder as a splotch of pink began to bloom.
My phone vibrated in my jeans pocket, but I took a few steadying breaths before I read the text. I’d hoped it was my mother, saying she’d paid the bills. But, no. And by now, didn’t I know better than to hope?
Instead, Marisol had sent one of her SOS messages, and I welcomed the distraction as I kept drawing in air.
Marisol: Help! Being held hostage by a pair of juice box addicted short people
I had to chuckle; it helped slow my heart rate. Her four-year-old twin siblings were a unified force of nature. Even as I tried to purge my exit foul from my memory, I couldn’t help being curious about Asher’s presence at Tops.
Me: Sorry! Hey, I just saw Asher Fleet from school doing handyman stuff for Tess. Random stick up his ass, too
I’d save the gory details about our encounter for tomorrow.
Marisol: Asher? Really?
Me: Truth. Wonder how he ended up working over there? Can’t ask Mr. Winston
Marisol: Duh. So ask Asher
Me: I repeat, stick. Ass
Marisol: Hold please. Back with details
I needed to put my hands somewhere, so I instinctively gravitated toward the books. Nothing calmed me more than paper and ink. As for the section, well—Asher Fleet hanging shelves at a wig shop was a strange phenomenon, and my undignified flub shot me light-years away from my comfortable world. Ergo, I dragged the lingering effects of both to the sci-fi shelves. Organizing, alphabetizing, waiting...
Ding, ding. Marisol already?
Marisol: Legal center across street
I bent around the bookshelf and looked out the big window, spying the brick building across University Avenue belonging to Mid-City Legal.
Me: What about it?
Marisol: Where Ash just started a temp. construction project. His uncle’s a lawyer there
Asher’s uncle was Michael Fleet? One of Yellow Feather’s best customers? I guessed that Tess probably knew Michael, too.
Me: You found that out in 2 mins?
Marisol: You’re funny, D. Twins being PITA gotta run
While Marisol dealt with Carlos and Camila, I moved from science fiction to the mystery section. First of all, I felt I had to honor the great Marisol Robles, proven ace detective. Secondly, I had a nagging hunch today wasn’t the last time I’d run into Asher Fleet.
Four
All My World
“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts...”
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It
The slipup was my grandmother’s fault. For two whole days, I’d managed to avoid the new apartment manager. I feigned being gone every time Thomas knocked, waiting anxiously while he peered surreptitiously through the windows until he gave up. After he left, I would scurry out my apartment door, always quick to close it into darkness. Down the railingless stairs and into my blue Honda Civic, where I could finally breathe. That was my routine until the morning Grandma properly utilized technology for the first time.
Grandma Wells owned a cell phone, but never texted. Never, never. She said it was uncivilized, declaring all meaningful conversations required voices. But this morning, her name dinged across my home screen while I was heading to school. Shocked into carelessness, I halted in my wide open doorway, reading.
Grandma Wells: Could you come to my house for dinner?
My last visit with her was both too recent and too long ago. It had been the type of visit that made me wonder whether I should go to her house for dinner.
And that’s when Thomas materialized, like he’d beamed himself from the Land of Nowhere. His pasty-faced, weasel—no, meerkat-like—form l
oomed in front of me.
“You’re Darcy Wells, right? A moment, please?” Thank God right then for my towering height, because his pupils flicked around my left side. Then my right.
I slammed the door shut behind me so hard, the frame shook. “Er, good morning,” I squeaked as the phone dinged again.
Grandma Wells: Why aren’t you answering?
Seriously? She just started texting. How was she so fast?
Bushy brows lowered, Thomas crossed his arms. “I’ve been trying to get around to all of the tenants. I can never seem to locate your mother.” Even though the door was closed, he stretched upward on clunky brown loafers, as if our tiny peephole worked both ways. “I realize it’s early, but is she home?”
Sure, she’s currently fussing over where to put the four sets of Crate and Barrel geode coasters that arrived yesterday. “She’s asleep. She works long hours. Late shift,” I said, hoping he couldn’t peep into the truth I locked inside, every day. I’d gotten way too comfortable with this part—one of a liar.
“That’s odd. Mrs. Newsome mentioned—just in passing—that your mother sells cosmetics at Macy’s.”
Of course she did. “She’s a manager and works double shifts sometimes. She also does freelance work for weddings and photoshoots. So she rests a lot when she’s home.” And orders more stuff and fiddles with things. Constantly. And forgets to pay bills.
Ding again.
Grandma Wells: Honestly, what could be taking so long? I need to speak with you. It’s important. Dinner tonight or not?
I gave Thomas my best apologetic frown. “Hold on.” I texted my grandmother a quick yes before facing the meerkat manager again. “I need to get to school, so—”
“I’d like your mother to be aware of some of the changes we’re planning.” Thomas impatiently tapped one foot on the landing.
“And we’re so pleased,” I told him, trying to sound convincing. “How about this—I’ll tell her to pop over to your unit as soon as possible.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 3
