Well, based on the impromptu a cappella sing-off I’d heard earlier, that was probably accurate.
“But I’m looking for something...unique.” Her eyes bounced from person to person. And what happened next, happened inside my body first. I knew before anyone else, feeling it rise the way animals sense earthquakes and storms.
It was too late to run, and there was nowhere to hide as Bryn crossed the sand, stopping in front of my blanket.
“Miss Darcy Wells has the most special of talents.”
Helpless, I glanced at Marisol. She’d straightened up, her defiant chin poking out, smacking Bryn with a simmering glare that rivaled the heat of the bonfire.
Bryn ignored it and continued, “Darcy’s a bona fide human dictionary.”
Oh God. This was like being in the wig shop, but so much worse, because the eyes on me were real. The heads turning toward me were attached to bodies I had to go to school with on Monday. Then the comments started.
“Man, it’s true, though. AP English test curve ruiner.”
“Every time.”
“Supersize brain.”
Giggles. Snorts.
Bryn crossed her arms into a giant pretzel. “I’m betting Darcy here can stump any one of you. And I want to see her do it.”
“I...” was all I pushed out.
The night wind snaked through the fire, flames bending and twisting, barreling over the hot coals of my cheeks. Was Bryn using me for cheap attention?
I gladly helped classmates analyze poetry or tricky literature themes. Group partners always chose me for AP English assignments. But all of that work was more private, and infinitely more comfortable. It was on my terms. Tonight, I was a party trick. A word freak.
“Oh, that Nutcracker ninny is gonna pay for this,” Marisol whispered behind a grin as fake as Tess’s hair.
“Darcy usually finds the weird words, and I never get them. But tonight, we’re—” Bryn executed a sand pirouette “—turning it around. I did my tricks, and now it’s Darcy’s turn to do hers.” She pulled out her phone, brandishing it high. “Time for some brain ballet.”
I shrugged, my eyes cast low. “Fine.”
Marisol leaned close. “Breathe, D. You got this.”
“Who’s found some good ones?” Bryn asked.
Bryn’s circle of friends glanced at Google and dictionary apps, whispering to one another. But no one spoke. No one wanted the challenge?
Bryn threw one arm up. “Come on. They’re just words! Can Wells beat Webster?” She giggled at her own antics.
Nothing but the harsh slap of the tide, the roll of waves and white foam as seconds ticked. Until...
“I have some words.”
Bryn clapped her hands as I turned to the source. London Banks sprang up, waving her phone, flashing a satisfied grin. Of course. Bryn had offered a girl who always sought out stages a spotlight of firelight. She couldn’t resist.
Asher shook his head, a hint of what looked like annoyance flashing across his face.
“I don’t like this one bit,” Marisol hissed into my ear.
London stepped off the blanket and squared her shoulders, front and center. “The first word is couthy.”
“It means cozy or comfortable,” I said immediately, but more to the sand than the crowd. I knew they were staring at me, and I’d never wanted to be more invisible.
“Speak up! We can’t hear you,” London called.
I glared at her, and caught Asher rolling his eyes before he trained them away toward the water. “Cozy or comfortable,” I repeated with more force.
London nodded appreciatively. “She’s right.”
“Ha!” Bryn yelled. “Told ya she can’t be beat.”
I was rewarded with a few stray claps, but still felt ridiculous. A puppet on display.
“Maybe a lucky guess,” London added. She scrolled her phone screen. “Try the word draff.”
“Trash or refuse.”
“Deedy.”
“Industrious,” I said.
“Edacious.”
“Having to do with eating.”
“Try eremite.”
At this word, my head went entirely weightless, even as my body steeled like a pylon driven into the ground. Eremite. Since kindergarten, I’d heard that words have power. Sure, they wielded a different kind of power than guns or knives, but just one word could build or destroy. It could trick and wound and shame.
Tonight, this one did all three.
Eremite: Hermit. It was a rarely used term associated with scholars who worked in seclusion, or church workers under strict vows.
London had found a word I could easily define. But in doing so, I’d have to define myself out loud to everyone. Darcy Jane Wells: Alone. Recluse.
Any way you worded it, I was an almost eighteen-year-old who’d never had a date pick her up at her house or kiss her on a dance floor. A girl who’d never sat at a bonfire, curled under the arm of a boy who smelled of wood smoke and flannel. A girl who’d never had a sleepover birthday party.
No one could know why I’d waved an invisibility wand over my own body, my own heart. For years, I’d hidden my mess carefully from everyone but Marisol, keeping quiet, sticking to the shadows. I rooted for love in stories. I filled empty, invisible arms with storybook kisses and the happily-ever-afters authors gave to other heroines.
At night, I folded my truth between the pages. It was safe there. But speaking it was different. Speaking it made it real. It made it hurt.
“Darcy, do you know what on stupid Earth eremite means?” Marisol whispered.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Shut her down, then.”
“We’re waiting,” Bryn sing-songed, tapping her forearm. “Or do you admit defeat to London?”
The crowd grew restless. Shifting. I caught a few eye rolls and shoulder bumps, and more than a few bored faces.
“I...um.” Could the sand please swallow me whole?
A male voice called out, “Hey, doesn’t that word have to do with monks or something?” It was Todd Blackthorn, senior class president. That broke the boredom. The crowd laughed, though a few curious eyes remained on me.
“London, why you picking monk words?” said another guy.
More laughs. More of my insides churning.
London shrugged and flashed a demure smile before reclining again, leaning against Asher.
Just like one word, one singular moment could hold unspeakable power, too. And the next one did. Bryn’s seagull-rivaling shriek hijacked her own game. Actually, Jase Donnelly and Derek Humboldt had hijacked it, sneaking up behind Bryn and hoisting her lithe form like a trophy.
“Sorry, but your games are over, Bryn,” Jase said, arms tight around her shins. “We have a better idea for a show. It’s called Bryn-Bryn takes a dip in the drink.”
“Ugh!” She bucked and kicked. “You guys are gonna—”
“Don’t worry, little sis.” Derek backed toward the waves. “I brought plenty of towels. And we won’t let you drown.”
Suddenly, the bonfire and word games at my expense weren’t half as interesting as two friends dragging a screeching ballerina into the Pacific, even if it was only for a token splash. The crowd, including London, scattered, most skipping toward the shoreline. A few brave souls abandoned their sweatshirts, rushing into the freezing water.
Others remained, preferring to lounge by the flames and drink cheap wine. Marisol and I were two of the nonswimmers. She leveled a weighty look at me and tucked the last five minutes into a simple, “Wow.”
“You can say that again.”
My friend thrust the sandy plastic bottle into my grasp. “Go on. After that last bit of what-the-hell, you deserve a couple sips.”
I wasn’t a big drinker, but I couldn’t argue with Marisol’s logic. Not after a day of eBay schemes and pilfered lipsticks. Not after a night where I’d had to curl my toes around the edge of a towering sea cliff, an ocean of my secrets below.
So I raised the bottle to toast a c
ast-iron sky, spying the shadowed form of Asher Fleet. He stood alone on the hard-packed sand, halfway between fire and water.
Eight
Ink
“This ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.”
—J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
“Excuse me? Miss?”
I jolted, still sleepy after my late night at the bonfire. A middle-aged white woman was standing in front of Yellow Feather’s cashier counter. Thanks to my mental sojourn into learning the eBay platform, plus devising a plan to best sneak the makeup from tub to auction, I’d missed the dinging doorbell.
“Sorry,” I said, smacking my laptop screen closed. “Can I help you?”
The brunette pushed her glasses up and a paperback book forward. Peter Pan, by J. M. Barrie. “I need to return this. It’s unreadable.”
Unreadable? Peter Pan was a literary classic, and I’d read it countless times. I grabbed the copy and examined it—the cover was worn to faded emerald green, marred with scratches, and the front featured a silhouette of the main character, midflight, a cheeky feather in his cap. She must’ve found it in our used books section.
“Can I help you find a different book?” I asked.
The customer pulled the receipt from her purse. “It’s not that. My daughter needs Peter Pan for her children’s literature course at State. I was happy to find this one last week at a discount. But the previous owner ruined it, and it’s too distracting for my daughter to read properly.” She opened the book to a random page. “See for yourself.”
I did, and gasped as I looked closer. Many of the hundred and fifty pages of text—so, so many—were swarming with blue and black ink. Passages circled or underlined. Corners dog-eared. Someone had penned countless notes and exclamation points and even hearts between lines, scenes, and paragraphs. Margins held lists, trailing from the tops of pages, down to footnote white space. Huge blocks of commentary and scribbled text flooded the story. I’d never seen anything like it.
I flipped pages, my eyes sticking to what looked like an original poem scrawled into the blank space after the Chapter Five break.
First, a daring leap into my scowling mouth,
bounding over a white-toothed fence,
tunneling down, down, down my throat.
He was in.
Proud of himself as he swung from vein to vein,
swimming through blood and life. Both, mine.
Until he felt it time to scale the bony rungs of my ribs,
slipping between to grasp the center thing that bucked and beat.
My heart.
The haunting poem snagged my own heart, like a sweater unraveling on a nail. Who had written this and all the rest? Why inside this particular book, which was technically a children’s novel? I thumbed past a few more pages. More poems, more comments. More upon more.
“Miss?”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Well, that was me. Lost in print again. But this was different, like a new story within one of the greatest tales ever written. I wanted to read it all. “Instead of a refund, I have another idea.” I left the counter for the classics section Mr. Winston housed in rows of antique mahogany shelving. I shoved my hand into the B area, peeled off the price sticker, and handed the customer a new copy of Peter Pan.
She smiled. “This is why I shop here. You can’t get this level of customer service from those big online retailers.”
Customer service? Had she met my boss? I returned the smile and told her, “No problem. You’re all set. Have a nice day.”
When she left, I held the used Peter Pan and the barcode sticker. I’d made things right for the customer, but now I had to do the same for Yellow Feather. I rang up the new book, punched in my measly employee discount, then counted out bills from my wallet. I watched every single dollar my mother didn’t, but even if I had to skip my weekly iced caramel latte, this book was mine. I could spend hours with these secret thoughts.
Mr. Winston’s loafers slapped the floor behind me. I quickly dropped Peter Pan into my tote as he stacked catalogs on the storage shelf. “Thought I heard a customer.”
“She just left.” I headed toward the used books section, my favorite corner of the shop. L-shaped and tucked into the back, it made for a perfect hiding spot. Preowned titles rested on five vintage turquoise book carts. This cozy nook smelled like people’s living rooms and leather messenger bags. Rose water and cigarette smoke. Potpourri and vacation sunscreen and binding glue, with a hint of wool and mildew. I preferred it to any of the Elisa B. perfumes my mother brought home.
“Well, did she buy anything?” My boss leaned across the counter, grimacing. Like it was my fault if she hadn’t.
“Just browsing.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. She’d browsed the counter. My laptop. My blunt fingernails Marisol glossed in pale pink the other day.
“Hmmph.”
I had to know. I rested my hand on one of the metal carts. “Do you keep records of the people you buy these used books from?” Maybe I could find the mysterious poet and scribbler. At least I’d know if it was a man or a woman.
Mr. Winston looked at me like I had a flower growing out of my head. “Never have. No reason to. You know that. I just take them by the box and quote a price for the whole load or offer store credit. Then price out each one for resale.” Another you know that, too look.
“You check them out, though, before you purchase? To make sure they’re sellable?”
His ashen face scrunched, his dry, yellowy mustache looking like it could shrivel up and fall off at any moment. “’Course I do. Why?”
“Just curious. No reason.” Every reason. My new-old book should not have made it onto the shelves at Yellow Feather in that condition.
Mr. Winston reached the front door, keys jingling. “I need to run home. You can unbox and display that new shipment of bookmarks and those literary trinkets you’re always making me order. I left it all in the back,” he added before the door dinged shut.
It hit me as I walked to the storage bay: books could travel. A box of novels donated to charity could end up in ten different homes. Then shared, or kept in a library, or donated yet again. Or sold to an independent bookstore like Yellow Feather. That meant the author who’d written inside Peter Pan might not even be from around here. Maybe I’d find clues as I read the cryptic scratches, but now, one thought prickled across my skin: I should never have seen this book. It was even sold and still found its way back here. Not back to Mr. Winston while I was home or at school—back to me.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was simply meant to be mine.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I was convinced either Yellow Feather needed a new doorbell, or I needed new ears. I returned to the shop floor, arms full of new merchandise, which I quite inelegantly dropped onto the cashier desk when I saw Asher. Shallow gasp, too.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “I was just poking around and found this.” He raised a preowned copy of a popular Stephen King novel.
My voice wasn’t functioning yet. I just nodded and surveyed the situation. Asher had not only poked around, he was currently reclining—loitering, hanging out—in one of the burgundy wingback chairs, and oh no, he had both feet propped on Mr. Winston’s prized travel trunk. Recipe for an instant blowup if my boss chose this moment to storm through the front door.
It got worse as I approached. A blue hoodie hung lopsided across the other chair, aviator sunglasses tossed on top of stacked travel magazines. And... Starbucks cup. In a flash, I grabbed one of our cork coasters and placed it under Asher’s drink.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “The owner’s a little uptight about his furniture.”
Asher’s feet hit the floor with a smack. “Gotcha. I came in last week to buy my mom a gift, and Mr. Winston helped me. He did seem a little...uptight. Knowledgeable guy, though.”
Right. Yes. My head bobbed aimlessly while I tried to think around Asher being here, and me being here, the mo
rning after Bryn’s party.
“I mean, knowledgeable if you’re after a coffee table book about pop art.” He smiled—so warmly it tugged his entire face like marionette string, loosening his square jaw, springing his cheeks wide under brown tourmaline eyes.
I wrung my hands together. After plenty of practice, I knew what to do with his scowls, but felt clueless about his smile. While pleasant, I couldn’t shake the fact that just last night, his girlfriend shoved me into my version of an introvert’s nightmare in front of the better part of the senior class.
“No wigs required for employees in this half of the building?”
Tess’s blue monstrosity. He remembered. I wanted to look anywhere but at him, trade his face for book pages, but that would be rude. “I spend my breaks next door, and Tess doesn’t have any daughters...so...” More hand clenching. “She likes to feed me gourmet tea blends and play dress-up.”
Asher tipped his chin at me, then toward the street. “Speaking of breaks, I think I found the perfect place to spend mine.” He scooted back into the velvet chair. “This might be North Park’s best-kept secret. Quiet, peaceful, old-world cool, comfortable chairs, and...” His gaze circled the room, ending with a fleeting grin.
And what? So many unwanted questions lined up behind me. Breaks? As in plural? He was planning on coming back to sprawl himself and his faded T-shirts that probably smelled like dryer sheets and sunlight, and his perfectly cut jeans, and black Converse all over the vintage furniture?
“You look weirded out. Does Mr. Winston frown upon people actually enjoying his fine establishment?”
“Err, no.” Yes.
Asher rose and held up the book. “You have a good used section over there.” He glanced at a page, then shut the cover. “Mental bookmark for my next break,” he explained with a shrug. “Maybe I’ll finish before someone else buys it. I got through five chapters before you came out.”
This startled me back into complete sentences. “What do you mean, five chapters? I was in the back for maybe twenty minutes.”
“I’m a trained speed-reader.”
I nearly lost my footing. He might as well have said he was a puppy murderer or a chronic library book nonreturner.
The Library of Lost Things Page 7
