The Library of Lost Things

by Laura Taylor Namey

  “Good idea.” I shimmied recklessly past the Keep Out. Yes, That Means You sign and up toward bladder freedom.

  Freedom found—along with some cute ideas for bathroom decor—I bolted back out into the hall with the kind of thoughtless movement people make when they expect an empty space and no company. But I was wrong. There was company—the female kind—and I smacked right into her with an, “Unf. Sorry.”

  My bowed head crept upward from platform heels and bare legs to black knitwear that hung an inch too long for a sweater but a few too short for a dress. She’d gone with dress anyway. Lifting more, I saw the red curled strands that shoved my next breath down into all the wrong places.

  “Darcy,” London said, not smiling, but not frowning, either. “I was hoping to run into you.”

  I’d prayed the opposite, but still said, “Okay.”

  “FYI, Asher and I are cool.” She tipped her beer at me. “So don’t think you’re stepping on my toes or anything.”

  I blew out every scrap of awkward I could fit into one exhale. Didn’t even make a dent. “We’re just hanging out.” For now, this was true. “And I promise, I didn’t do anything to get in the middle of you two.”

  She raised her chin. “You didn’t have to. You being yourself was enough.”

  My mouth dropped.

  “I’m not stupid,” she said mildly. “Asher didn’t show up to closing night because of me. I know what he does and doesn’t do after a migraine day.”

  “London, he—”

  “I saw you guys at the cast party, okay? On the swings.” She motioned toward Jase’s sister’s room.

  Oh God, oh God. I fought to steady my face. Through the partially opened door, I spotted Maren Donnelly, Bryn, and a couple of other girls lounging around.

  “I watched the whole show from Maren’s window. The way he was looking at you—wow. In two years, Asher never looked at me like that. So when he came to me later with his little spiel, I was already done.”

  I closed my eyes. This could still go either way. “I don’t know what to say.”

  London smirked. “That’s cool, but here’s the thing. Even though I was halfway to boredom with him since the summer, you have to understand my natural sense of curiosity.”

  “Okay,” I repeated slowly, because it seemed best.

  She stepped forward. “I’ve been at Jefferson for four years. But until this fall, you barely made a blip on my radar as anything more than some reclusive brainiac.”

  The barb stung, but I supposed that was what years of playing invisible had gotten me.

  “But then, you fill in for Alyssa and totally nail Beatrice to, like, spiritual levels. Props.” She toasted me, then sipped. “And then the swings happened, and you can’t blame me for wanting to know where my past was heading, if you get my drift.”

  Drift gotten, I just nodded.

  “So I tried to find out,” London said. “See, I’m the type of girl who knows everything, down to what soap brand people prefer. But when I asked around about you, I got the same answer—nothing. The only person who’s even been to your house is Marisol.” There was a pause, then she leaned close. “Either you’re cleaner than Bryn’s lavender SoftSoap, or you’re hiding something filthy, my friend. But I’m done caring now. Enjoy your prize.” She smiled, a little menacingly, then fled into Maren’s room.

  The door slammed. I slumped against the wall, pulse on fire, wishing I could shove all of London’s revelations and accusations into the room along with her red lips and velvet heels.

  “Darcy?” Asher said from behind.

  I turned on a quickened breath. “Long line. I—”

  “I know. I ran into Alyssa.” He laid warm hands on my forearms. “Listen, my head’s starting up. Not a migraine, but I got a couple dizzy flashes. I’m okay to drive, but I should bolt.” He eyed me carefully. “You okay?”

  I wanted to tell him about London, but with his head bugging and those dizzy spells spoiling his return to flight yet again, it could definitely wait. “I’m fine. Let’s go downstairs.” And far away.

  He grabbed my hand, but as we moved through the end of the hallway, two figures tumbled into the loft at the top of the staircase, giggling. I caught enough turquoise floral print to know it belonged to a minidress attached to one Marisol Robles. Who was attached to some guy.

  Asher and I glanced furtively at one another before peeking around the wall. The couple landed on a stuffed chair in the corner of the loft, arms and lips and legs entwined into some new polygon math didn’t know about yet.

  I spoke into his ear. “But that’s...”

  “I know,” Asher whispered as we swept past the oblivious pair to the first floor.

  “But she’s with...”

  “I know.”

  Marisol Robles and Jase Donnelly.

  We stopped by the front door. “I need a minute to process that.”

  Asher laughed. I looked. Our eyes locked. My red, hot cheeks played traitor to my imagination. Was he picturing another couple and a list of possibilities?

  He tucked his mouth into one corner, brows hiked, and I would’ve bet my books he was.

  “Um,” I said. The silver charm scored a fiery brand into my chest.

  “Right.” A forever pause, then, “I think your ride home is gonna be occupied for a while. I’ll take you, if you don’t mind bailing early?”

  I cast one last look through Jase’s house. “I’ve had plenty of party,” I said, and followed him out to the black Ford.

  After helping me in, Asher shut his door. “Shocked? Awed?”

  I breathed out a laugh. Marisol and Jase? The Jarisol mash-up was real. “Aren’t you? I did not see that coming.”

  “I did.”

  My head whipped around.

  “She’s been on Jase’s scope for a while. But last summer it was Bryn, and then he was a chickenshit. And now...” He drummed his hands over the steering wheel before calling the engine to life. “Apparently they went for it.” He smiled and pulled away from the curb. “No doubt she’ll fill you in.”

  No doubt, and soon. I buckled my seat belt, remembering the night Asher drove me home after our airport party. How the webbed strap of fabric across my chest had teased London’s perfume. Her candy-sweet scent had faded now, but I couldn’t shake the cloud of London’s words.

  I’d been trying to be a better Darcy to myself. Growing into a visible girl, who wanted a boy who was so much more than a prize. I tried to tell myself the good words, declaring the true ones. My name is Darcy Wells, and I’m wearing a promise around my neck that’s all mine to make real.

  But London wasn’t wrong about what she’d said back at Jase’s house. Hiding. Reclusive. Blip. Filthy.

  These four were also mine.

  In my little black purse, I had no books that could swallow those ugly syllables into smallness. From two blocks away, my bedroom library called with old remedies, but my stomach clenched as Asher turned onto Hoover Avenue. “There.” I pointed to the large curbside parking space far enough, but not too far away from my building. “This is good.”

  “Okay.” Asher stretched the word and pulled in.

  I undid my seat belt and rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sorry about your head. Sleep it off, yeah?” I wedged open the door, my body angling to be gone.

  “Darcy.” He cut the engine.

  “Call me tomorrow. And thank you.”

  “For chrissake.” Healing knee or not, Asher moved with furious speed from the driver’s side to the sidewalk. “What’s going on? I’ll walk you up.”

  “It’s fine. Your head.”

  His entire body tensed, hardening into a shape I’d never seen before. “Not my style, no matter how shitty I’m feeling. I don’t drop girls I’m dating on the street with a ‘see ya later, babe.’”

  I exhaled, then conceded after a long pause. “I know you don’t.” And it’s what I wanted. A guy who didn’t honk or text for me to come down. But that meant...

 
“You know, there’s been this common denominator each time we’ve hung out. You met me at the coffee place or for tacos or Asian bowls. Marisol took you to Jase’s tonight. I didn’t pick you up. You didn’t want me to.”

  “I’m trying, I promise.”

  “I know. God, I know, Darcy. But you’re sidestepping me.”

  My eyes snapped wide.

  “The work your place needs.” He turned, scrubbing his chin. “If I thought for a second that you really wanted to take up home improvement as a hobby, I’d bring over my whole tool kit and get you started. Cheer you on. But you only want to do the work so I won’t have to. So I won’t have to see the space.”

  I studied the clumped grass of the parking strip, browning with drought. The oxidized metal of the streetlamp pole on the corner of Hoover and Anderson. And knew he was right. But the mess that made my home had never felt bigger. Filthier.

  “You won’t even let me stand in front of your apartment on the off chance that I might catch a glimpse inside.”

  Tears pooled, trapped in the corners of my vision. “My mom could be home or pulling in, and she doesn’t know anything yet. The questions...”

  “I know I’m pushing the issue. My head’s in a vise grip, and I’m not as level as I should be. But I can’t do pretense anymore. I don’t have the energy or health for it.” He pressed three fingers into his forehead. “My whole deal with London was all flash—at least on her part. What looked good, being seen at trendy joints, dressed out like the perfect couple. A sham.” He gestured toward my building. “I need simple. Straightforward. After the alley, I thought we were moving toward something real, slow or not.” He swallowed forcefully. “I thought you put that acorn on a chain because you eventually wanted what it stands for, too.”

  Goddammit, I had real thoughts for him. Powerful words that could explain where the fear and shame really fell. I tried to shake them loose from my head. “I do. I really do,” is all I managed. Worthless.

  “I believe you. But I don’t want to start anything on half-truths.”

  Half-truths: lies wearing wigs and makeup, dressed up pretty in borrowed leather.

  “I don’t care if the entire Fashion Valley Macy’s is in your living room.” Asher leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you know? You’ve got me, Wells. But what stings isn’t you not being ready to show me your house or let me meet your mom. That’s up to you.” His head bent low. “It’s that you’re keeping me out but pretending you’re not. And that really...”

  Oh, his face. Where I thought all the light, all the stars had brushed his smile, beamed the silvery glint into his eyes, I found nothing but a flyboy missing another kind of shadow. Tonight, I was the thief, not a car accident. I had taken this one. So many times, I’d read about hurt, but now it stood at my feet with a heartbeat.

  I reached out, but he stood back, paled and hollow. He shook his head, then rubbed his temples. “I’m not rushing you or pressuring you, and I never will. Deal with your mom and cope on your terms. You need me to cover for you? I’m down. But all I ask—the next time you have to put up a wall, just let me be on your side of the bricks.” Another step toward his truck. “Think about it. Take some time. Be sure about me.”

  “Asher.”

  “Be sure about you, too.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Heart-Shaped Heart

  “...”

  —Darcy Jane Wells

  Elisa B. Raspberry Rose Lipstick, item number 8898, was what Marisol referred to as a chameleon cosmetic. The slightly iridescent tone was just pink enough not to be called red, and red enough not to be called pink. The first time I saw the limited-edition shade, I thought if a kiss could be any color in the world, it would be Elisa B. Raspberry Rose.

  Coming home from Jase’s party with a sore heart and Asher’s charm still around my neck, I shouldn’t have been surprised when a kiss foiled me once again. This time it wasn’t a Jefferson High stage, but a hoarder’s apartment. When I’d shut the front door behind me, my mom said nothing about my puffy eyes and tearstained cheeks. I got only a quick greeting before she returned to her task. The scene around her fell over me like one of the poems in my new-old Peter Pan:

  After Asher

  A mother on the floor, counting.

  The makeup tub I’d gone through with Marisol.

  Nine tubes of Raspberry Rose

  dressed in their pink-gold boxes.

  A simple question.

  The truth.

  So easy to answer the question I knew was coming with, Yeah, you’re right, Mom. You did give me one of your ten tubes of Raspberry Rose and forgot.

  Only minutes old, the memory of Asher walking away still pulled like no story ever had. I’d told myself I wanted what was real, but Asher was right: I was still clinging to half-truths with him, like the ones I’d made years ago to protect my family and home. I’d practiced them until they felt so close to real truth, I forgot the difference.

  I wasn’t only doing it with Asher, either. I hung on to lies with my mother, all my make-believe festering inside. It rotted soul-deep and would only spread and consume if I didn’t stop. And stop, now. Right now. Tonight, it was time for my own The End.

  I pinched my eyelids closed. “Mom. I need to tell you something.”

  She glanced from side to side, hand gripping the top of her tub. “Look, I just had to—”

  “Not that.” Not the hoarding. Not the array of rose gold Elisa B. packages in front of her. “More like, I have to show you something.”

  The room suddenly felt like we’d set the thermostat too high. My pulse raced as I logged into eBay on my laptop and pulled up my listings page. “I’ve been selling Elisa B., just like you do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Read the titles.”

  She cased the screen. “English Wisteria Lipstick, Duo-Base Concealer, Peony Passion Blush.” Mom’s lip quivered. “Where? Where did you get these?”

  “I’m living in them. Swimming in them. We both are.”

  “Peony Passion...” She attacked the dining nook, tearing into the rest of the plastic tubs, lids flying.

  “Mom!” I hurried to her side.

  She knelt, pulling out product after product. “You took them? Why?”

  “I had to! I need to pay bills, too. Grandma has been helping me with money for years, but she stopped when I turned eighteen.”

  The words smacked against her. “But you have a job.”

  I shook my arms: Look at me! See me! Hear me! Couldn’t she see outside of herself for once? “It’s not enough! And I can’t go to school and get all my work done plus work enough hours to make it be enough right now. That’s why Grandma helped and never told you. You would’ve spent my extra money, too. You would’ve shopped it all away.”

  “Darcy.” Hands crossed over her heart.

  “My bookstore check doesn’t cover my car insurance and cell phone. And what about the ninety-nine times out of a hundred that I have to buy groceries instead of you? What about clothes that actually fit me?” I picked up a random folded sweatshirt, waved it high. “We even have boxes of ridiculous stuff that wouldn’t fit Marisol’s little sister.”

  The mass of ugly black truth I’d exposed wanted somewhere to go. I didn’t know how, but even this maxed-out den found space to absorb it. The light eclipsed, dull and watery gray. My mother absorbed it, too, shaking her head, trapped in steady motion. Her mouth formed word after word that never came out.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” My voice thinned, and I turned toward my bedroom. Only a fraction of my books showed through the doorway. So many. I did more than read novels and then pass them on or donate them. I used books. I had to keep them and read them, over and over. Other people who didn’t understand might call my collection an obsession. Maybe a compulsion. Some might even call it...a hoard?

  Oh...oh.

  I grabbed this thought before it doubled, shelving it with all the other volumes for now. But when I faced
my mom again, the whole room looked different. Through all the clutter, I finally saw her. “I don’t understand why you have to shop so much. But now I really get that something inside you knows why you need to.”

  My mom froze, then let out a single, heated breath.

  “And if you need to keep buying, you go ahead,” I added. “But there is so much money sitting in these tubs. And for now, I have to keep selling to replace Grandma’s checks. Just what I need to cover bills and groceries. No more. So I can keep living here with you.”

  Control. She needs to feel some sense of control, the doctor said.

  I owed her this. “I’ll tell you exactly what I post. No surprises. I’ll write down every item for you so you don’t have to check.” Dashing away tears, I grabbed a notepad and listed the three products currently on eBay auction.

  She took my offering with an unsteady grasp. “The money you need—yes. I do understand. I want you to stay, baby. So much.” She shook the notepad. “But can just keeping this list...be enough?”

  We had to try. For both of us.

  Word of the Day: Enough.

  I stepped away, facing our galaxy of things—my eyes pinned to boxes and tubs, to makeup, plates, and pillows. I pictured Anne of Green Gables and Great Expectations and a thousand other stories walling my room. I ran through years of lies and pretending.

  Enough, I thought, and knew all that simple word could really mean.

  * * *

  “Wait, wait,” Marisol said from the opposite end of the table. She set down her portfolio.

  I lifted my foot from the sewing machine pedal and looked up at her.

  “Plant your guide hand a little more firmly. Pull more. No slack in the fabric.”

  I tried again. The machine whirred, the needle tapping stiches into cotton. Three days had passed since Jase’s party. That next morning, Marisol had opened her door, and I’d all but fallen in. Cross-legged on her studio floor, I’d told her everything about my confrontation with Asher. Then I spilled about eBay and my mother after she prodded Natalia to bring up steaming bowls of sopa de tortilla, topped with avocado and crunchy tortilla strips.