“I think Garrett already got yours,” says the other student.
“Probably not,” I reply, and repeat, handing them a twenty-dollar bill out of my back pocket, “Two, please.”
They exchange a look, but then the president shrugs and accepts my cash, and hands me two golden tickets. They have roses on them. Of course they do. The theme for this year’s Homecoming is “Garden of Memories.”
Then why do I feel like I already want to forget the whole thing?
* * *
—
SO, I TAKE IT BACK—there is at least one thing more embarrassing than a ten-foot-tall poster of Garrett Taylor and realizing that you wake up to the smoldering looks of one Vance Reigns every morning combined: it’s going to a boy’s house after realizing that you might have a very small, unsubstantial, incredibly overcomable, crush on him.
The boy in question is sitting at the counter, eating an apple, when I let myself in and dump my bookbag in the corner of the kitchen. He looks up from another Starfield novel I recommended to him this past weekend, since he didn’t want to read any more in The Starless Throne without me.
“So I see you decided to read it,” I say, trying not to think about how incredibly hot he looks reading. He really should do it more often.
“Mmh, yeah, but I can’t really get into this one,” he replies, and takes another bite of apple.
“Really? Don’t like the political intrigue of the Noxian Court?” I slide up onto the stool beside him. “And the ball. I love the ball. Magic spells. Daring sword fights. A prince in disguise.”
“I definitely figured him out in chapter three,” he replies, amused, and puts a bookmark in before he closes the book. “Everything okay, Thorne?”
I sigh, sort of hating how he can see right through me. “Have you seen my phone? I thought I left it in my car, but apparently not.”
“You lost your phone?”
“Don’t act so surprised. It’s old! It’s better as a paperweight, so I just don’t really use it unless I have to.”
He cocks his head. “Huh, so that’s why you never asked for my number.”
“What?”
Instead he says, “Maybe someone at school will turn it in.”
“Maybe,” I mutter, stealing a slice of apple as I make my way to the library. He grabs the plate with apple slices and follows me. “At least it’s password protected.” That I say more to myself than to him, because I still have that video on my phone—from when I first broke into the house and found Vance. I don’t want to think about how he’ll react. I’ll find my phone. I probably just lost it at school.
There’s no need to worry.
It was probably fate telling me to not text him, anyway.
I was hoping the library would ease my mind, but I still feel anxious. My heart hammers every time I catch a glance of Vance on the other side of the room, reaching for a book or flipping through another.
It’s driving me crazy.
I shouldn’t feel this weird in a place that has become my sanctuary. Am I standing properly? Is my hair doing that weird cowlick thing? Do I have anything on my face? Why does it matter?
Because, in the golden afternoon, he looks so perfect, illuminating his hair in a halo of platinum. He walks through the folds of sunlight and comes to a stop in the shadows, his cornflower eyes brilliantly bright, almost glowing. He puts his hands into his pockets and tilts his head just enough.
Just enough for a piece of hair to come undone behind his ear.
Just enough for his perfectly symmetrical countenance to shift to something quite different, almost endearing.
Just enough for my heart to thump wildly in my chest, like a jackrabbit.
I don’t understand.
“Is that all?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie, turning away from him to boot up the iPad. There aren’t many books left to shelve. The boxes have all but disappeared, stacked empty in corners, the library filling slowly to full, like a soul waking up from a long sleep. I try to busy myself with the next set of books, the last of the cardboard boxes. When it’s done, so will be my job.
I won’t have to come here any longer after that.
Why does it make my chest hurt?
“I mean, why would you think otherwise?” I ask, my back turned to him. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? We’re almost done with cataloging and all of these books have taken forever to file, you know? But I loved seeing all of the original covers for the Starfield collection and—” I turn around and find him right there, so close I have to stop myself from running into him.
He gently presses the spine of the book he’s reading against my lips. “You’re babbling, Thorne.”
We’re so close I can feel the heat from his skin, and smell the soap from his hair, and laundry detergent—the latter of which I’m extremely happy about. At least he isn’t wearing the same clothes for a week straight anymore.
And I can’t remember when he stopped. Or when he began washing his hair again. Or when he started coming in to keep me company while I worked. Was it just in the last week? Or longer?
It seemed so natural at the time, I hadn’t thought anything of it.
But now, with him so close, reminding me that I babble when I’m nervous, I start to wonder—at what point did he realize I babble when I’m nervous? When did I tell him? Did I ever? Sometime in the last few weeks, he started paying attention.
I’ve already read about romance. About what it feels like to fall in love. I had always thought I would linger on his eyelashes or his soft cornflower eyes or his smooth pale skin, his halo of golden hair, but—
All of the books are wrong.
It misses the space between. The strange, thick air that fills with electricity as Vance leans closer. My skin tingles as he swipes a piece of hair behind my ear, his fingertips brushing against my cheek, and my breath catches in my throat. In all the books I’ve read, the author always described the physicality—the heat of their skin and the freckle on the left side of their lip and the way their eyebrows bunch together as they lean in, slowly, questioningly—but never the soft feeling of…just being.
Where I feel safe.
Where I don’t have to be anyone amazing, where I don’t have to fit into some stupid mold, where I’m not the girl with the dead mom, or the girl with the hot dad, or the girl who was asked to Homecoming by the most popular boy in school.
It’s just a space, small and warm, that fits for Rosie Thorne.
This is unimaginable.
My heart jumps like the Prospero into hyperspace because I want to—because I need to—
“Amara up,” I whisper.
“Wha—” he begins to ask, but the moment he opens his mouth I take his face in my hands and pull his lips down to mine and kiss him. He makes a surprised noise against my mouth, tense and rigid. I quickly realize I have no idea what I’m doing, and let go of him.
My face turns ten shades of red. He stares at me, eyes wide, still bent toward me like a tree in a hurricane.
“I—I—I am so sorry.” I fumble, beginning to pull away, but his fingers snag into my jeans pocket to stop me. My stomach flips. I don’t know if it’s from butterflies, or if I’m about to be sick. “I—I’ve never kissed anyone before. It was bad, wasn’t it? It was so bad, and you’ve kissed so many people, and God I am so mortified and—”
“Gentler, Thorne,” he says tenderly, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and he presses his soft mouth against mine.
My heart kicks against my rib cage like a wild horse. My back presses against the bookcase, the spines of Starfield novels flat against me, stories of Sond and Carmindor and Amara, and I forget about all of them. His teeth graze my lips, nibbling, toying. I don’t know what to do with my hands—they migrate from his chest to his neck to the sides of his face, an
d then curling deep into his platinum hair. His one hand stays in the pocket of my jeans, the other curling around the back of my waist, anchoring me, his thumb slipping between the hem of my shirt and the edge of my jeans, brushing against my skin so lightly that goose bumps ripple up my body.
His mouth migrates down my neck, and he plants a kiss where I know my birthmark is, lovingly, tenderly, and I shiver.
* * *
—
“YOU NEED TO ASK VANCE to go with you to Homecoming. I mean, imagine! You! Homecoming with the Vance Reigns! With General Sond! And your father’s going to be there as a chaperone!” Annie presses her hands together in a prayer and sighs. “Blessed be to the gods of hot people everywhere, we will have truly been graced with an abundance of hotness this Homecoming season if it comes to pass.”
“You need an intervention.” I shake my head, searching through the racks of Goodwill dresses for something that isn’t stained or thirty years old. I don’t have the money to buy a new Homecoming dress—since I stopped working at the grocery store, I’ve barely had any money to spare. I take out a sparkly green dress and hold it up to me. Green really isn’t my color. I frown, putting it back.
“And besides,” I add, “I don’t know if he’ll even say yes, yet.”
“If he says no, he’s stupid—also, we’ll be your date,” Annie replies, and fist-bumps Quinn.
“If I knew anyone with a sewing machine, I would say you could repurpose one of my old dresses,” Quinn says, taking a bedazzled ’90s monstrosity off the rack, and quickly putting it back. “I think my back’s too wide for you to fit into any of my clothes without some alteration.”
“I’m sure I can find something,” I reply. “Thank you, though.”
Annie pulls out a pink dress with puffy sleeves. “You can reenact Sixteen Candles.”
“How about let’s not—oh.” I spot a dress at the very end of the row and pull it out. I fit it against me and turn to my friends. “What do you think?”
Quinn and Annie glance over and pause. But then Annie smiles. Quinn says, “Oh yeah, I think that’s the one.”
“Bingo,” Annie agrees.
* * *
—
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS AFTER SCHOOL, in between cataloging each last book in its proper place, he teaches me how to explore. I become lost in the ebb and flow of his lips, and mine, and then his again, his tongue playing against mine, dancing. He tastes like the chocolate chip cookies Mr. Rodriguez had on the counter when I walked in, sweet and satisfying, and oh my stars I am lost.
Is this what Amara felt when she kissed Carmindor for the first time? Or is this more like the times she kissed Sond in Mom’s favorite books? Like a newfound star burning so bright, ripping through the darkness like a lightsaber?
He kisses so meticulously, with the certain sort of patience only strategy can provide, the kisses tender, but the edges sharp. Vance is not Sond, but I daresay he kisses like him, and every place his lips touch—my mouth, my nose, my cheek, my neck—lights up like a star in a constellation of us.
And suddenly, we’re at the final book, and it’s just irony that it’s the last Starfield novel ever written, before they discontinued the series. The Last Carmindor.
I turn to Vance. “Want to do the honors?”
He pushes the book back to me. “All yours.”
So I reach up and slide the last book into place at the end of the shelf. Like the puzzle piece clicking into place, the library is complete. “Well, that was an adventure,” I whisper, my voice cracking a little at the edges. Because now it’s over, my job is done, and just like that—
Vance took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “It’s not over yet.”
THE LIBRARY IS COMPLETE.
Yesterday, when I took Rosie’s hand and told her the adventure wasn’t over yet, I meant every word. I would never have dreamed of saying something so corny a year ago—even a month ago—but maybe people can change.
Maybe I can change.
I want to.
Today is October 11.
My birthday. It was also supposed to be the last day in this nowhere town, but now I…think I can last another week, you know? Or two. I mean—it really isn’t that terrible. Perhaps it never was.
After a week of playing phone tag with Natalia, I finally catch her between meetings. “Vance, it’s a pleasant surprise,” she greets me in her sharp, gravelly voice. “How’s the house doing?”
“You undersell it every time you call it a house—it’s a castle.”
She laughs. “Ah, my ex-husband loved building weird shit. Isn’t the library gorgeous?”
I pace in the kitchen. “That’s actually what I’m calling about. That Starfield collection you have—how much do you want for it?”
That seems to surprise her. “How much?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’m not sure. Truthfully, I bought the Starfield collection from a local last year,” Natalia says. “They were selling it for much less than it was worth. Most of the books were in mint condition, too! There was only one that wasn’t. It was personalized.”
Personalized?
I run my fingers along the spines of the books, slowly circling the room. “Which one?”
“Oh, one of the first ones, I think—one about Sond’s imprisonment, perhaps? I think he falls for Amara, but I can’t remember. I’m sorry, Vance,” she says, and there’s a beep on the other end. “Christ, can’t anyone just leave me alone?” Grumbling, she says something else under her breath, silencing the incoming call, and adds, “So, why do you want to buy the collection? You aren’t a very big reader.”
Absently, I pick through the books, trying to remember if there were any that fit that description. “I guess people can change.”
“They certainly can.”
My fingers come to rest on the waterlogged copy that began this entire ridiculous scenario, and for some reason—I pull it out.
“Well, I have to go, but if you like those books so much, they’re yours. Happy birthday, Vance. Thinking of heading back?”
I let out a breath. “I don’t really know, honestly.”
And that means I…can leave. I can go back home. I can go back to my old life. My stepfather and my mother can’t keep me here anymore. All my life I have been trying to be what my parents have wanted me to be, and I often rebelled—oftentimes to ruination.
But today, I’m in charge of my own life for the first time, though it doesn’t feel anything like I thought it would. It feels like I’ve been offered the pilot seat and a vast galaxy and no coordinates. It’s overwhelming.
“Oh!” Natalia adds as she begins to hang up. “I do remember that the inscription wasn’t where it normally is, which was why we bought the collection in the first place, thinking they were all unmarked. It’s at the very end. Last page. God, I almost missed it! Have a great birthday, Vance.”
“Thanks, you too,” I say absently as I hear the call end, and I drop my phone onto one of the chairs and break open the waterlogged book. The spine crinkles as I leaf toward the first page. Not the title page but the end—where at the end?
I start prying every page unstuck one at a time until—
My breath catches in my throat.
A moment later, I see movement out of the corner of my eye and I glance up, and there is Rosie standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled up in a bun, and she’s wearing garish school pride colors—a blue-and-yellow sweater with a yowling wildcat—so it’s almost impossible to miss her. She smiles at me and comes inside. In the sunlight that slants through the windows, her brown hair shimmers with strands of auburn, and her hazel eyes look almost green in the sun. My chest feels tight, as tight as my grip on The Starless Throne.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over this sight,” she says in awe, spinning around looking at the books and her hard
work, floor to ceiling. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” I reply, unable to take my eyes off her.
The library was already completed before she walked into it, but now it feels whole.
She walks up and plants a kiss on my lips. It still feels so strange when she does, like each one is the first. “Okay, so this might be a weird question…but I remember you said something about never going to school before,” she begins, twisting a lock of hair that had come undone from her bun.
“Well, aside from that one indie film—”
“That doesn’t count,” she admonishes me, and then reaches into her back pocket. She takes out two golden tickets. “Would you…want to go with me? To Homecoming?”
I stare down at the tickets, the answer on the tip of my tongue.
“I mean, I’m really bad at dancing, and I’m probably going to be the absolute worst on the dance floor, and if Garrett wins Homecoming King tonight I don’t even want to begin to think what sort of problems that’ll give me, but—”
She’s nervous. That I’ll say no, I realize.
I tap the edge of the book against her mouth, and she quiets and blushes. “I’m babbling again, aren’t I?” she says.
“This is for you,” I reply, outstretching the book to her.
She accepts it with a strange look. “The Starless Throne?”
“Open it up.”
I CRACK OPEN THE BOOK, CONFUSED. There’s nothing on the title page, but then he tells me to keep going, and—
On the last page of the novel, my mother’s handwriting loops over the top in an inky blue script. Somehow it didn’t bleed all that much when it took the dip in the pool, and I can still make out the words—her words.
To my Rosebud,
This is only the beginning of your story, not the end.
With all my love,
Mom
My breath catches in my throat. I never opened her books after she died. I never thought to see if she left anything in them for me. I couldn’t bear to, because I was afraid I would see her in every word, and the hole in my chest would open up larger and larger and swallow me whole.
Bookish and the Beast Page 18
