Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

  More students trickle in through the door. I’m glad we got here early. It’s going to be standing room only soon.

  Matt glances toward the kitchen. “I hate a bully.”

  “And I hate conflict.”

  He laughs. “You keep telling yourself that, rebel.”

  “I mean it.” I really do. I think.

  “Fine. You win. I won’t say anything.” He leans back against the seat, resigned. “But I’m worried she will.”

  “I think she wants to scare me more than anything. She likes to do that,” I say.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know. Where were you when I was ten?”

  “Working at my dad’s garage, probably.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, we can’t all be Whitmores.” He says Whitmore like it’s something fancy. “Some of us have to work for what we have.”

  What do I say to that after crushing on Graham? What can I say? That I was wrong? That’s an understatement. I really thought he liked me. I take a sip of Coke through my bendy straw.

  This moment is slightly awkward. Or at least it feels that way to me. I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing, and that somehow makes it worse. My ears perk up as the jukebox plays the first lines of a song I used to dance to in the backseat whenever it came on the car radio. “I love this song. Do you know it?”

  “Know it?” He grins a wicked smile. “You have no idea.”

  I tilt my head slowly, but before I can say or do anything, he takes my hand and begins to sing in a gravelly voice.

  A high schooler swivels on her barstool and grins. Most of my blood rises into my face as conversation halts around us. Two guys from my English class elbow each other from a few tables away. All I can hear is the sizzle of the grill, the melody of the jukebox, and Matt. Oh, and the hammering of my heart. There’s no other sound.

  “Stop!” I whisper. This isn’t happening. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

  But he’s not stopping.

  He reaches his hand almost to my elbow, singing as loudly as he can. He twines his fingers with mine.

  “Aww,” the girl at the table behind us says.

  He finishes the line and brings my hand to his heart. His heartbeat is solid. Steady. Real. My cheeks flush and I break into a huge smile. “You’re making a scene!”

  What’s he even doing?

  “Good,” he says with a wink. He keeps singing.

  I lose the next few lines. I’m mildly aware of everyone, including Madison, hovering to watch, but I’m lost in the golden flecks of his eyes and how they match the constellation of freckles on his cheeks.

  The music builds to a crescendo. He leaps to his feet and belts out the next line with his head tipped back. He hits every note.

  And then his voice softens and he brings it back down in full dramatic fashion. I feel his hand on mine again, and this time I give it a small squeeze. I can’t help it. He squeezes my hand back and finishes the last line next to me.

  The final note plays, and the entire place erupts in applause. Or maybe that’s the sound of my heart exploding. Can’t be sure.

  He takes a bow, then gestures to me with his hand.

  More applause. More Awws. It’s as though the restaurant has released a collective sigh of wistful longing. I don’t even care if they’re staring. I’m so happy, I could stay in this moment forever.

  Matt chuckles.

  I lean in close and say in a low voice, “You’re in so much trouble.”

  He looks me right in the eyes. My heart is beating so fast I’m afraid he can hear it. “You’re welcome,” he says. There’s something new in his face, but I can’t pinpoint it. Mischief? No, that’s always been there. It’s more serious than that. Before I can figure it out, he slides back into his side of the booth, and I’m left with more questions than I started with.

  What am I supposed to say? I need a moment to get myself together, so I look anywhere but at Matt. Like the front door, where Graham’s hair gleams in the sunlight filtering through the glass. He and Emma stand by the cash register with their mouths gaping open.

  Emma covers her mouth with her hand and whispers in his ear. He shrugs out of her grasp and rolls his eyes. Even from here, I can see a tiny pulse pinging in his cheek when his jaw clenches. Without a word, he tugs Emma’s arm and they duck out the door.

  Madison drops our plates in front of us with a clatter. There’s no question of what else she can get us. No forced smile. She simply stares at me for a moment and then stalks back to the kitchen.

  Matt leans over as if sharing a big secret and says matter-of-factly, “I don’t think she liked my singing.”

  I laugh. “No, I don’t think she did.”

  “Clearly, she has terrible taste.”

  I almost choke on a fry. I don’t remember the last time I had this much fun, even if it means my parents will hear about it later. I don’t care. They’re going to know everything anyway. “I’m surprised you knew that song.”

  “Of course,” he says, squeezing ketchup onto his cheeseburger. “My dad only listens to oldies in the garage, which means”—he points toward the jukebox—“I’m now taking requests for every song in there.”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. One serenade was more than enough.

  He chuckles. “Suit yourself.”

  I try to picture Matt as a fifth grader. He’s standing on a stool because he’s too short to reach, leaning over an engine and learning how to change the oil. Singing along to oldies. Wiping his small hands with a filthy rag. I want to hug the Matt in my mind, tell him what he’s doing is valuable. Maybe I can’t do that, but I can tell the real-life Matt sitting right in front of me. I don’t care if I sound weird. I’m saying it. “I’m glad you work for what you have.”

  “I’d rather have a trust fund.”

  “I bet. But then it would be easy to take everything for granted.”

  “Nah. I’d appreciate all my lovely stuff. My new guitar, my new baritone, my new”—he rubs his chin—“what do you think? Porsche or Corvette?”

  “You’re thirteen. You can’t drive.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll have my learner’s permit in two years.”

  I smile at the idea of Matt behind the wheel. What would it even be like to not have to walk everywhere after school? To ride with him?

  “So, which one?”

  “For you? Corvette. A convertible.” But I think he’d be much happier if he found an older model and rebuilt it himself.

  He nods with approval. “No way would I take that for granted.”

  “You say that now.”

  “You doubt?” He dips a fry into his milk shake and pops it into his mouth.

  “I don’t doubt you. But if you’d been born with all that, things would be different. You’d be different.”

  “Go on.” He looks amused. “Different how?”

  “The thing is, if you’d never worked for anything, you’d never really appreciate anything, either.”

  His eyes meet mine. “Or anyone,” he says.

  “Or anyone,” I echo.

  Just before dinner, Dad replaces the kitchen phone on the charger with more force than necessary. It snaps me out of replaying Matt’s song in my head.

  Mom looks up from her cutting board. “Honey? What is it?”

  He swipes a cucumber slice from the tray and blurts out, “Kate changed her major.”

  The knife clatters out of Mom’s hand. “What?”

  I stop slicing cheese. Could it be? Did my rule-following sister stick a toe out of line? Please, spotlight, shine on Kate for a while.

  “She wants to be a teacher.” He looks genuinely panicked.

  Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel. “A teacher? But she’s premed.” Her voice
always gets screechy when she’s anxious.

  “Was premed.” Dad clears a few pieces of cheese from my plate.

  Mom looks as though she’s just been told her expensive antiaging cream doesn’t work.

  “What does she want to teach?” I ask.

  “English, of all things.” He turns to me. “You’d better not get any bright ideas. We’ve worked too hard for you to just throw it all away.”

  “And those who can’t do, teach. Everyone knows that,” Mom adds.

  My jaw drops. How can she say that when she spends so much time with my teachers? It seems like she’d think more of them than that.

  She adds, “You’ve got too much potential for that sort of thing, June.”

  I shove a piece of cheese in my mouth so I won’t smile. All this time, they’ve been hovering over me so much that they didn’t see Kate’s shift coming. No wonder we haven’t heard from her.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. I dream of other things.

  “Good. Because I’ve got news for you, young lady. You’re going to medical school.”

  I don’t have the perfect math and science grades for it, and even if I did, I don’t like sick people. When I smell vomit, I vomit. I don’t want to spend my life dry-heaving in a hospital. But that’s a conversation for another day.

  “We knew something was up when she didn’t come home for fall break.” Mom wipes her hands on the dish towel again.

  Dad just stands there at the sink looking out the window. I don’t think he sees what’s actually there. He’s seeing something else way beyond our yard.

  Mom pats his shoulder.

  “We’ll get her straightened out at Thanksgiving,” he says.

  I pick up the block of cheese again and try to look indifferent. “What’s so wrong with being a teacher?”

  Dad sighs and hands me a tomato. “Keep slicing.”

  * * *

  The next morning, I stroll to school, nursing my tumbler of hot chocolate. Its warmth insulates my hand from the chilly Halloween air. It’s not quite cold enough for gloves yet, but it will be soon.

  Matt reclines on the iron bench on Dogwood Middle’s lawn. His arm is draped casually along the back of it, his head tilted toward the ground.

  He opens his eyes as I approach. “About time, Harper.”

  “I didn’t know I was late.” I’m here earlier than usual.

  His breath comes out in a puff of white in the cold. “What would you say if I told you we could rule out a suspect this morning?”

  I’m not sure I like the sound of that. “I don’t think—”

  “Do you trust me?” I never noticed before how long his lashes are.

  “Of course I trust you.”

  “That’s all I needed to know.” He leans forward. “I’m feeling festive, so we’re breaking into Madison’s locker.”

  “We? Oh no. Not happening. And who says she’s a suspect, anyway?”

  “She knows about the locker—or at least she knows about the books…and that we have a lot of them.”

  “So does half of the school! Are you going to break into other kids’ lockers, too? How about Graham’s?”

  He tilts his head. “That’s not a bad idea, but I think we’d know by now if he’d figured it out and stolen the notebook.”

  “You’re not doing this.”

  “Forget about Graham for a sec—with everything Madison said yesterday and what you told me about her…well, I just think we need to rule her out. It’ll just take a minute, and then you’ll know.”

  “No.” I drop my backpack at his feet and sit next to him on the bench. “I won’t do it. Checking her locker proves nothing. Even if she did it, who says it has to be in her locker? It could be in her bag or at her house.” I wish I’d never told him about elementary school. Yes, Madison makes me nervous, but she could tell on me with or without the notebook. But what if she has it? “Leave her alone.”

  “Oh, look who it is,” he says, nodding at the road.

  “What?” I follow his gaze to Graham’s mom’s SUV whizzing around the corner to the drop-off circle. Graham steps out first, headphones on the back of his neck, followed by Emma. Of course, I realize a moment too late. Today is Graham’s fourteenth birthday. His parents made good on their promise. He’s wearing new headphones that cost more money than I’ve seen in my whole life.

  Matt smirks. “I’ll bet he breaks those headphones by lunchtime.”

  I giggle and elbow him in the ribs. “You’re awful, Matt Brownlee.”

  “What?” he says with a grin. “He totally will. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

  “No way. I want no part of this. Whoever took it will let us know soon enough.”

  He opens his mouth to speak and I hold out my hand to stop him. “However, if I were to be standing a little bit down the hall from you and saw someone coming, I might walk past you. Not that it would mean anything. Rules are important, you know.”

  “Oh,” he says, his tone serious. “Believe me, I know.” Am I really going to do this? It’s not my best choice. I always follow the rules. Or at least the old June did, before locker 319. A smile plays on Matt’s lips. He wants to help me. How can I not help him?

  “I almost forgot.” I fish in my bag below the Velcro enclosure and produce Bob. “Found it this morning.”

  “Thanks.” He flips to the second page. “ ‘To Brendan—I’d wait forever just to see you again.’ What a sap. Makes you wonder who this Brendan guy is.”

  “I’m more interested in who’s writing the inscriptions. It’s some heavy stuff.”

  Matt closes the book. “I always get the feeling I shouldn’t be reading it, you know? Like I’m reading someone’s private diary.”

  “But we’re not. I mean, someone’s been unloading them in the Little Free Library. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t want us to see them.” That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  “Do you think maybe Brendan’s mom gave them to him, and he died or something? And now she’s giving them away in the neighborhood because she can’t stand to look at them anymore?”

  “Nah, I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Could be a brother and sister,” Matt says.

  “Ew, nope. Whoever is writing the messages is madly in love with Brendan.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I can’t say it without sounding cheesy. “I can feel the love in their words.” And I want to know that kind of love. Someday.

  He chuckles. “I think you just want a love story.”

  “No, it’s more than that.”

  He looks amused. “Out with it, then.”

  I smile at him. “I don’t know. They know this Brendan guy so well, and the messages are about love and missing him. It just feels like they’ve got a broken heart.”

  He sucks in his breath. “Well. Isn’t that depressing.”

  “No. It’s beautiful.”

  “How in the world is that beautiful?”

  “They’re sharing their books, words and all, so it wasn’t wasted. It meant something.”

  “If you say so.” He tucks the novel into his bag and extends his hand. “Moment of truth. Time to see what Madison has stashed.”

  After Matt’s little scene in the diner, it might be harder than he thinks. We just gave everyone something to talk about. People were already staring at me because of the locker, but now, older girls I’ve never spoken to before go out of their way to smile at me and say hello, and guys clap Matt on the shoulder as he walks past. This isn’t about me. It’s about us. We are the buzzword of the day, even in circles beyond locker 319, and we’re not even together. I don’t think we are, anyway. I don’t know what to think anymore.

  “Is it just me,” I say, “or is everyone staring?”

  “It�
�s not you. It’s me.” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “Hilarious.”

  Just for fun, we walk by my locker in the now almost-deserted hallway. Mr. Beeler stands with his walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, scanning the lockers and poised for action. His expression is patient and alert, much like his face in his fishing pictures in his office. He has no idea the pond is dry.

  “Her locker’s in the science wing, right before the turn for the tech lab.”

  “Easy enough, we just need to figure out which one,” Matt says. “Don’t you have science first?”

  “I do. She’s in my class.”

  “Good. I’m just walking you there a few minutes early. If anyone asks.” That’s believable enough after yesterday’s serenade.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You are just walking me to class.”

  Madison scowls up from her locker as we pass. Number 177. That wasn’t so hard.

  The next part is. I lean next to the classroom door, trying to be cool and casual.

  Matt’s eyes widen and he reaches out, catching my arm just in time. “Whoa. You okay?”

  One more second, and I would’ve toppled over and broken my face. Matt should’ve drafted someone else to do this. I’m completely hopeless.

  “Fine,” I say.

  He holds me steady for a moment while I regain my balance. He smells so good. Like cinnamon gum and sporty body spray. Why can’t we just forget the locker and stay out of trouble? That would be fine. He releases my hand and grins. “Have you ever noticed your ears turn pink when you’re embarrassed?” And when I’m nervous or angry, but who’s keeping track?

  I cringe. I can’t believe he actually said that. And now, just to make things worse, warmth floods into my ears with a vengeance. I’m going to die. “See you at lunch?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  Madison squeezes past us into the classroom with a dramatic eye roll. “Psst, I really think she hated your performance.”

  “Some people just don’t appreciate good music,” he says with a wink. “Wish me luck.”

  Why did I agree to this again? I don’t do things like this. Ever. Matt glances up and down each hallway and then pulls something shiny out of his bag. It almost looks like small hedge clippers. I can’t let him do this. It’s wrong. I take a step toward him, but I’m too late—he snips off the lock like it was an irritating hangnail and sends it clattering across the floor. No, no, no. This wasn’t part of the deal. He slips the clippers back in his bag.