The Black Notebook

by Isabelle Snow

  “Well, no…it depends…” my dad said, his words coming slowly as he looked over his shoulder and tried to keep an eye on me but Neil kept taking his attention away. With a wave from Nate and Nick, they left the living room.

  “Is it really alright for me to help her up?” Colin asked my mom.

  I was about to protest when my mom cut me off and said, “Why, of course you can! It would really be a big help since I have to prepare lunch. Do you want to stay here and eat with us?”

  Colin shook his head politely. “Thank you, but my family is probably expecting me to be home for lunch.”

  “That’s fine. Maybe next time then?” my mom insisted and I felt like I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Colin only chuckled and replied, “We’ll see, maybe sometime when I’m not fighting our enemies from outer space.”

  My mom giggled—again—and said, “Oh, Colin, you’re so silly.”

  The next thing I knew I had my arm over his shoulder, his arm around my waist, and he’s helping me up the staircase. When we took a sharp turn and walked together down the hallway I saw from the corner of my eye, my mom, peeking curiously up at us from the bottom of the stairs and smiling to herself. Ugh.

  “Your mom’s cookies are awesome,” Colin commented the moment we were out of anyone’s earshot.

  “Tell her that and she’ll send you basketfuls of them,” I deadpanned.

  Colin chuckled softly and said, “You know, I like your family, Seven. They’re fun.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I just said, “I guess they’re cool.”

  We reached my bedroom door and my stomach started making gymnastic award-winning flips when he took the knob in his hands and turned it.

  My mind raced, trying to recall if I had cleaned up my room, whether there were any left undergarments left hanging on the furniture or scattered on the floor—and did it smell bad? Was there anything too personal displayed out in the open?

  But I didn’t have the time to clean up anyway, and the door was already swinging open. My eyes quickly darted around the room, trying to see if there was anything even remotely weird that should be tagged with a sticker saying “NOT FOR COLIN’S EYES TO SEE” but, fortunately, there was none.

  Colin didn’t look up at my room; he immediately brought me to my bed and gently let me sit down on its soft cushions and crumpled blankets.

  He straightened up and only then did he cast a curious glance around. His gaze lingered on my bookshelf and continued on until it finally arrived at the tall pile of books beside my bed I’d just finished reading.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you died from getting crushed by the number of your books you’ve got in here someday,” he commented with a smile.

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Your room’s no better. Your walls are full of sketches and drawings.”

  “It’s called art,” he said defensively and then looked behind him to see if there was anyone lurking outside my bedroom door. He turned back to me and noticeably lowered his voice. “Anyway, you do know that you’re pushing yourself too much just for this stupid notebook, right?”

  “No, I’m not,” I denied quietly and Colin snorted incredulously. “You have a sprained ankle! No wonder you weren’t in school for the past two days.”

  “What do you care?” I asked coldly, the question unwillingly bringing tears to my eyes. It was the inevitable truth, I always told myself. Colin Stillman would never look at me the way I looked at him. I quickly blinked them away. “Please, Colin, just give me back my notebook.”

  “No can do, Seven,” he said, grinning widely at me.

  I tightened my hands into trembling fists. I couldn’t hope to understand this boy, even if I tried. One moment he’d seem caring and thoughtful, and in the next he’d be the naughty boy who seemed as if he still hadn’t grown out of his childhood.

  I scowled at him in reply and he laughed. I saw his right hand move up towards me and I raised my head to see what he was going to do. I was about to warn him, “Don’t you dare do whatever you’re about to do,” but what he did next surprised me to the point of speechlessness.

  He gently held the side of my head and kissed me on the forehead.

  I sat there, frozen, whatever thoughts I had were completely obliterated in that second.

  I was very tempted to pinch myself just to be sure it wasn’t a dream, but the moment felt so delicate that, if I so much as moved, it could all disappear.

  Sadly, just as abruptly and unexpectedly as he leaned towards me, he pulled back, those emerald green eyes widening in shock as if he had no idea what he’d just done. He retracted his hand, taking its warmth away from me as well, and kept a slight distance from me.

  “Uh,” he started, his voice cracking as he looked frantically around my room as if something in there could help him out of this awkward situation he’d gotten himself into, “I, um…” He swallowed and stabbed the air above his shoulder with his thumb. “I’ve got to go now, so…bye, then.”

  Without even waiting for me to respond, he turned on his heel and walked out of my room.

  I didn’t bother following him. I was afraid that if I tried to stand up my knees would give out and I’d collapse pathetically to the floor. I took a deep breath, butterflies crashing against each other and ricocheting off the walls of my stomach.

  I could hear voices below but couldn’t comprehend the words being said. I shakily twisted around to look through my bedroom window. After a minute or so, I heard the front door close with a bang and then Colin came into view, his walk brisk and stiff, quickening as he stepped around the crack in the cement.

  He kissed me just now, didn’t he? I wasn’t dreaming? I thought to myself, my hand reaching up to touch the spot where his lips had brushed against my forehead.

  I shivered, but it most definitely was not from the cold. But, why did he do that? He definitely didn’t have to. Does that mean…

  I watched attentively as he started running at top speed, heading out of my neighborhood and getting farther and farther away.

  Entry 7: Plan F – Text Attack

  Date: March 19, 2013

  Three days later, around six o'clock in the evening, I was curled up in one of the soft plush couches at The Book Station, the bookstore that was just around the corner of my neighborhood, where I usually bought my books. I was reading one then when someone called my name.

  I tore my gaze from the part I was reading and looked up at a man in his late thirties with blond hair and light blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. Patrick.

  "What is it?" I asked, yawning and wiping my tired eyes.

  Patrick chuckled and bent down so that his face was on the same level as mine. "Your mom called, that's what. She's asking if you're planning on coming home at all."

  I'd known Patrick for almost my entire life. He’d known my mom since birth, and despite the fact we weren't related by blood, Patrick had attended all my spelling contests and talent shows at school, and always ate with my family during Thanksgiving as if he were a real part of it.

  I had always looked up to Patrick, even if he wasn’t able to finish college because he dropped out in the middle of it. When I had asked for an elaboration, my mom explained that he had taken a doctorate’s degree in college but quit midway.

  At first I was shocked, but when I heard the full story, I finally understood. I mean, I didn’t think I could handle attending classes of a subject I had no interest in and that was shoved down my throat by my parents who were pressuring me every single day and complaining about what a failure I was for wanting to become something they didn’t approve, either.

  Patrick, however, was able to survive through all that until the first half of his second semester in the third year of college—before he finally made the decision of pursuing his dreams of writing.

  His parents went ballistic, of course, and kicked him out of the house.

  He had stayed at my mom’s h
ouse after that—since my grandparents knew Patrick and were good friends with his parents—and had started looking for small jobs at local stores and coffee shops, trying to earn money for the business he was thinking of, while passionately writing stories at the sidelines and selling them over the Internet.

  When one of his books was finally discovered and officially released to the public, he made enough money to open a bookstore and publishing house. Now that place was a dark brick building with a red tiled roof and a sign that read: The Book Station: it takes you wherever you want to go.

  And that very bookstore was where I’d spent the past three days, lounging among the mismatched throw pillows, reading book after book under the soft yellow light of a lamp. My mom had finally allowed me to go back to school, but only on the condition that I wouldn’t do anything that would the stress my ankle, which, if you translated that to my language, meant I couldn’t go on with my plans of recovering my black notebook from Colin.

  This contributed to the massive amount of free time I had, which I killed by means of reading.

  The Book Station had always been like a second home to me, especially since my mom allowed me to go there whenever I wanted, considering the fact that her most trusted-slash-childhood friend was the one handling the place.

  There were several encounters over the last few Christmases though, when I had asked Patrick if he felt as if he had wasted his skills and the opportunities presented before him by casting it all away and becoming a writer.

  He had answered with a dimpled smile, “Honestly, no. Most people would think of my decision as foolish and rash, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m happy where I am now, and even if my books don’t always sell and I don’t have a steady supply of money, I’m content with doing what I love.”

  And then I’d asked him if his parents ever made contact with him again, but he would just go quiet and my mom would shush me.

  Right then I glanced at my watch and caught sight of the time. “Uh-oh.” I grimaced and quickly got up to my feet, stuffing my book into my bag and draping it over my shoulder. “I’ve got to go, Patrick. Tell Mom I’m on my way home.”

  Patrick laughed and ruffled my hair. “Alright, pup, but hold up. I’m giving you a ride.”

  “You don’t have to, really,” I said, but Patrick insisted and told me to wait for him at the entrance and that he would bring the car around.

  Sighing, I nodded and watched him leave. Mindful of my sprain, I carefully walked down the steps of the carpeted wooden stairs where two to three people were huddled at the corners, their heads leaning on the wall as they got deeper and deeper into the story they were reading.

  I knew some of the usual people who came to The Book Station, and yes, you better believe it, they told me their secrets too. Fortunately, they were readers just like me, and they understood the feeling of being in the story and not wanting to be disturbed, so I’d been able to safely escape from them whenever I was holding a book.

  Once I was on the main floor, I passed by Alfred who, despite being as old as ever, was still a perfectionist at heart as he arranged the books on the shelves alphabetically by author. I gave him a gentle pat on the back, which he responded to with a slow turn and smile in my direction.

  Before I left The Book Station, I waved my farewell to the cashier girl, Francesca, who flashed me a bedazzling smile and waved back over the shoulder of a customer. Francesca had only been working with “the crew" (as Danny, another one of the odd-but-loyal employees called them) for three months, but I already liked her just as much as the others. She was a lively brown-haired beauty of Latin descent, and whenever I stayed really late at The Book Station and I’d be alone with her and Patrick I’d always nudge him in the ribs and whisper, “Why don’t you make a move? I think you guys look good together.” Patrick would only blush, apologize to Francesca, and shoo me away.

  I took my time walking towards the entrance and waited there, averting my gaze from the people who came in and out of the door.

  My ankle wasn’t fully healed yet, and though it’d been almost a week since it got sprained and didn’t hurt anymore, it still felt as if it was as sensitive as a twig, ready to snap at any moment.

  After a minute or so, Patrick’s car parked in front of The Book Station and the passenger door swung open. Patrick was leaning across from the driver’s seat, the seatbelt holding him back from going any further.

  “Come on,” he said and I shuffled towards the car. It took a while before I was safely inside the car and we were on our way.

  “I heard you’re done with all the books you bought last week,” he said without looking at me. “That’s quite an amount.”

  “Not all,” I said, sighing, remembering how Nick had quickly finished seven books in one day, “but I’m almost done.”

  “It’s a wonder you can still keep your grades up with all the reading you’re doing.”

  “Says the guy who dropped out of college and started a bookstore,” I murmured and Patrick laughed. “Hey now, don’t go following my footsteps. You have a whole future ahead of you. Don’t waste it until you’re sure you want the consequences.”

  We soon arrived at my neighborhood and then we were right in front of my house. My mom must’ve heard the engine of the car because she stepped out of the house, wiping her hands with a rag, and smiled at Patrick and me.

  “Hi, dear,” she said as I exited the vehicle and made my way around it. Then she bent down to look at Patrick through the car window. “Thanks for watching over her, Pat.”

  “Anytime, Jul,” he replied, putting the car into motion. He waved at me. “See you, Seven.”

  “Bye,” I said, waving back as Patrick drove away, turning around a corner and disappearing.

  “What took you so long at the bookstore?” my mom asked as we turned on our heels and headed inside.

  I shrugged, saying, “I got too into the story, sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” she said and then added with a smile, “you know, for a minute there, before I called Patrick to check if you were at the bookstore, I was thinking you were with someone.”

  I cocked my head to the side, trying to see what she was hinting at, and echoed her, “Someone…?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said when obviously she did, “someone like…Colin, maybe.”

  At the mention of him, my senses became clearer and I became more attentive. I distinctively remembered the absolutely unnecessary but undoubtedly welcome kiss on the forehead that made my hopes rocket to the sky last Saturday.

  However, those said hopes went crashing back down to the earth on Monday, when my mom had finally allowed me to go back to school to get some exercise on my ankle, and Colin had taunted me by holding the black notebook within my reach and snatching it away, jogging so that I wouldn’t be able to catch him with my sprain.

  I frowned at her, a part of me fearing where this was leading. “Why would I be with Colin of all people?”

  I couldn’t help the bitterness in my tone and mom must’ve caught a whiff of it because she said, “Well, I thought you liked him.”

  I tried not to make it obvious that she had hit a bullseye, and made a face. “And what made you think that I would like someone like him?”

  Mom smiled knowingly at me and said, “I recognized the way you looked at him. I looked at your father the same way before and I still do. I can’t blame you though—the boy is charming and sweet.”

  “No, he’s not,” I said, scowling at the memory of all the times he wouldn’t return what was mine. “He’s mean.”

  Now it was my mom’s turn to frown. “How can you say that, Seven?” she argued. “If he was mean he wouldn’t have visited you last Saturday. You should be more grateful.”

  You just have no idea, Mom, I thought to myself while shaking my head at her. “Okay, well, let’s just agree to disagree because I’ve got homework to do.”

  My mom sighed and shook her
head, muttering something under her breath as she walked towards the kitchen, and I slowly climbed the stairs. Once I was in my bedroom, I dropped my bag on the floor beside my desk and started on my work.

  In the middle of solving math problems and writing a critical analysis of a short story we were asked to read, my phone kept rattling against my desk with every message I received.

  This time, I replied to each and every one of them, although a bit tiredly and with my responses slowly decreasing in the amount of emojis I used until there were none at all and my words were barely understandable from all the shortcuts I made.

  Even when I was finished with my work and I was sitting on my bed, my foot propped on a pillow, the texts kept coming.

  Seven, I’m in a major situation. Txt as soon as u can.

  He replied!!! What do I say???

  Do u know how to answer the math assignment?

  Ur advice worked!! Thanks a million :)

  I didn’t bother picking my book up because, surely enough, before I could even finish one sentence, another text would pop up again.

  I groaned irritably as my phone vibrated on the cushions beside me for the umpteenth time, interrupting my reading before I even got five words in. I grabbed it and nearly drilled a hole through it when I murderously tapped the screen.

  Do u think Colin’s mad at me? :( He’s not replying to any of my txts…

  I paused as I reread the message and checked the sender. It was one of the girls in Colin’s circle of friends who had a crush on him, Alana. She had probably abused her texting rights again. I felt bad for Alana, but I did pity Colin too. I definitely knew what it felt like to be annoyed with several people texting you over and over again…

  And then I got an idea for plan F.

  I may not be able to run after him anymore or sneak around trying to take my notebook back, but I can annoy him.

  I quickly typed: Don’t txt him for now. Let it be. Maybe he’s busy. But just as I sent the message to the girl, I did the contrary: I searched for Colin’s name in my contact book and texted him: Hello, Colin Stillman. Boo.