“Yeah.”
“You could have dodged it.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously, you’d normally dodge that. Something’s up. You were weird at school too.”
I smirk like I’m about to deliver a comeback, but it’s Alex. In the eighth grade, when I still wanted to play Legos and didn’t want anyone to know, he was the guy I could call. I can’t lie to him, but I can’t tell him about Mallory either. So I stay quiet.
The buzzer screams on a loss. Everyone’s banging helmets and sticks all the way to the locker room, pouring out a stream of sweat and swearing that usually has me hamming it up. It’s my job to make us all laugh, so we don’t drop gloves and throw around blame.
Except today, I can’t. Because all I can think about is Mallory. Why doesn’t she have somewhere to sleep? What happened? I can’t help feeling like I should do something about it. Help her. It has to mean something that I’m the one who caught her.
Not that I meant to catch her.
Shit, does she think I’d tell someone?
The coach is dressing us down for a lackluster performance, but I’m in outer space. Or, more accurately, in Mallory space, worried she’ll think I’d rat her out. Wondering how I’ll find her if she doesn’t come back to the library. Plotting ways I can fix all this for her.
Why the hell is this girl under my skin so bad? Because she’s funny? Because she’s in trouble in a way I’ve never seen before? Or is it because she’s from a whole different world, and some broken part of me is currently pulled like a magnet to all-things-not-Fairview?
Who knows.
I roll my shoulders, feeling edgy. Alex is right. I’ve been like this all day, and though it’s 6:40 and there’s practically zero shot of her being at the library this late on a random Thursday, I have to try.
I don’t even take off all my gear. I yank off my upper body pads and sling my half-empty bag in the back of the Audi. I drive twice the speed limit all the way to the library, reeking to high hell and fumbling for the pedals in my bulky leg pads.
I take the stairs to the door two at a time. Phoebe, who works at the desk, gapes the second I hit the lobby, a mix of shock and distaste on her face. I get it. I have helmet hair, I smell like a hockey bag, and I’m wearing pads that look like clown pants.
“Hey,” she says, trying to be polite. “Are you here about the news?”
My body goes tight with fear. What news? Did they find Mallory? Is that why I didn’t see her leave this morning?
“What news?”
She beckons me forward. Risky move on her end with the way I smell, but I take a couple of steps closer.
“We think someone’s been looking for that lady.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The woman who died. Gretchen called the police because we’re finding messages.”
My heart squeezes. “The police? You found the person?”
“No, we found messages.”
“The Where Are You? stuff on the bulletin board?”
“There are new ones.” She brings me to the back where a cart of crisp, clean books is set aside. The yellow stickers we use for new releases are pasted on each spine.
Phoebe opens one and taps at the message scrawled on the inside cover. Where Are You?
“Whoa. Inside all of these?”
“All over them. The inside of the covers, the pages. Look at this one.”
She flips through the pages of a picture book, and I can see the words over and over. They’re on every page, front and back. Furthermore, the pages are filthy. The plastic covers hid it well, but gray-black stains smear most of the pages.
“I’ve seen that black stuff before in here.”
“Ruby, too. She said she cleaned up footprints that looked like that. The police took the worst books to do testing.”
“So what happens next?” I ask.
“A detective is coming in tomorrow morning to talk to Mr. Brooks about next steps.”
“The police are coming again?”
“Before we open so we don’t create alarm.” She cocks her head. “Wait. Why are you here again?”
“Looking for a book,” I lie.
I depart with a brief trip through the stacks, like Phoebe would expect. In reality, I’m not looking for a book, but I’m checking every single table and sitting area for Mallory. No dice. I take the stairs to the lower level. I last saw her down there, so you never know. I have to try.
The technology center is a bust, and Youth Services isn’t looking better. That’s when I hear the murmur of music and amplified voices nearby. The auditorium. My eyes flick to the poster on the wall, an advertisement for classic movie night and free pizza. If the cracker wrappers on the table are any indicator, Mallory might be hungry enough to suffer through whatever they’re showing.
I follow the noise and the smell of popcorn down the hall to the auditorium, finding it dimly lit and sparsely filled. A black and white film is playing, and Mr. Brooks is seated in the front row. Other than him, it’s mostly older patrons clustered in small groups around the room.
Then I spot Mallory. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the food table, a mostly empty pizza box in her lap and a plastic cup beside her.
She’s not wearing what I saw her in this morning, and her hair is wavy. She seems more relaxed. Probably because she’s not scared to death someone will turn her in or call the cops.
She watches the movie like she’s never seen one, her eyes wide and fixed on the moving images, her idle crust nibbling stalling every few seconds when some bit of dialogue grabs her.
Someone shrieks in the hall behind me, and I turn, spotting a middle schooler who quickly realizes he’s in the wrong place and doubles back up the ramp. When I look back, Mallory’s not by the table. The empty box and her cup are in the space where she used to be.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Movement by the far door catches my eye. It leads directly from the auditorium to the parking lot, and I know who just used it.
I jog across the room, ignoring people swiveling in their chairs to watch me. As soon as I’m out of the auditorium, she’s halfway down the alley. I lurch into a sprint, chasing her, then stop short. What the hell am I doing? I’m going to scare her.
“Mallory, wait!”
She hesitates, her run stuttering to an awkward walk. I half expect her to tell me to leave her alone, but she doesn’t. She stops in the middle of the alley. No, not in the middle—she stops there. Beside the bricks I climbed. Beneath the window I broke. Maybe it’s all coincidence and irony, but I don’t think so. I think it means something. Everything in me is screaming: Pay attention. This matters.
“I didn’t say anything,” I tell her as I inch closer.
“I know,” she says.
“Then why are you running?”
Her shoulders heave up and down. Up and down. I barely ran at all, but my heart thuds hard behind my collarbone, my gaze drifting between the scene of my crime and the girl who knows well enough to run when she’s in trouble.
“Why are you following me?” she asks.
She’s Mallory again. Direct and clear, and when she turns to me, her eyes are bright.
“Why. Are. You. Following. Me.”
“That’s a super valid question.” One I don’t know how to answer. Direct approach is not my thing. My conversational style includes throwing comebacks and witty asides until whatever I mean is so lost in translation even I can’t figure it out.
But I can’t do that with her. Or maybe I don’t want to. “I wanted to know why you were in the library all night.”
“I didn’t take anything,” she says, defensive.
“I’m not worried about you pocketing a dictionary. Knitting needles, maybe.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know.
” I step forward. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with this.”
“With girls who sleep in the library?” She sounds incredulous. “Is this a common problem for you?”
“I’m not good with being serious. Or direct. All the things you’re good at.”
“Well, you asked a pretty serious and direct question,” she says.
“Which you didn’t actually answer yet.”
She flushes but doesn’t flinch. She also doesn’t reply.
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding creepy,” I say. “I’ve been thinking about you. Honestly, I can’t get you out of my head, and I want to help. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I hate that question,” she says. “When is there ever a difference?”
“There’s always a difference,” I say. “Two entire letters, for starters.”
“I’m here because I don’t have anywhere else to go.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
I nod like I understand, but I don’t. I try to imagine a scenario—any scenario—that would leave me stuck sleeping in a library on a random weeknight.
There isn’t one. If my parents are out of town, they march me over to my grandparents like I’m eight years old. If I’m pissed or annoyed or drunk or whatever other stupid thing—I text them and crash with Alex or Isaac. Hell, if I’m desperate, there’s Jarvey or even Ava next door.
“Nowhere at all?” I ask as gently as I can. “What about your…”
“Parents?” she asks, tilting her head, her voice lilting like her answer is an indulgence. “It’s parent for me, and it’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Actually, I meant friends.”
“Yes, I have them, but it’s not an option. Let’s not talk about this, okay?”
“Why not?”
“Why should we?” she asks, her voice shaking a little. “What does any of this have to do with you?”
“It doesn’t. I’m sorry. I know I’m being nosy, I just… What can I do?”
Her anger dissipates, leaving confusion behind. “Why do you want to help me so badly?”
I feel the why is written in neon lights across my forehead. I obviously like her, but is that really all this is? It’s stupid to admit right now, regardless. There are clearly a million other things in her life that are obviously a bigger fish to fry than some dude with a thing for her.
“I can’t explain it. But is it so awful that I want to help?”
“You are helping. You agreed to get the staff password, which I need.”
“I’m not talking about the internet. The internet is everywhere.”
“Not if you aren’t a paying customer,” she says. “I don’t have a laptop now.”
I wave that off. “If it’s broken, I have a friend who could check it out.”
“It’s not that. It wasn’t mine. It’s my friend’s computer.”
“I’ll bring you one,” I say.
She laughs. “Oh. Sure. You’ll bring me a laptop. Drop it off with a car, okay? I prefer something red. Convertible.”
“You’re funny,” I say, smiling. “Seriously, though, my dad’s a business finance consultant. He gets free laptops as a thank-you all the time. We have loads of them.”
She blinks at me. “I can’t take a laptop from you.”
“Then you’re really not going to like my next offer.” I take a breath. “I don’t think you should stay here.”
“Well, it was either here or there,” she says, gesturing to a bench at the edge of the parking lot.
I open my mouth, and all manner of barely contemplated craziness pours out. “You should stay with me. You can use the pool house and the laptop and our internet, and then there aren’t any problems with the connection expiring or whatever.”
“I’m sorry. Use your what?”
“Pool house,” I say. “I mean, sort of. It’s not like a full-fledged apartment or anything, just a little lounge area for changing and storage and a bathroom. But the internet works out there, and we closed the pool in September, so no one’s ever in it. There’s a TV and a couch. A foosball table.”
“A foosball table.” She laughs, clearly incredulous. “Thank God.”
I flinch. It was a stupid thing to say. “I didn’t mean to list amenities.”
“How did you mean it? Poor little homeless girl, I guess I’ll play the hero and sweep her off the streets and into my pool house. I’m not a charity case, Spencer.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
“I do. But it doesn’t mean I want to sit here and do nothing about your situation.”
She throws up her hands, and I can see that she’s close to crying. “It’s not your problem! And for the record, I’m not some needy, crazy girl who ran away. I had compelling reasons.”
“I believe you.”
She sighs then, shoulders drooping. “Some days I don’t.”
She goes quiet then, and I want to reach for her. I want to touch her cheek, where it’s going pink again. But I definitely shouldn’t do that.
She inhales sharply and it’s clear she’s reached some kind of decision.
“I’m sorry I’m not being receptive or grateful. It’s a nice offer. But I can’t walk off with you into Mansion Land. We’re practically strangers.”
“Where will you go? Because you can’t stay here tonight. They’re bringing cops in the morning.”
“Cops? Wh—” She drops off abruptly, gaze moving above my head like something’s caught her eye.
She frowns. “There’s someone up there. Watching us.”
“What?”
She bumps her chin up and takes a step back. “In the window by the curtain.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. There’s a woman again, inside the window I broke. It’s quick, an unmistakable but blurry impression of long hair and a pale face—and then she’s gone. I think of tangled hair on the library floor. An arm twisted behind a back.
Stop.
There are offices up there. Including Mr. Brooks’. It could be his assistant.
I scan the upper floor hoping to confirm some activity. Lights and computers. People hard at work on a Tuesday night.
“Did you see it?” Mallory asks softly.
“Yeah.”
I don’t excuse it with second floor offices or staff working late. The windows paint a different story. None of the second-floor lights are on. Not even the office where the woman was standing. It was dark the entire time.
Mallory
Saturday, November 18, 7:02 a.m.
I wake to the murmur of conversation, and for a minute, I flail anxiously. Where am I? Memories whirl back. Pizza at the library. Spencer’s ridiculous offer. The woman at the window. I open my eyes to Lana’s cracked bedroom ceiling and remember my long, cold walk to her house last night.
I’m sweaty and stiff, tangled in Lana’s ancient My Little Pony sleeping bag in the narrow space between her wall and the door. My mouth is tacky and sour, and the crick in my neck promises to be with me all day, but I am so grateful. She didn’t even ask me questions when I tapped on her window. She snuck me in, locked her door, and pressed her finger to her lips so I wouldn’t talk.
We traded notes back and forth in her diary instead.
Lana: I’ve been so worried.
Me: I’m okay.
Lana: Did you go home? Did he do something to you?
Me: No. But I have a plan. I think I know where to go.
Lana: Where???
I didn’t tell her and she didn’t press, which is good because I was flat-out lying. After a while, she touched my hand and it was all I could do not to cry. She tucked the diary under a picture of her dad, and we fell asleep.
“…broken! Do you think we have the money to pay for another?”
“No, Mama. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry won’t pay for a new laptop.”
“I know that. I’m sorry. I am.”
“I know you’re sorry, mija,” her mother says, voice softer, “but we can’t afford carelessness right now.”
More apologies and my stomach twists. She wasn’t careless, and she didn’t cause this. I was using her laptop when it broke. She’s in trouble because of me, and if her mom finds out she snuck me in here…
I move fast, rolling the sleeping bag tight and staying low on the side of her bed. I push it under the dresser where we found it and slip the second pillow she offered back under hers. Then I drag my backpack out and pull out four dollars and twenty-five cents. It’s all I have left.
I place it on her bed and consider leaving a note promising her more, but how would I get it? Even getting through this week is impossible. But I have to try to fix the damage I’ve done.
It’s the worst kind of November weather, a cold and rainy day that clings to my coat and dampens my jeans by the time I reach the library.
I lurch when the doors are locked, then remember it’s too early. Worse still, there’s a sign.
Thank you for your patience! Due to a last-minute all staff meeting, we’ll be opening at ten today.
The police. Spencer warned me, so I should have remembered.
I have too much time and no money. Sitting on the steps to wait feels conspicuous, so I descend to the sidewalk. I look up, wondering why the police came today. I saw someone upstairs in the window last night. Maybe they were watching from the window the day the woman died too. Maybe they know something that could help.
Not that it’s a crime to be solved. I heard a few staff members talking the other day. They mostly whispered, but I picked out the word heroin more than once, along with overdose. It happens. I guess I could see it happening here.
What You Hide Page 9
