by Donna Cooner
Take Worthy, for example. The comments on Raylene’s page have skyrocketed since my conversation with Taylor, and the cruel remarks are piling up.
Not that I’m checking.
“Is April’s Vogue here?” Mr. Hooper asks, walking up to the desk. He is about eighty or so, bald except for two tufts of gray hair above each ear and one long, thin strand he combs over from one side to the other.
“I think it’s over on the stand,” I say.
Then he says, and I recite it along with him—but just in my head, because it would be rude to say it aloud: “You know, I used to live right in downtown Manhattan.”
“That must have been fun,” I say, but I don’t really know because I’ve never lived anywhere else but Huntsville, Texas.
“I had an apartment right by Central Park. I could see the horses and carriages from my window.”
According to all the books I’ve read set in New York, I know you can’t see Central Park from downtown Manhattan. But I don’t correct him. Over his shoulder, the clock says 4:45 p.m.
Mr. Hooper pulls out a box of green Tic Tacs from his pocket and rattles them. “Mint?” he asks.
I shake my head. Mr. Hooper carefully pours out two mints and pops them in his mouth. He shifts his weight over to his left foot and stands there, waiting for me to say something.
I could ask him a lot of questions about New York. I know it’s what he wants. Mr. Hooper has great stories about the restaurants and the museums and the people. Usually, I am fascinated. But today my mind is on other things. So I just smile and look back down at my journal.
When I look up again, Mr. Hooper is still standing there, Tic Tacs in hand.
“Vogue is right over there.” I motion toward the magazine racks on the back wall and feel a twinge of guilt when he shuffles reluctantly off in that direction. I know how much he loves to talk.
The next time the door opens, it is Mrs. Pirtle. She is wearing a blue-jean hat with a button on top that says, “I have cancer. My husband is just bald.” Mrs. Pirtle also likes to come a bit early for the Cyber Senior meetings and read the paper out loud to me. At first, I tried to ignore her. Politely, of course. I mean, I don’t want to be rude to people with cancer … or really anyone. But Mrs. Pirtle was persistent, and the stories in her paper were always unusual, to say the least. It didn’t matter how busy the desk was, or how much I obviously had to do, she still read to me about the boa constrictor that escaped from his cage in California and ate a small dog, or about the man who tried to fly away with helium balloons strapped to his lawn chair. And since I am definitely a sucker for a good story, Mrs. Pirtle’s paper reading is now a familiar habit.
Today, Mrs. Pirtle settles in at the table next to my desk and opens her newspaper with a flourish. She announces the location of the news story first. “Buenos Aires, Argentina.”
Kat and I exchange a knowing glance. Here we go.
“Statue of Rabbit Cures Toe Fungus.” Mrs. Pirtle reads the headline aloud, and keeps reading. All about the statue and how people who touched it were miraculously healed of all kinds of foot-related issues.
“I thought the only kind of statues that did miracles like that were in churches,” I say as I draw a few flowers in the corner of my journal.
She looks up from the paper to give me a very serious glare over the top of her purple reading glasses. “Maybe this rabbit statue was made at the same place as those religious statues that heal people, and it rubbed off.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” I say doubtfully, but then think maybe a healing rabbit statue is just what Mrs. Pirtle needs. “But I guess you never know.”
I look back at the clock.
Five p.m.
Maybe he isn’t coming. My mother would say I’m turning into one of those girls whose world revolves around a guy. And I know that is bad. Very bad.
Mrs. Pirtle stops reading, and I look over at the sudden silence. She is looking back toward the magazine rack. “Maybe Mr. Hooper knows something about rabbit statues. He lived in New York, and they have all kinds of statues there.”
“Could be,” I say, not wanting to put a damper on her rabbit statue story, but really not in the mood for more today. “Why don’t you go ask him?”
She nods, picks up her paper, and heads off toward the far wall. I resist looking back at the clock.
“Ever heard the expression, a watched pot never boils?” Kat asks from beside me, flipping through a recently returned book.
I kick myself mentally for underestimating her. Of course she knows. Even so, I still try to act like I don’t have a clue. “Huh?”
“He’ll get here,” Kat says.
“Who?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes at me.
Then, with perfect timing, the front doors open, and Alex Rivera walks into the library. He smiles at me across the room and I smile back, then look down at the desk like I am really busy. I don’t want him to see the feeling that just burst up into my cheeks, making them hot and pink. This is like the worst scene in every romantic comedy ever. Cue sappy music.
Kat snorts a laugh under her breath.
“Hey,” he says when he gets to the desk. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Hey,” I say back.
“Finally,” Kat says. I kick her under the desk.
“Ouch,” she says, rubbing her ankle.
“Aren’t you supposed to finish story time?” I say to Kat. She leaves with a grin and a stack of picture books, giving me a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m going to go back there and work on my homework.” Alex points to the study area in the corner. “Maybe you can come over when you get a break?”
I nod. “I’m leading Cyber Seniors. I’ll come over when I finish.”
“What’s that?” Alex asks.
“It’s a study group for older people. I teach them all about the internet,” I tell him. “Today I’m teaching Mrs. Pirtle how to use Facebook.”
Alex laughs. “Cool. Come find me when you’re done.”
I race through Cyber Seniors, then go to the back of the library. I find Alex at a table, an open book and a notebook in front of him. I slide into the seat beside him. He looks down at his notepad quickly, like he’s actually doing homework. The cold air that pours out of the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling ruffles at the pages of the math book in front of us, but neither of us is interested in math. I can see Alex sneaking looks over at me.
I look at him, too, when I think he doesn’t know—short glances out of the corners of my eyes that take in his thick, straight black hair and the sharpness of his cheekbones. Sometimes he looks up at just the wrong—or right?—moment, and I’m caught, heart in my eyes. Instantly, my throat turns red and blotchy at the hint of possibility in his dark eyes.
“How’d Cyber Seniors go?” he finally asks. “Did you help Mrs. Pirtle with Facebook?”
“I think so. She sent you a friend request. Will you accept it so she can see how it works?”
He smiles. “Sure.” He speaks very softly. Almost a whisper.
“What?” I lean in and then say a little louder, “Why are you talking like that?”
“It’s a library,” he hisses, then grins. Those braces in eighth grade definitely did their job. His teeth are impossibly white and straight. “You’re supposed to be quiet.”
“Library stereotype,” I say. “The good news is that you don’t have to be that quiet here, or else Kat would have been kicked out a long time ago.”
Alex reaches out to flip the page back at the same time that I move to do the same. Our hands touch and electricity sparks through my fingers. I pull away, but don’t know what to do with that hand now, so I awkwardly push my glasses back up my nose for the third time since I sat down. I should have put my contacts in today. Nikki’s always telling me to take more time getting ready in the morning.
“Did you finish To Kill a Mockingbird?” I ask him.
He nods enthusiastically. “I finished a 5K because I had to keep liste
ning. Thanks for the help.”
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“More than liked it,” he says. “It was awesome. Actually,” Alex adds, looking sheepish, “I know it’s due back soon. I should have brought it today.”
I wave my hand. “You have time. You said you wanted to check out another book, right?” He nods. “What’s your next assignment for English?”
Alex smiles. “Well, I finished To Kill a Mockingbird so fast that we don’t even have our next book assigned yet. I was thinking I’d listen to one just … for fun.”
I laugh at how surprised he sounds at this. “Do you not usually think of books as fun?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve never been much of a reader. I hate to admit it. Especially to you.”
I feel a flutter of pleasure and embarrassment. “Why would you care what I think?”
He gives me a look, like I should know better.
“I was always a slow reader,” he explains softly, “so then I became incredibly self-conscious about it. Avoided it mostly. Listening to these books made me realize how much I missed.” He’s studying me with eyes so dark I can’t tell where the pupils start and end. The corner of his mouth twitches up into a half smile.
“I can’t imagine not having books in my life,” I say. “I guess that’s why I want to write one someday.”
“That’s so cool, Linden,” he says, and I can tell he means it. There is something in his expression that keeps me from looking away. It doesn’t matter that kids are running around in the story area, squealing and laughing. Or that the returned books are piling up in the bin waiting to be reshelved. Or that Kat keeps glancing over and making googly-eyed faces. None of it matters.
“So, um,” I say, trying to break the spell, “I’m thinking maybe next you should listen to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Have you ever read it?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve heard of it, but no. Didn’t they make it into a movie?”
I can’t help but smile at the wonder of introducing a newbie. “Don’t even go there,” I say. “The book is always better.”
Okay, I’m a nerd, but this happens every time I recommend an incredible book to someone who hasn’t read it before.
Alex laughs. “I’ll try it.”
“I can’t wait to talk to you about it. I’ll put the audiobook up at the checkout desk for you.”
“Thanks,” Alex says. Then, after a pause, he clears his throat and asks, “We’re still on for tomorrow?”
I nod, and just for a second I forget to breathe. “What’s the plan?”
“It’s a surprise,” Alex says.
My nerves prickle. I’m not a big fan of surprises. It’s hard to make a foolproof plan when things are uncertain.
I hesitate, but say, “Sounds good,” because it would be crazy to insist on him spoiling the surprise because I need to know what kind of shoes to wear.
“I should get to practice,” Alex says, closing his book and stuffing it into his backpack.
“I’ll get that audiobook for you,” I say. I stand up too, picking up his notebook and handing it to him. I notice it is completely blank. He gives me a smile, closing the notebook. But his fingers linger on mine, and this time I don’t pull my hand away. Fingers entwined, I notice how the dark brown of his fingers contrasts with my own pale skin. Different, but perfect together. I let out a breath.
On Saturday night, I stop at the bottom of the stairs to yell back down the entryway to my mom and the group of firemen sitting in our living room. “I’m leaving!”
Bobby Lewis, one of the fire chiefs, yells back, “Don’t we get to meet this guy?” His question is followed by loud laughter, and I curse under my breath. This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid.
I stand in front of the hallway mirror, putting on a final swipe of lip gloss. My hand shakes a little from nerves, but somehow I manage to keep my Bobbi Brown Pink Lily gloss on my lips and not all over my chin.
With lots of advice from Nikki, I decided to wear a little black dress with a scoop neck and flutter sleeves. It’s cute and flirty—not something I’d normally wear, but tonight seems like the night for it. I paired it with my red cowboy boots, which I kind of think of as good-luck shoes, since I was wearing them the day Alex first came to the library. My hair is curled into beachy waves that took way longer to style than I planned. Looking into the mirror now, though, I think the time spent was totally worth it. I practice a smile, remembering what Taylor said. Nobody is going to think I look too serious tonight.
There is another roar of laughter from the living room and I cringe, putting the cap back on the gloss and sliding it into my leather Michael Kors mini crossbody. The thought of that boisterous crowd spilling out into the hall when Alex rings the bell makes my stomach lurch. Rat might have been willing to run interference for me, but he left an hour ago for Ever’s house.
“Don’t worry about it, honey.” My dad can clearly read my mind as he walks down the hall toward me, leaving the living-room laughter behind. “Just have a good time and be home before ten.”
“Why can’t we have one night at home without all these guys hanging around?” I can’t keep the frustration out of my voice.
“You’re not going to be home tonight anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” My dad is always so rational. He pulls me in for a hug. “You look fantastic.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
A tall African-American fireman named Leo saunters into the hallway behind us, grinning at me. “Come on, Linds. Let us meet the guy. We’ll be nice. Promise.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and I look over at Dad in a panic.
Save me.
Dad turns around and grabs the fireman by the shoulders. He pulls him back toward the living room. “Let’s leave these two kids alone, Leo.”
Finally. I take a deep breath and pull open the door.
Alex is standing on the front porch. He’s wearing jeans and a striped navy-blue T-shirt. It looks like he got a haircut; his black hair is shorter than it was yesterday, and accentuates his sharp cheekbones and thick brows. My cheeks are suddenly hot.
Calm down, I tell myself. But I can’t.
“Hi,” I say as casually as I can muster.
“Is your house on fire?” Alex asks, motioning to the fire truck parked at the curb.
I step out on the porch and quickly shut the door behind me. “No.” I laugh nervously. “It’s just my mom’s friends. I’ll introduce you another time, okay?”
He nods and I step off the porch, eager to make a getaway before Fire Station Number 12 decides to get involved.
The coolness of the March night helps push away some of the first-date nerves.
I look down at Alex’s feet. He’s wearing a pair of navy Old Skool Vans.
When I glance back up to his face, he’s looking at me and smiling. “Do I pass?”
Oh boy, do you. With flying colors!
“You look great,” I say. His smile grows even wider and a hundred butterflies take flight in my stomach.
“You too,” he says, then holds out his hand. I take it, and he leads me down the sidewalk to the car parked at the curb.
Alex opens the passenger’s side door and I get inside, smiling up at him as he shuts it behind me. I buckle my seat belt, roll down the window partway, and lean back against the leather seats of his older-model BMW. As Alex runs around the back of the car to get into the driver’s side, I see Max standing out by his driveway and I lift a hand in greeting. He doesn’t wave back.
“So where are we going?” I ask, once Alex starts up the car and pulls away from the curb. “What’s the big surprise?”
Alex brakes for a red light. “I was thinking it would be fun to go bowling.”
Are you kidding me? I was thinking soft music and a candlelit dinner or holding hands in a dark movie theater or something—anything—more romantic than BOWLING. I haven’t bowled since I went to Max Rossi’s eighth birthday party. I remember Max’s mom t
hought it would be great if they gave a prize to the person with the lowest score, and I was the winner—or rather, loser in this case. The prize was a huge gold-colored medal I had to wear around my neck for the rest of the party that read “You Need Practice Award.” Everyone thought it was hilarious. Except me. I stuffed that stupid medal in the back of my closet as soon as I got home that day and never set foot in a bowling alley again. I was horrible at bowling then and I’m sure nothing has changed since.
I glance over at Alex. He’s smiling, so obviously proud of his decision, and I don’t have the heart to tell him how horrible it sounds. I look out the side window to hide my expression.
“Great,” I say, even though I don’t really mean it. But I’m afraid of looking like a loser in front of Alex. Then my mother’s voice whispers in my head. Be fearless, Linden. I close my eyes, count to three, and then open them slowly and take a deep breath.
Maybe I’ll look silly, but I’m going to make the best of it. If Alex likes me, bad bowling isn’t going to change his mind.
The bowling alley smells like popcorn and feet. An eighties soundtrack cranks out above the noise of the pins falling and congratulatory yells.
The greasy-haired guy behind the counter’s name tag says “Charlie.” He asks me what size shoes I wear and reluctantly I tell him. When he pulls a pair off the shelf behind him and sprays the insides with some kind of disinfectant, I want to just turn and walk back out that front door. But I don’t. Because right at that moment, Alex curls his arm around my waist and grins down at me like he’s having the best time ever.
Charlie asks me, “Do you need socks?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Thank God for the thick boot socks I put on under my cowboy boots. I tell myself my feet won’t actually touch the shoes.
“Do you need some help?” Alex asks, and I shake my head.
I remove my boots and carefully hand them to Charlie.
