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And if the consequence of keeping it is that his family and friends think we’re hooking up, then that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
Six
On Monday morning, I’m fifteen minutes early for work. I shuffle with my purse and tote bag of overflowing books as I unlock the glass doors and walk inside. The sensors blare as I enter the building, but I don’t do much more than roll my eyes. I’m not returning to the scene of the crime, I’m merely returning the books I borrowed… without the use of my library card. Whoops. It happens sometimes when I get overexcited about new items.
The smell of aging paper usually calms me, but today it has no effect on my nervous system. The weekend’s events are still rattling around in my brain, refusing to cease. I’m surprised I still managed to come in early with how preoccupied my mind has been.
The library is two stories, the ground floor for housing our entire collection, and the second balcony floor for business meetings in conference rooms that anyone can reserve ahead of time to use. New nonfiction is displayed on a large, square table in front of the half shelf of new general fiction. I open my tote and begin returning a few of the books to their proper locations.
This is my Monday morning routine—stealthily returning all the books I finished reading the week prior before Erica, the managing librarian, can arrive to judge me. (She’s seen my home library and the embarrassing number of unread books I own.) But there’s something about a shiny, new book I don’t have to spend money on that I just can’t resist. Hence, the overflowing bag of books. Most of them belong in the YA section, which resides in its own cozy corner at the back of the first floor.
I run my hands along the wrapped spines, adjusting and tightening the bookends as needed. This is the section I’ve always felt most at home wandering. After my dad left, my mom had to work an extra job in order to provide for us, which included most weekends. From the ages of eleven to sixteen, I spent every single weekend at the public library, reading the days away in a pleather chair torn down the middle, beside the gigantic glass windows overlooking downtown. My cousin Marissa was a library assistant at Central Public Library at the time, so she was able to watch out for me and take me home after closing.
I didn’t just fall in love with books—I fell in love with everything about the library. From talking the youth librarian’s ear off about the latest book I read, to sharing book recommendations with parents to get their kids into reading. My cousin even let me display my favorite books in place of her staff picks a few times. For years, I was an honorary member of their staff until an aide position opened up when I turned sixteen. I didn’t even need an interview to be hired on the spot.
A year working at the John Peace Library on campus was enough to tell me public libraries were where my heart truly lived. I spent the next three years working as an aide at the Pura Belpré Public Library before becoming a full-time assistant after graduation. And then my dream came true six months ago when Pamela Brown retired, and Erica recommended me to take her place as teen librarian.
Once I’ve emptied my tote and shelved all the books in their appropriate spots (and refilled my tote all over again with new books), I clock in and get ready for the day. Angela is already seated at her desk, hair up in a tight bun at the top of her head. She’s wearing a button-up shirt and perfectly pressed slacks. Meanwhile, I’m a slob in my wrinkled pants and hoodie over a collared shirt. I plop down in a seat across from her, taking a long sip from my Starbucks cup.
“How was the stomach bug?” I ask, only slight bitterness coloring my tone.
“God awful. I puked the entire weekend,” she tells me, and I wince in sympathy. I know it wasn’t her fault for ditching me, and I need to stop seeing it that way. “How was the party?”
When I shrug, she throws a pen at me. It hits me in the arm, and I flinch, spilling iced coffee down my shirt. At least the hoodie’s dark color makes it less noticeable.
“Oof, sorry, girl.”
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, patting down my chest with a tissue.
“What is wrong with you for not telling me who you went home with on Saturday?!” My mouth drops open in shock, coffee stain forgotten. “Don’t give me that look! I don’t know whether to be proud or concerned. When I said Ben’s brother might be a viable rebound for you, I was joking. That said, I’m gonna need details.”
How the hell did Angela already hear about that? “Wait, wait, wait, no. I don’t know who told you, but—”
“Don’t you dare tell me the rumor mill is wrong.” She points an accusatory finger at me. “This is the best news I’ve heard all year, and they better be right!”
“I’m confused. Do you actually want it to be true?”
“At this point, I’m rooting for anyone who isn’t Ben.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I give a wry smile. “I’ll tell you all about it at lunch. It’s better chisme than you think.”
“I doubt it.” She scowls, returning to her computer monitor, shoulders slumped in disappointment.
Her desk is, as usual, a giant mess of books and DVD cases. Part of her duties involve mending damaged books and swapping out broken DVD cases for new ones, but I have no idea how she manages to keep up with them in the chaos that is her desk. A copy of Loveless by Alice Oseman sits at the top of the pile, the pristine purple cover catching my eye immediately. But when I try to reach for it, Angela slaps my hand away.
“This is Central’s copy. I’m not handing it over to the girl who regularly smuggles books home without checking them out first.”
I let out a dramatic gasp, but it’s a fair point. I’m about to ask her if it’s damaged—although it’s the only book in the pile that looks brand new—but she continues with the earlier subject before I get the chance to.
“By the way, you should know that everyone at that party thinks you two hooked up. Alice even texted me a couple times to confirm if it was true. Imagine my surprise to hear it from her first, before my supposed best friend.”
I roll my eyes at her dramatic tone.
“It’s not true… but you can’t tell her that.” She raises a brow at me. “I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just don’t tell her anything for now.”
“Fine,” Angela grumbles. “But you should probably watch out for Christine. You’ve unlocked a new enemy.”
“Maybe she should’ve made a move earlier,” I muse, until I remember Theo pacing all alone that night. Perhaps he was hiding from her group, trying to work out his speech to Alice somewhere secluded. Is that what Christine meant when she asked how I got to him?
