Chapter 14 – Simo #2
We’re five weeks into the term and not once has Luca made the effort to bring his own copy of Twelfth Night. Instead he shares mine, which I don’t mind, so long as he doesn’t moan about not being able to read my notes in the margins.
‘I’m not. But, as Mrs Leppla reminds me every lesson, I can’t always depend on you to provide everything I’m too lazy to obtain myself.
Which is plain wrong, but I’m gonna borrow that next book just to shut her up.
’ He heads for the stairs, swiftly followed by Orlando, but stops on the landing. ‘What was it called again? Lottie?’
I sigh. ‘Emma.’
‘Gotcha.’
Luca and Orlando disappear to the ground floor, and I make a stroll around the gallery.
Up here, Joni shelves romance, horror and true crime.
I’ve long stopped questioning her system.
The horror section holds celebrity memoirs and a total of five YA novels about teen pregnancy.
I can tell that she went all out in the romance section, where V.E.
Schwab’s Vicious shares the space with George R.R.
Martin’s history of the Targaryens. And on a true-crime shelf, I spot a brick of a book on Yazidi persecution next to a novella by Adania Shibli that I’ve been meaning to read.
Joni never misses an opportunity to radicalise her readers.
My gaze snags on a copy of Giovanni’s Room. It’s not Joni’s twisted sense of humour that makes me halt, but the small carving in the spot where the book’s spine meets the wood of the shelf. Two letters surrounded by a heart.
The library loses focus and the heart fills my vision.
Splinters graze my skin as I touch the carving, trace its outline, a fresh scar in the wood.
My mind remains blank, but my body is in turmoil.
Heat surfaces in a fever rush. I itch all over, but I could scratch every inch of me and I know it wouldn’t stop.
I go for the letters, dig in deep. Wood chips pierce the flesh beneath my nails.
I don’t relent, not until the varnish comes off, until there’s a frayed wound in the wood where the letters used to be.
When every trace of them is gone, the heat recedes, leaving a sheen of sweat on my forehead.
My surroundings come back into focus. The space no longer feels like a sanctuary; it’s too open.
When I look over my shoulder, I’m the only one around.
Low chatter reaches my ears, and I remember Joni and Luca on the floor below.
Did Joni do this? I can’t imagine her going around carving hearts in her bookshelves.
Something tells me she hasn’t even seen the vandalisation, or she’d be fuming.
First the noticeboard, now this. I have no proof that the two are connected, but deep down I feel certain they must be.
I’m starting to feel sick, and it’s not the toastie that’s making my stomach churn.
The air in here is stale; it smells of grease and wet dog.
My legs carry me down and straight out of the library.
Cold air hits my skin, followed by stray raindrops or sea spray.
The clouds remain dense and heavy, preparing for the next downpour. It only takes Luca seconds to catch up.
‘Hey, what was that about?’
I shake my head, unable to explain the carving and the state I’m in. He grabs my wrist, forcing me to a stop.
‘You’re bleeding,’ he says, and lifts my hand to inspect it. His eyes widen as he takes in the ragged skin, the torn nails. ‘Fuck, Simo, what did you do?’
I shake him off, but his grip lingers. ‘I need to get home.’
‘First we need to get that looked at,’ Luca protests, but I’m already walking away.
‘Simo!’ he shouts, and the mix of hurt and anger in his voice stops me.
I turn to see his slender figure against an iron sky, puzzlement shadowing his eyes.
He clutches a couple of books and looks as vulnerable as I feel.
I want to close the distance, let him take my hand.
But there are people on the beach and windows looking out towards us.
I truly hate that this friendship isn’t mine any more.
It’s been taken out of my hands and turned into someone else’s idea of us.
Between gross gestures in school hallways or the constant vomit-inducing shipping, I can’t decide what’s worse.
Luca approaches, but the discomfort must show on my face, because he doesn’t try to touch me again.
I still don’t move, caught between the urge to back away and the desire to pull him close.
‘Let me at least clean it up before you go home, OK?’ Luca’s voice is gentle, but it finds a gap in the coil of anger and disgust wrapped tightly around my chest.
I feel myself nodding. Luca musters a smile that fails to hide his concern. He walks ahead, arms wrapped tightly around his torso, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
I remain a step behind him. My fingers throb, and I think of the carved heart and the many outside forces trying to push themselves between me and my best friend. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to shut them out, they keep coming back, and I’m getting tired. Tired of fighting them.