Chapter 3 #2
I stood while scanning the Dewey Decimal numbers and stacked the books with the ones that went on the same shelf, then slid the whole pile into my arms. My ever-present denim jacket did a great job of protecting my inner elbow from the sharp corners.
Even with the heater running, I still wore it and didn’t feel hot.
Either the library had a draft, or maybe I was just cold-blooded.
Maybe if I gave it a break, my exhausted mind could put its finger on what was wrong with the code.
I sighed in relief again as I disappeared into the stacks, and the overcrowded library fell away.
The way you couldn’t see anyone or anything around them made it feel like a maze.
Some stacks dead-ended. Some had treasure at the end.
Others had traps. Sometimes you’d come around the corner to end up face-to-face with a monster—or a Stephanie, anyway.
There was a sense of adventure in entering the stacks, not unlike the adventures that could be found behind the pages of some of these books or in a good video game.
Unfortunately, the bug in my program followed me today, buzzing in my ear and ruining the relaxing effect.
I slid the last book back into its spot on the shelf and trudged back to the front desk.
The flash of a familiar backside stopped me in my tracks before my mind caught up.
I stared blankly for several moments and felt my cheeks getting hot from my own behavior.
Ni was in one of the glass-walled study rooms, bent over.
He stood back up—a marker in hand—having just retrieved it from the floor.
Three other classmates from my programming class observed as he wrote on the board.
Lucky them. He sat on the table; they were deep in discussion.
He seemed to be explaining something to them.
Was he in our class or in another programming class?
He spoke and gestured as if in charge and comfortable with the mantle of teacher, leader. Maybe it was the quarterback in him.
Then he stood and turned. I ducked behind the shelf.
Had he seen me? I needed to go—but then he pointed with the marker to the wall.
Across the whiteboard he’d written the very homework problem that had been stumping me.
My eyes were glued to the simplicity of the lines he’d written out.
Each step was clear and concise, like his handwriting.
So unfair. How could Mr. Perfect be great at this, too?
Working my little gaming notebook out of my pocket, I scribbled down the lines, then rushed back to the front desk where my homework waited.
The tension in my shoulders melted away, and excitement rushed through me as I found the issue and fixed my lines of code at last. At least my programming homework would be complete today.
However, while a poor grade on that assignment would be annoying, a failure on my etymology essay would be a death-without-the-possibility-of-a-respawn to my English grade.
It was due in less than a week, and I didn’t even have a complete rough draft.
What I had was lacking some key details that referenced a primary source I couldn’t access.
If only someone would return the darn book.
While I cleaned a stack of discs, I stared at the steps in my program and my mind whirred.
It seemed so simple when I looked at it now.
Why couldn’t I get there on my own? Probably because of a certain Parking Lot Angel that was driving me to distraction.
I needed to stop thinking about him. My volunteer hour was coming to a close, and I had one more thing on my agenda: questing for the lost book.
The library had only that one copy of such a niche text.
Who else would want Language Changes and Influences from the Sixteenth Century to the Eighteenth Century?
It was four days overdue. Why couldn’t they return it?
Didn’t they know other people were doing their essays too?
It wasn’t as if I could afford my own copy of every book I needed beyond the textbook. That was what libraries were for.
I checked with the librarian for any last-minute tasks, then headed to the nonfiction section to see if it had somehow ended up on the shelf anyway.
Sometimes mistakes were made, and books that should have been on the shelf weren’t, and vice versa. According to Dewey, Language Changes should be on the top shelf, so I used a conveniently placed stool in the corner to check. I was disappointed to find the designated spot on the shelf empty.
The gap mocked me. I looked to the left, the right, and below in hopes that it had been misshelved by a volunteer more lax than me.
When I came up short, I might have disparaged Shakespeare and other dead authors whose work I needed to study in that book.
Wiping the shelf dust from my hands onto my jeans and resigned myself to a dismal English grade.
The possibility of getting a B or even a C left me shuddering. Maybe I could make it up next semester.
“Hey.”
A soft voice startled me, almost making me lose my balance, but I recovered and stepped down.
Standing between me and the freedom of the aisle was Ni. We hadn’t been this close since the parking lot incident. The hurt was so fresh that he was no longer my Parking Lot Angel, but instead everyone’s favorite, perfect Ni-guy. There was a small nick on his cleft chin, likely from shaving.
His welcoming smile sliced my gut. How I hated my giddy response. My skin crawled as I compared myself to my dad—only obsessed with good looks.
“How is your programming assignment coming?” he asked.
“Great.” Thanks to you.
“You really know your stuff,” I said.
He raised a thick black eyebrow. There was a glint in his eye that I couldn’t quite place. Had he seen me watching him in the study room? Or watching him bend over? No.
“P-p-programming. I saw you in the room earlier.” Great. Now I sounded like a stalker with a speech impediment.
He shrugged, and his shoulders stretched the tan T-shirt he wore. Was that a blush?
“Programming is interesting. And fun,” he said.
Did we actually have something in common? My tongue felt thick and dry. Why did his soft lips stretching into that ever-present smile make my saliva disappear?
“And you’re not bad at it either.”
My eyebrows furrowed. What was he talking about?
“You always sit at the front of class. Maybe you never noticed me.”
I was oblivious. How had I missed Ni in class?
“Did you need help finding something? Or reaching something?”
“No.” I ripped my gaze from his own, and it fell to the books in his arms. It was easier to avoid those penetrating gray eyes.
I froze. He had a copy of the book. Ni was the one holding onto a past-due book?
Maybe he wasn’t so perfect after all. Yet now I had to talk to him, and not just so I could get past him. Awkward.
The book. I needed to get the conversation back on track.
“So, you like English etymology too?” Brilliant. Stellar conversational skills.
“The teacher gave us only a few choices this time. It seemed the most interesting.” His gaze lingered on my own.
Why wasn’t he moving? Or speaking? Why wasn’t I? I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. “Are you done? Could I—I mean, if you don’t need it anymore, I’d like to check it out?”
Why had that come out like a question? I sounded like an idiot.
“Oh, this copy is actually mine,” he said.
So he wasn’t a book-hoarding troll. I suddenly became very interested in the industrial carpet and the snag that needed to be cut off so no one tripped on it. Move out of the way so I can get past...I was trapped and making a complete fool out of myself.
“But if you want—”
My head popped up as if I’d taken a speed potion.
“I uh...I just finished my rough draft. So, I don’t need the book. I could let you borrow it?” He held it out to me.
But did I really want to owe him? On the other hand, if I had the book now, I could spend time polishing my essay into an “A” paper. The temptation was too great.
I ignored the puppy-dog eyes. He was the type who would give another person the shirt off his back. I wasn’t special. And why was that even a saying?
Now I was picturing something I definitely shouldn’t be. Alone. In the middle of the stacks. With a handsome quarterback...Breathe...Breathe, Molly. Oxygen good.
“Thanks.” Luckily, I didn’t trip on the snag and fall straight into his arms, though I did practically rip the proffered book out of his hands before barreling past as if I were the football player.
I SPENT THE NIGHT IN my room with Ni’s book. I read it from cover to cover. It was filled with sticky notes of beautifully cramped writing on each of the main points. I read his thoughts. They were carefully laid out in a logical fashion that was simple and easy to follow—like his programming code.
Sometimes I agreed, and other times I disagreed. My frustration bled through into my own sticky notes, packed with evidence to support my rebuttals.
I’m not sure why I did it. He certainly didn’t want to see my thoughts.
He had lent me the book out of kindness.
But I couldn’t seem to help myself. I stayed up late that night.
Out of the three days I had set aside to complete the essay, I used just the one night.
Part of it was the information he had highlighted.
Part of it was the excitement that filled my blood at the miniature debate. I was pathetic.