Chapter 5
Mrs. Hook is the librarian at Willow High. I got to be honest, it's not exactly a huge library. Most of the books are here because my dad donated them. Guess that's why Mrs. Hook always throws a big smile my way when I walk in.
I like her, though. She’s chill and motherly in a way my own mom isn’t. Her hair’s dyed a faded blonde with white roots peeking out. She wears frameless glasses, lenses scratched up, always smudged. Honestly, I don’t know how she sees anything.
As soon as she spots me, she grins and closes the book she’s reading. I shoot her a half-smile back, even though that's not really my thing. But she deserves some effort since I'm here more than at home anyway.
"Luca!" She sounds way too excited. "Just the guy I wanted to see."
I lean on the tall desk, fist under my chin. "What'd I do now? Forget to bring something back again?"
“Oh, honey, that only happened once. And let’s be honest—nobody in their right mind was fighting over Faust.”
Ah, yeah. Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Guy sells his soul to the devil for ultimate knowledge. Honestly, it got under my skin for months; that's why I held onto it.
"Okay, then what's up?"
"Your request to get the Greek philosophers got approved!" She’s practically bouncing.
"Took 'em long enough to realize how lame this library is," I reply. Mrs. Hook probably expected some excitement, but she knows me better by now. Smiles aren’t my thing—except that one I gave Emma Green when she showed up with paint smeared all over her face. That was actually funny.
"They’re arriving this afternoon," she says, pulling me back. "Give me a few hours to get them in the system, but tomorrow you can take whatever you want."
"Cool." My eyes wander over the desk, scattered with random books like always. One catches my attention—it's got some weird art on the cover and a sticky note with "Emma" and a doodled heart.
Mrs. Hook notices and smiles softly. "That's taken." But she still picks it up to show me.
Dalí. The Persistence of Memory, melting clocks and all, partially hidden by the note.
"Yeah, I saw it." I flip through briefly. "Not really into Dalí, he's too... random."
"Oh boy, here we go..." someone mutters behind me.
I turn, and there she is—Emma Green, a bandana tied around her head, white with black swirls. She has on an oversized shirt with a famous image of the Buddhist monk from Vietnam. Bold choice.
"Excuse me?"
She ignores me completely, sweeping past and hugging Mrs. Hook tightly before snagging the book out of my hands. "You're stuck in left-brain mode again," she says, all dramatic. "That's why you don't get the genius of 'Dalí.'" She even says his name like she's impersonating him.
Mrs. Hook laughs, clearly loving this girl.
Me? I’m just staring. "Giving flamingo legs to elephants isn't genius," I shoot back, enjoying riling her up.
"Luke, how many times—"
"Luca," I correct her immediately.
She narrows her eyes dramatically. "LUCA...you gotta think bigger."
"Bigger, huh?" I mutter, but now I'm not looking at the painting. I'm checking her out: her eyes are bright green, her hair is a messy mix of blonde and brown, she has a straight nose, and her face is shaped like a heart. She's pretty—but not in the way girls at school usually are.
Mrs. Hook breaks in, clearly sensing the tension—though she's reading it wrong. She thinks I'm annoyed, but it's something else. Took me a minute to figure it out myself.
"Luca, were you looking for anything specific today?”
I glance back at Mrs. Hook, who shifts nervously. Dad says my stare makes people uncomfortable. "If you promise those books tomorrow, I'm good."
"Definitely, they’re all yours."
As I back towards the door, I catch Emma’s gaze again and smirk. "Better slip Emma the one on Socrates. Seems like she needs an introduction."
School always feels weird after hours. Without the usual chaos of students everywhere, it’s just a dull, ordinary building.
My footsteps echo in the empty halls, stopping suddenly when I notice a classroom light still on.
Curious, I step back and peek through the small window in the door.
Emma’s standing there, painting on a canvas.
Looks like still life, copying an image she taped to the canvas's edge. It’s pretty, a bit sad, but accurate.
Before I can move away, she turns and catches me staring.
Damn it.
I start walking casually again, like nothing happened, but her voice catches up to me down the hall.
"Hey, Skywalker! Not so fast!"
I spin around, annoyed by that nickname—and by her repeating exactly what I said to her last week. She’s wearing overalls splattered with paint and beat-up white canvas sneakers. Typical Emma.
"Thought I was the only one here this late," she says, stepping closer.
I look down at her easy smile. How does she do it? Always spontaneous, never overthinking things. "You know you're not the only student in the school, right?"
"Sometimes feels like it," she says, thoughtful. "All day, my brain just bounces me from class to class, and after school, I get stuck in the art room. By the time I notice, it’s nighttime. Did you eat yet?"
I almost laugh listening to her ramble. Her inner monologue must be exhausting. I get it—my brain’s busy too, but my thoughts are mine alone. "No," I say, glancing toward the exit. "My family's probably expecting me."
"Yeah, mine too,"—she shrugs—"but sometimes I'd rather just grab something quick. I can’t really focus at home."
Was she about to ask me to eat with her? Suddenly, the idea feels tempting. "What were you thinking about eating?"
She taps her cheek, looking adorable as she thinks. "Hmm…maybe something quick? A burger from Sonic or something."
"Want a ride?" The words slip out before I can second-guess them. What am I doing? I should be heading home.
But Emma’s eyes widen excitedly, and I can’t help but smile back.
Yeah, this girl’s going to be trouble.