“Anyway, look, you have to go tell her,” Louise says, still whispering.
“Tell who what?”
“This lady,” she says, nodding through the stacks. “She can’t be looking at that stuff.”
“Why me?” I squeak, failing to moderate my voice.
Louise’s brows jerk up. “Shh,” she says.
“You’re the one that found her,” I whisper, but Louise is already halfway back down the aisle, her hips swiveling with the speed of her gait.
Crap.
As I walk up to the woman and try to gently explain library policy, my face growing red, I feel someone’s eyes on me. I turn and my gaze meets Michael’s. His mouth cracks into a smile, which he tries to cover with his hand, before he turns back to his computer screen. Great—even the pillow golfer is laughing at me.
AT SIX FORTY-FIVE, Louise appears beside me, coat on, keys in hand. “I know it’s my turn, but can you lock up tonight?” she asks.
I dip my head toward where Aja is still sitting. “Yeah, I’ve got to wait for his dad to get here anyway. I told him I’d watch him.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize anyone was still . . . wait . . . you did what?” She narrows her eyes.
“You said we need more bodies,” I say, offering her my most charming smile.
“Yeah, but we’re not a babysitting service.”
“Well, no. But we’re not a homeless shelter or a video game arcade either,” I say, nodding in the direction of the TP Thief, who’s currently browsing the DVD section, and then toward Michael, the pillow golfer at his standard computer carrel. “You said yourself, the job’s books and community service.”
Her eyebrows disappear beneath the grayish curtain of fringe on her forehead. “True,” she says. “I guess as long as you don’t mind.” She glances at her watch. “I’ve got to go. My oldest granddaughter’s got bingo night at school and I promised I’d be there. Ends in thirty minutes.”
I look at her, wondering how many grandkids she’s got. And then I wonder why I’ve never thought to ask.
After she leaves, I clean the circulation desk, rehoming the stray pencils, paper clips, rubber bands, and other office supplies, and then sit there, glancing at the clock. Six fifty-one. I drum my fingers on the laminate surface and then stand up.
I mosey over near the computer carrels and pretend to be looking for a book on the shelf next to Aja.
“So why’d your mom name you Jubilee?”
I jump, his voice startling me, and turn to look at him.
“Do you think she was a big X-Men fan?”
“Ah, no. Definitely not,” I say. Every year on my birthday, my mom told the story of her labor with me. Thirty-five hours. It was hell. You fought and fought and then at the end when it was time to push—long after that damned epidural wore off—you were trying to come out forehead first, and the cord was wrapped around your neck and the doctor had to go in and grab and pull. Like there was enough room in there for his hands, too! Most pain I’ve ever experienced. I was so goddamned glad when you were finally out and it was over. Pure joy. That’s what I was going to name you. Joy. But then one of the nurses said it was like a jubilee, a reason to celebrate, or something like that. And I thought it sounded fancier. If Joy’s on a wedding invitation, you might get a Kmart gift, but Jubilee? That’s a Neiman Marcus name. High-end.
That’s how I got my name. She was so joyful to be rid of me. So happy I wasn’t causing her problems anymore. But I don’t want to tell Aja that.
So I lie.
“Mom was so happy I was finally there. In her arms. And ‘jubilee’ means ‘a joyful celebration.’ ”
Aja nods. “That makes sense.”
“What about you? Why’d your parents name you Aja?”
He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s heard me. And then softly, he says: “They didn’t.”
“What?”
“That’s not my real name.”
“What’s your real name?”
He shakes his head.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
He mutters something.
“What?”
“Clarence,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “It’s Clarence.”
I try not to laugh, but a small giggle falls out. Aja narrows his eyes at me and I try to compose myself. “Why on earth did they name you Clarence?”
“My dad wanted me to have an American name,” he says. “To fit in.”
At that, the laughter bubbles over. “With Clarence?”
“Yeah,” he says, the left side of his mouth turning up. “Terrible, huh?”
“The worst!” I say, still laughing. “I’m sorry. But that is pretty bad.”
When I finally calm down, I say: “So how’d you end up with Aja?”
He shrugs. “It’s a nickname. From my mom. When I was born, she was trying to learn Sanskrit. My dad’s parents are Hindu—”
“Wait, so Eric isn’t your—”
He shakes his head. “He adopted me, when . . .” But he doesn’t finish the sentence. He just looks down at the carpet, shoulders hunched. When I first saw them, I suspected that Eric wasn’t his biological dad, what with Aja’s slight British accent that Eric doesn’t share—not to mention the difference in their appearance: Aja’s bronze skin and dark eyes versus Eric’s sandy complexion and green eyes—but I didn’t know for sure. It was possible Eric’s ex-wife was responsible for passing along those characteristics. But at the revelation, my heart breaks a little for Aja, at the same time that it swells a little for Eric. At this further affirmation of his genuine goodness in character.
“I’m sorry,” I say, not wanting Aja to dwell on the obviously devastating event, whatever it was that happened to his parents. “So your mom—she was learning Sanskrit?”
He’s quiet for a moment longer and I wonder if I’ve lost him. But then his small voice continues. “She was hoping it would make them like her more. She wanted to be able to talk to them, to show she was putting in such an effort to learn about their culture, or something.”
“She was learning to speak it? I thought Sanskrit was just a written language.”
“It is mostly, but I think actually some Hindu priests still use it and it’s the official language of Uttarakhand in India, where my grandparents were born. Anyway, she said I used to make this noise when I was a baby—not a cry but like this high-pitched mewing sound. Like a baby goat. And the word for ‘goat’ in Sanskrit is—”
“ ‘Aja,’ ” I say.
“Yep.” He looks down again, kicking an invisible wall with his toe. “So my name is really Goat.”
I chuckle. “It’s better than Clarence.”
“Quite,” he says formally, eliciting another smile from me. He turns back to his comic book and I take it as a signal our conversation is over. I start to walk back to the desk, find something else to do until Eric arrives.
“I Googled you.”
I stop. Turn back to him. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
I cock my head. “How’d you know my last name?”
He shrugs. “It’s on the library website.”
“It is?”
He nods. “I can’t believe you were in the New York Times,” he says, his eyes wide. “That’s like the biggest newspaper ever.”
It’s my turn to shrug.
“You’re lucky,” he says.
“It’s not really that big a deal. It was just one article.”
“No, I mean, to not have to touch anybody. I hate being touched. Especially by strangers. You know, like when someone coughs and then they want to shake your hand afterward?” He pulls a face. “No, thank you. But you don’t have to deal with that.”
“Yeah, I guess not.”
He looks back down, like he said all he wanted to say and that’s the end of our conversation. I glance over his shoulder.
“Is that a comic book?”
“Yes,” he says, without taking his eyes off it.
“X-Men?”
“Of course.”
I wait a few beats, not wanting to bother him, but I don’t have any other work to do, and I’m curious. Not about the comic book, really. But about him. He’s different. So matter-of-fact. Always says what he’s thinking. I like that.
“What’s it about?”
But before he can answer, the door opens and Eric rushes in. “I’m here! I’m here,” he says. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Flushed pink from the cold, his cheeks have a ruddy, almost boyish quality.
I glance at the clock. It’s only 7:05.
“S’ok,” I say, still smiling from my conversation. “We were just”—I look back at Aja, but he’s reabsorbed in the comic book—“ah, talking.” I straighten up from where I’ve been leaning against a stack and start walking toward the break room to get my coat. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or if I can actually feel Eric’s eyes on me. And if I’m warm because I’m self-conscious or because his gaze feels like the sun.
“Aja, you ready, bud?” he says as I reach the break room.
When I come out a few minutes later, they’re both standing by the front door. Aja’s got his coat on, his head hanging down, but Eric is looking at me.
I pick the keys up from the desk and walk toward them.
“Thank you,” he says. “For doing this.”
“It’s really no trouble.”
He nods. “Still.” He turns to the door and opens it, allowing a blast of cold air to rush in. I click off the lights, turn to make sure I haven’t missed any, and then scoot through the door that Eric is holding into the dark night. I step to the side while he lets it fall closed and then move to lock it under his watchful eye, while Aja heads to the car.
“So,” I say, trying to shake off the feeling that I’m under a spotlight. “Did we finish? With the Notebook discussion?”
He laughs. “I think I was done when you compared it to Shakespeare,” he says. “Seriously, though, people don’t really talk that way to each other.”
“It’s based on a true story,” I say lamely. His left eyebrow is an arrow pointing to his hairline.
He sighs as we walk to get my bike from the rack. “I guess I’m worried that Ellie loved it so much—that it sets up this crazy standard for love and relationships that doesn’t really exist.”
I consider this. I don’t know anything about love and relationships, but I do know that books and movies can create unrealistic expectations. After reading Pippi Longstocking as a child, I became convinced my dad would just show up at the front door one day with some plausible explanation of why he’d been gone my entire life—maybe marooned on a South Seas island like Captain Longstocking. And yes, it was depressing when I was old enough to accept the truth. But then I think what life would be like without these fantasies. These hopes.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Isn’t childhood the time to be idealistic? The time to dream? She’ll have plenty of time to be a cynic when she grows up.”
He lifts his chin. “How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Take everything I think and turn it on its ear.”
My throat tightens at the compliment—at least, I think it’s a compliment, because of the way he’s looking at me. And I realize it’s not just like I’m normal, the way he’s looking at me. It’s like I’m reciting five hundred decimal points of pi from memory. Like I’m a marvel. Just for saying what I think. My gut clenches and then flips, and I look down at the black tar of the parking lot. Specks of it twinkle like diamonds under the street lamp. And I wonder if this is what people mean when they say they’re falling for somebody. That it feels like your stomach is actually falling out of your body. I mean, not that I am. Falling for him.
The moon is bright tonight, like a perfectly round lightbulb framed by the car window. Aja notices it too, and because I’m still having trouble looking directly at Eric, I’m relieved when Aja and I fall into a conversation about space travel.
“Did you know the original tapes of the 1969 moon landing were accidentally erased by NASA?” I’m pleased when he says he didn’t, and then our discussion devolves into conspiracy theories, mostly about aliens and the Montauk Project, a purported government research project in Long Island similar to Area 51, which he seems to know a lot about for a ten-year-old.
When Eric pulls into the driveway, I finally garner the courage to turn to him. “What’s next?”
My question interrupts his thoughts and he looks at me blankly for a second before responding.
“Oh, um . . . some Stephen King book,” he says.
I pause. “Which one? I don’t do horror.”
He laughs. “Well, my daughter does. She’s read three of his—Carrie, Misery . . . and another one. I think it’s a woman’s name.”
“Dolores Claiborne?”
“Yeah, that sounds right.”
“Let’s do that one. It’s more of a psychological thriller.”
“There’s a difference?”
I laugh at his confused look. “Yes.”
“OK, do you have a copy at the library? I’ll check it out tomorrow.” We get out of the car at the same time, and he walks to the trunk to get my bike out.
“I’m sure we do,” I say. “And I think I’ve got a copy somewhere. I’ll look tonight.”
“In those massive piles in there?” he asks, nodding toward my house. “You’re actually going to attempt to move them? You’ll get buried alive.”
“Ha-ha,” I say. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious,” he calls over his shoulder as he walks my bike up to the gate. “Those stacks could topple over at any time.” He sets it down and walks back toward me. “If you’re not at work tomorrow, I’m calling a search party.”
I smile up at him, aware of the two feet of space between us and my conflicting feelings regarding it—how it feels like not nearly enough and entirely too much at the same time. “Thanks for the ride,” I say, and turn to walk up the path toward the front porch. My stomach flips again and I put my hand on it to steady it. And then I remind myself, as I’m fitting the key in the lock, that it’s the exact same way I felt when Donovan leaned in to kiss me so many years ago.
Right before I almost died.
seventeen
ERIC
THE DYNAMICS OF the ride home have changed, now that Aja is with us. And I remember why a threesome of children never worked on the playground—someone is always left out. In the car, that person is me. When Aja isn’t plugged into his iPad, he and Jubilee talk. Constantly. About strange things, things that I’ve never heard of, and I don’t even know if they’re real, like anatidaephobia, the irrational fear that no matter where you are, you’re being watched by a duck. Aja laughed so hard at that in the backseat, he was doubled over, clutching his belly in pain.
They talk so much, our conversations have dwindled to hello, yes-or-no questions, and her reply of “Tomorrow” every time I drop her and the bike off and say, “See you tomorrow?”
So it doesn’t make sense then that I find myself eager for the day to end. That my limbs feel lighter the closer I get to the library. That with her—even when she’s talking about ducks—is where I most want to be.
Friday is no different. The entire ride home, they’re on the topic of inventions, although it’s more trading facts than a conversation.
“The lady who invented chocolate chip cookies sold the idea to Nestlé for a dollar.”
“Bubble wrap was an accident. They were trying to make three-D wallpaper.”
“The inventor of the Fender Stratocaster didn’t even know how to play guitar.”
It’s like there’s an extra pocket in their brains where they tuck away useless facts like someone keeping a snotty tissue up their sleeve in the event they may need it again.
By the time we reach Jubilee’s house, it occurs to me I won’t see her again until Monday, and the thought tugs at me. She reaches for the door handle. “I finished Dolores Claiborne,” I b
lurt out. It’s not exactly true, I’m only halfway done.
Her hand pauses. “What’d you think?”
“I wouldn’t want to be the one to piss her off.”
She laughs.
“So, do you wanna—” My lips are dry, and I dampen the bottom one with a quick flick of my tongue. “I know it’s the weekend, but maybe we could—I don’t know. Get together. Talk about it.”
She directs her gaze at the darkened windows of her house, as if the answer will be taped on one of the panes. “Um . . . yeah,” she says. “Sure. Do you want to come over tomorrow? I don’t—I’m off work.”
“Yeah, great,” I say. “That’s great. I’ll bring lunch. It’s a date.”
“OK,” she says, then slips out of the car. In what has now become routine, I get out, collect her bike from the trunk, deposit it behind the gate, and then make sure she’s securely in the house before I get back in the car and put it in reverse.
“Did you just ask her on a date?” Aja pipes up from the backseat.
“No. No, of course not. She’s just helping me with . . . something.”
“Oh,” Aja says, and turns his attention back to his game.
AS SOON AS we get to Jubilee’s on Saturday, Aja slinks over to the armchair, slips his earbuds in, and starts tapping on the screen of his iPad, leaving Jubilee and me to stand awkwardly staring at each other. For once, I’m thankful for that stupid machine and the opportunity it’s affording me to talk to her alone.
“Want some tea? Coffee?” she asks.
“Yeah, coffee would be great,” I say, even though I’ve already had two cups this morning and really shouldn’t have more. But I’m leaning closer to just admitting defeat on my cutting-back plan. I swipe my wool beanie off with my free hand. In the other, I’m carrying a paper sack of hoagies. I go to offer it to her, but she turns and walks out of the back doorway of the room. I watch her leave, wondering if I should just sit and wait, when she calls out: “You can come back here.”
I follow her voice through the den into an outdated kitchen with eighties appliances and yellowed wallpaper lined with cherries. Jubilee’s standing at the counter, her back to me. I try not to notice the way the sun coming through the window highlights the reddish gold in her hair. Or how the locks fall down her back, reaching nearly to the dip of her waist. The way she’s got all her weight on one foot, causing her rounded hip to jut out, the curve of her . . .
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