Check Me Out

by Becca Wilhite

  He said? Who said? There was a cartoon drawing on the paper. A picture of me, holding library books and grinning, standing next to a huge wrapped gift. It was unmistakably drawn by Will Marshall.

  I laughed. “Wait. Where did you get this?” He didn’t say anything. He stood beside me, smiling and exuding confidence and perfection. “You know Will?” My brain tried to bend around the probability of this gorgeous, library-visiting, poetry-reading man knowing the guy who’d been my best friend since second grade. Without getting any explanation, I turned the card over. On the other side, in practiced block script, were the words, “Happy late birthday. I always deliver.”

  The birthday wish. This? Him? No way.

  My eyes went from card to gorgeous stranger and back. It was dizzying, honestly. And I might have had my mouth open. As soon as I realized that, I reinstalled my polite smile.

  “Thank you very much for bringing me this,” I said, waving the card. “I love it.”

  It wasn’t like he’d stopped smiling at me, but there was some kind of reset to it since it now blazed in a way that managed to be charming and not at all aggressive. He had very nice teeth and very, very pretty lips, and I wanted to see more and more of that mouth. I mean smile. I wanted to see more of that smile. Then it occurred to me that he could absolutely tell that I was staring at his mouth. I had to look away. My eyes landed on his shirt, and I read, “Do you have a map? I just got lost in your eyes.”

  He saw me look. Or maybe he didn’t. Oh, yes, he did. His eyes went down to his own shirt and back to my face. Was he gauging my reaction? He looked pleased.

  A small, nervous laugh escaped my throat, and I realized that I was on the brink of a twenty-first century swoon. Pull it together, I told myself.

  “I should get back to work. It was good to meet you.”

  “You, too, Greta.”

  I had never, ever loved the sound of my own name so much.

  “Are you going to check those out?” I asked, pointing to the books in his hand.

  He looked down, and back up at me, and I was completely lost. “Sure,” he said. “Help me?”

  I nodded, and he followed me to the circulation desk. “You said you were new in town. Do you have a library card?”

  He let out a breath of a laugh. “Oh. No. Is that bad?”

  “No problem. I’ll get you set up.” I pulled up the right screen and tried to act like a professional as I asked for his name.

  “Mac. Mackay Sanders.”

  Mackay Sanders proceeded to give me, in the world’s most professional manner, both his phone number and his address. Turned out he lived right by the university.

  “Are you a student?” I asked, pretending it was information I needed for his account.

  “No. I’m in management.”

  No. He’s in management. Sigh. I wrote that—all of it, including the sigh—in the Notes section, which only I ever used, then I finalized his application and printed him a card. He spent those two minutes checking his phone and sending a couple of texts, allowing me to steal glances pretty much whenever I felt like it.

  “All right. You’re all set.” I slid the books and the card across the counter.

  He put his hands on either side of the little stack and leaned toward me. “Now that we know how to find each other,” he said, “I hope to see you again soon.” He picked up his books and walked away.

  When I returned to reality, I looked around. The circulation desk was quiet. Nobody needed anything. I pulled out my phone and texted Will.

  He answered so quickly I could tell he’d been holding his phone.

  I may have inhaled a tiny gasp.

  I stashed my phone to help a young mom check out a pile of picture books. Then the mail-delivery guy, Stan, who was at least ninety years old but didn’t look a day over a hundred and fifty, dropped off the post and wanted to talk. Rumor had it Stan had been delivering mail in Franklin since Harry Truman was the president of the United States. I didn’t know how big his route was these days, but it couldn’t have covered too much ground since he wandered into the library every day and stayed to chat for at least twenty minutes. Today it was something about bugs in trees. I did a lot of smiling and nodding, and when he looked particularly serious, I ditched the smiling. Before he left, he patted my hand, shook his head, and said, “You never know.”

  I agreed, because what else could I do but agree?

  After Stan left, I pulled out my phone and tweeted, “You learn something every day, if you try. #GoToTheLibrary”

  Chapter 2

  When the clock bonged for closing time, I went around and checked all the windows, stuck my head (or at least my voice) into the bathrooms to make sure all was clear, turned off the lights, and shut down the computers. It meant I left at 5:10 instead of the actual 5:00 closing we promised, but Julie wanted to make sure people didn’t feel rushed out of the building.

  I didn’t mind. In fact, it was something I loved about the old-fashionedness of the Franklin library. If we wanted a door to lock, we had to go lock it. If a light was on, we flipped a switch to turn it off. It was personal. And I liked it.

  And now, at 5:10, I stepped outside and pulled the wooden door closed behind me, locking up until Monday morning. I pushed the metal flap over the book drop, making sure it wasn’t stuck, and shivered when it screeched. After all these years, I still wasn’t sure if it was a shiver of discomfort from the noise or of delight that I knew the screech was going to happen.

  I heard a voice behind me. “Oh, wait, don’t lock up the library yet. I need to come in and get something.”

  I knew it was Will, so I pretended to huff in frustration. “Seriously? Don’t you know that everything you might possibly need from a library is already on the internet?” I turned to see him standing in the walkway, grinning and holding his arms out like he’d enjoy a little applause.

  I clapped. Loud and slow.

  I cleared my throat like I was going to make a declaration. “Will Marshall. You are hereby the greatest friend in the universe. If this whole high school teaching thing doesn’t work out, go into Birthday Wish Fulfillment.” I stepped around a broken brick that had fallen onto the path and walked into his arms. He hugged me tight and picked me up off the ground. Will was more than big enough to enfold me until I almost disappeared. Will was more than big enough for pretty much anything.

  “You didn’t make it easy this year. If I remember, you required single, clever, good hair, and what was the last part? Skin-melting hotness? Something like that?”

  Pulling out of the hug, I wobbled my head back and forth, not quite agreeing, but certainly not disagreeing. “Something like that.”

  “So far, so good, yeah?”

  “So far, pretty close to perfect.” It seemed like he already knew what had happened, but Will never minded hearing me overexplain things that I found relevant. And this was relevant. I spared very few details as I explained my Mac Encounter while Will and I walked to Happy’s. When we’d ordered and sat down and I had run out of adjectives to describe the run-in, Will picked up his water cup, swirled it around, and drank it all down.

  “This birthday thing was easier when you wanted polka-dot socks,” he said, not quite looking at me. “Not that I’ve regretted any of the work required to procure your gifts. Or the ‘ask for what you want, get what you want’ rule. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m just saying, if you continue to get increasingly picky or demanding, your gifts will continue to come later and later.” He set down his cup and picked a napkin out of the tabletop dispenser. “Some of these things take more than twelve months to procure.”

  I nodded and hummed in agreement. I drained my water, then said, “Worth the wait.”

  Our waitress brought a tray full of cheeseburger goodness and slid it onto the table. “Mr. Marshall,” she said with a big smile, “good to see you on th
e outside.” She gave him a high five before walking away.

  I shoved three fries into my mouth, enjoying the burn and the salt and the grease. “Is she one of yours?”

  He nodded behind the single fry he nibbled. Such manners. “Last year. She’s a great improv speaker. Very funny. Very confident.” Will always complimented his students.

  “And possibly harboring a mad crush on her debate coach.”

  He shook his head, and I watched a blush creep up his neck. It always freaked him out when I talked like that. So I always talked like that.

  In a graceless but effective effort to change the subject, Will said, “So, according to your stated demands, you are now in possession of the world’s best twenty-fourth birthday present. Don’t break it before you have a chance to really enjoy it.”

  “Seriously, Will, you’ve outdone yourself. Good work. Thank you. Have I mentioned thank you? Because thank you.” I shoveled in more fries, unwilling to let them get cold.

  He shook his head. “I deliver, but I can’t guarantee any satisfaction once you’ve accepted the gift.”

  I ticked off a list on my greasy fingers. “Single? I can take your word for it. Clever? For real, you should have been there to hear him. ‘Now that we know where to find each other . . . ’ Yeah. Clever. Check. Good hair?” I closed my eyes to call up the picture of him I’d locked into my mind. “It’s dark and curly and it honest-to-goodness tumbles across his forehead. Did you hear me, Will? It tumbles. And, let me see, what was the last one? Can you remember? Maybe I’ve forgotten the last one. Oh, wait. No, I haven’t. Crazy handsome? That will speak for itself. Loud and clear.” I only stopped talking to shove a huge bite of cheeseburger into my face.

  Will ate normal-human bites and smiled at me. With his mouth closed. Because manners.

  After I finished eating, I swiped at my fingers and mouth with a blue napkin and reached across the table to take his hands. “Seriously, Will. You’re a wizard.”

  He shook his head. “I just told him to go check out what the local library had to offer. You did the rest, just by being perfectly irresistible.”

  I smiled. Will was the most generous guy with compliments. “Okay, but did I say about the T-shirt?”

  He hauled himself out of the booth. “You said. Twice. Get me out of here.” He dropped a generous tip on the table and waved to the kids who hollered hello to him on our way out. I left Happy’s full, giddy, and hopeful. Will always delivered.

  Chapter 3

  As I sat behind the desk in the nearly silent library on Monday afternoon, I heard the door open. How was it that every time I heard the door, it felt like salvation? There was something threatening about an empty library. I shook off the drama and told myself to stop reading news stories about branches closing. Not helpful.

  Glancing up at the door, I saw a girl about my age, messenger bag slung over her shoulder, butterfly sleeves and wavy hair fluttering in the breeze from outside. If I were casting a movie about a girl who wished she’d been from the late sixties, I’d make her the star. I quickly checked her shoes to see if they might be made from discarded car tires. Of course. Elbow fringe? Check. Flared pants? Check. She was adorable, in a weird and slightly discomfiting way.

  She looked around for a few seconds and caught my eye.

  “How can I help you?” I asked as she made her way to the desk.

  She put her hands and forearms flat against the counter and leaned across. Looking right at my face, she raised one arm and almost touched me.

  I rolled my chair backward and tried to pretend I hadn’t.

  “Wow.” She said it like a breath, and I stifled the world’s most nervous laugh.

  Shaking the blonde waves away from her face, she pushed several hemp bracelets up her wrist. She stood up straight, hands out like a cartoon zombie, mouth hanging slightly open over perfect teeth. She swept her arm over the air above the counter and leaned toward me again.

  I stood up out of the rolling chair.

  Her eyes, blue and huge, slicked over like she was going to cry or something. But the open mouth turned into a smile when she touched my arm. “I’ve never seen such a strong orange.”

  And we had a candidate for the Card. Even as I mentally filed the words away, I knew Kevin wouldn’t believe me.

  “I mean it. Never.” She was still inclining toward me.

  I nodded, reached up, scratched my nose. This was my place, I reminded myself. And she was weirding me out. Part of me wanted to bolt. But the professional part of me demanded I stay. She was in a full lean now, nearly ninety degrees, the top half of her touching the counter. I stood firm, forcing myself not to back into the workroom.

  She raised herself up and breathed in like she was smelling the difference between me and the rest of the library. Her hand floated up toward my face, and I backed away again. She didn’t touch me, exactly. More like her fingers swept the air away from the side of my face.

  “Is there something I can help you find?”

  She started talking as though we’d not just taken part in a weird ritual-smelling moment. “Hi. So. This place is remarkable. Don’t you love this building?”

  “I do.” Truth.

  She nodded, as if we’d solved a crucial problem. “I’m Marigold.”

  Like the flower? That was a person’s name? “Really?” I didn’t snort. Nearly. But I didn’t.

  “I’m glad I didn’t freak you out. You know. Just now. Before.”

  Okay, well. She had, and I think it would have been clear that she had to anyone nearby who was speaking the same language. She called me a strong orange. That was weird. But there was something in her smile that seemed sincere and endearing. “Mmm,” I said noncommittedly.

  “I just saw so clearly the essence of pure dedication in you. And I was sure you were going to be important to me.”

  What? “Well, I’m not really that important.”

  “We both know that can’t be true.” She tucked her long hair behind an ear. “Have you got a name?” It didn’t sound confrontational when she said it, not really. Interested, I guess. Curious. As if perhaps I might not.

  I nodded once. “Yes. Greta.”

  “As in Hansel and Greta?” Her eyebrows arched, ruffling her slightly pimply forehead.

  “That was Gretel, so no, not really,” I said, but her weirdness was disarming and her smile contagious. I found myself smiling back at her.

  Marigold. I was talking to a person named after a flower.

  “I bet you give great gifts.” She said it like it wasn’t a bizarre conversational segue. As though, maybe, we had been talking about anything remotely associated with giving gifts.

  Weird, but amusing. And possibly true.

  She kept going. “That’s the orange in you. You’ve got the strongest orange aura I’ve ever seen, and I can tell a lot about a person whose aura is so strong.”

  Oh. Aura. Right. Was that less weird than being a literal strong orange?

  As Marigold rambled on about my aura of helpfulness and my obvious spiritual need to fix the unfixable and make things right, I began to hope someone would come in the door and need something. This was fun and everything, but I probably needed to do something useful today.

  Marigold continued to talk about auras, and I gave an occasional nod as I sorted through some mail on the desk.

  I had almost completely stopped listening to her when she said, “Things are going to get tricky for you when you lose your work.”

  She spoke more words, but I stopped her with my waving hands. “Wait. Why am I losing my work?”

  She made a trying-patience face and then smiled. It looked like a practiced move, and I wondered if she randomly told fortunes to everyone who stood in public buildings’ reception areas. She seemed to have a handle on it.

  “Well, some people would say libraries are dyin
g. And there’s the bond, of course. And in general, technology puts a lot of people out of work. It’s been an issue for decades. This town is not immune to the ravages of modernism. Do you want to talk to me about your mother?”

  The laugh came out before I realized it was going to. “Wow. Auras to fortune telling to therapy. That’s a nice set of tricks you have.”

  She didn’t look offended or even surprised. “Oh, I’m no therapist. Not at all. You’re a young professional woman, so I assumed you have issues with your mom, and sometimes it helps to talk about it. You can release some of your negative energy and replace it with soft, golden . . .”

  I stopped listening long enough to watch a couple of middle school-aged kids skulk in and head toward the comfortable chairs in the nonfiction section. I was certain I knew what they were doing there, and it had nothing to do with nonfiction.

  “Of course, orange people do tend to make rash decisions, so watch out. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.” She nodded as if she agreed with herself.

  “Well. Thanks.” What else could I say? I gestured toward where the kids had gone. “I should go see if I can help those people while I still have a job.”

  She nodded, tucked her hair again, then leaned on her elbows. Hands folded together under her chin, she smiled as she talked. “Orange people tend to be friendly so I think you are perfect for a job where you interface with a lot of people. Also, you are emotionally available. That suggests you could help people connect with products that they’ll become attached to. Library work is perfect for you. It’s a natural fit.”

  I couldn’t help it. “My master’s degree agrees with you.”

  She nodded. “Of course. This is clearly where your heart lives. It’s going to hurt you to lose this.”

  “Oh, no.” I smiled and shook my head. “I’m not getting fired. Nobody gets fired from the public library. And I’m second in command around here. Someday I’ll get to run all this.”