She shook her head and pointed across the desk.
“I did,” Bonita said.
I wasn’t sure how to ask the next obvious question without offending Bonita. So I went ahead and asked. “Were you here then?”
“In Franklin? At the library? In 1966?” She glanced at Julie and smiled, like they were adults and I was a precocious child. Well, they were adults.
“Sorry.” It was automatic.
She didn’t turn around from her filing, but she laughed to let me know she wasn’t offended. “You don’t need to be sorry. And no, I wasn’t here then, not in Franklin or the library. I moved here in the seventies, when I got married. I wrote to the newspaper because the story needs to be told.”
“Right?” I said. “How is there not a Dr. Joshua Silver book on display around here?” I pulled my latest collected cardboard box out from under the desk where I’d stashed it. “I’ve been reading through this stuff, and I can’t find anything at all about him after he left Central High. It’s like he disappeared. When you Google him, there’s only a tiny mention of him in an article about Midwest school integration.”
“You’ve caught the research bug,” Kevin said over his shoulder. “It’s highly contagious.” He kept going, but I stopped listening. Kevin had the ability to appear seventeen and sound sixty. He said everything with a weird pomposity that was totally at odds with his ponytail and eyebrow piercing. And he didn’t seem to know when to stop talking. I was sure high school was a disaster for him.
“It helps when the subject of your research wears a hat in almost every photo,” I said.
Kevin laughed. “Do you have a historical crush on Dr. Silver, Greta? That’s cute.”
I laughed too. “Yeah, okay, but it’s strictly an educational crush. Like my thing for Hawthorne. Or Euclid. I love a man of mystery.”
Bonita made a noise of agreement. “Maybe Dr. Silver decided he wanted a private life. Maybe he left education and political activism to become an accountant or a shoe salesman.”
“Maybe,” Julie cut in, “you’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe in order to understand what he did after he left Central High, you need to know who he was before he got there.”
I felt like I was suddenly in a social history class, and Julie’s suggestion sounded like homework. But also like permission. “I’m not giving up on you, Dr. Joshua Silver. You can run, but you can’t hide from me forever.”
I pushed my chair away from the computer. “In the meantime,” I said, clutching the cardboard box, “I’m going back to my scanner to digitize all the pictures of this extremely handsome man and his hat.”
Chapter 13
Mac called and asked if he could come over to my house. I didn’t know why that made me nervous, so I suggested the park again. Maybe I was hoping for a recurring kissing-in-the-park theme to this relationship. I could think of a lot of worse ideas.
I walked over to Burton Park. The parking lot, shaded by a bank of sycamores, held a few minivans and a stack of kids’ bicycles all tumbled together in a tangle of handlebars and chains. I hoped the gang of little kids would play in the other end of the park from where I was meeting Mac. I walked past the duck pond and on to the paved path that ran through the park. The fountain had been turned off for the season, but a couple of girls were sitting on the edge of the stone, backs to the dolphin that wasn’t spitting any water.
They appeared pretty deep into a conversation about something that made them gasp and shake their heads and say, “No way” and “Shut up” over and over. I wondered if, when the weather got cold enough to force them indoors, they’d come into the library for this kind of conversation.
I checked the time and made my way across the park toward the bench under the maple. The kissing bench. My bench. Mac wasn’t there yet, so I pulled my feet up and wrapped my arms around my knees. I got out my phone and opened the book I was reading. A couple of minutes in, I was interrupted by a text from Will.
I finished my paragraph before I texted back.
His reply came quickly.
A few minutes later, I looked up and saw Mac walking in the dappled shade of the afternoon. He moved with confidence across the grass. He waved, one arm held behind his back. I waved too. His black T-shirt said “This shirt is made of Boyfriend Material.”
I put my phone away and slid my feet off the bench and shook out my sleeping legs. He sat on the bench beside me, sliding across the slats until our shoulders touched. I wished I wasn’t sitting down. It made the whole how-do-we-greet-each-other awkwardness more painful. I mean, here we were on The Bench. Did that mean we should start with a kiss? Or was that way too familiar? But it seemed really weird to hug sitting down.
“I have a present for you,” he said, still hiding one hand behind his back.
I clapped my hands. “Is it a puppy?”
He looked worried. “No. It’s not. Not at all.”
“Not even a little bit a puppy?” I was teasing, but I wasn’t sure he could tell. I had to keep reminding myself that he really didn’t know me that well.
Nervous? Confused? I wasn’t sure what his expression was expressing. “Is that what you want?”
“Thank you. No. I don’t want a puppy.” I smiled, trying to change from a bizarre-girl vibe to a flirty-girl vibe.
He put his free hand over my eyes and placed something cold in my hand. When I looked, I saw a plastic bottle of orange-colored juice-type drink. The kind made of not-fruit.
I waited for him to say something. He didn’t. But he looked pleased, so I thanked him.
“You’re welcome. Drink up.”
I smiled and told him I’d save it for later.
And now I sat on the bench next to Mac while I held a bottle of juice-flavored drink that I would never, ever drink. An awkwardness settled over us.
Mac seemed immune to such weirdness. He sprawled out on the bench and put his head down right by my knee. “Perfect day,” he said. Then he looked up at me. “Perfect view.” He reached up and touched my elbow and ran his hand down my arm to my fingers. “Are you using this?” he asked.
“Not at the moment.”
He smiled and closed his eyes. “Good.” He took my hand in both of his and held it against his chest. I stared at his amazing face for a minute, until he opened his eyes.
“Tough day at the office?” I asked. Then I wished that I could bite the words back. We had never talked about his job. Because, really? What was there to say? Oh, yeah. Big day for ordering chocolate chips and Styrofoam cups. No. Just no. Don’t be a snob, I told myself. And don’t make Mac uncomfortable.
He stretched his arms up and sighed. “Nah. It’s a great job. Totally chill. No worries. People come in hungry and leave happy.”
I didn’t know if I was supposed to reply so I said nothing, just gave in to an urge I’d been fighting since the day we met. I brushed the hair from his forehead and wrapped a curl around my finger. My other hand was still held in both of his. He let go with one of his hands and spread my fingers across his palm. He traced my fingers, and I squirmed from trying to hold in the giddy shivers. Lucky for me his head pinned my knee to the bench because I almost leaped off when he put my hand to his face and kissed my fingertips.
If I had ever thought about being kissed on the fingertips, I would not have expected it to feel so good. While I was remembering how to inhale and consequently how to exhale, he was thinking of something to say.
“You are the prettiest girl in Franklin,” he said.
My brain wanted to argue that he didn’t actually have enough evidence to make that claim. Had he even seen all the girls in this town? Wait. He stood behind a glass counter all day serving coffee and pastry. It was entirely possible that he had. I chose not to fight it. “Thanks. That’s sweet.” I wrapped my finger in a different curl.
“You have excellent hair
,” I said. This was entirely true, and I had ample evidence to support it. Maybe I could teach him by example how to give a sincere and deserved compliment.
He reached up and brushed mine across my forehead. “I like yours, too. Do you ever grow it long?”
Huh. I started analyzing subtext. Was that code for “I prefer long hair”? Were we really going to sit on this bench and trade small-talk compliments? I shrugged. “I like it like this,” I said.
I tugged on his arm. He sat up.
“I know—play me your favorite song. On your phone,” I clarified in case he thought I’d meant on the piano I had (not) rolled in behind the swing set.
“Favorite? That’s hard.” He looked confused, like I’d asked for something tricky.
“No way. Play the one you play the most often.” I reached for his phone to pull it up myself. He snatched it away.
All right. No touching his phone. Got it.
He typed in his pass code and clicked through, keeping his face to me, and his phone facing away. When music started playing, I admit, I had to work to appear unsurprised. It was a total teen music Top 40 radio song. From six months ago.
Again, not what I’d anticipated. Maybe because Will and I were obsessive about finding amazing bands with weird and unexpected sounds, I assumed Mac would be the same. But nope. A bubblegum pop song. About kissing.
Okay. Kissing was a thing I could get behind. I leaned over and put my hands on either side of Mac’s perfect face. The cool October breeze ruffled through the bright leaves and made an excellent addition to the pop-music sound track. So the music was dumb. So what? The kissing was pretty fantastic. I’d still call it a win.
With the First Annual Franklin Library Book Jam advertising well underway, I started taking reservations for bands. It was a high-tech organization that relied on a
manila envelope with a piece of lined paper taped to the outside. If someone called the library and asked about the concert, the call was directed to me. If anyone came to the desk, all employees knew that I wanted to handle the transaction.
At the end of the first week, I’d signed up six bands, all of which had assured me that their songs had a literary bent. I found out quickly that “creative control” was a thing, and I wasn’t supposed to question the band about any kind of detail. So I worked out a reminder system: I’d thank them for their interest, solidify the date, verify the name of the band and the number of songs they planned to play, and then casually mention that all bands would be singing songs that had something to do with books or stories. People were all for it.
Will was advertising at the high school. He told me he was offering extra credit to both his debate students and his civics classes if they signed up.
When a pair of blue-haired girls came in and told me they wanted to play in the show, I ran through the list of reminders. They assured me that their song was about banned books. It took effort not to ask if their song was explicit. It seemed a loaded question. Instead, I asked them if they went to Central.
“Yeah. Mr. Marshall promised it would be worth it,” one of them said.
I smiled at them. “Mr. Marshall is my favorite.”
The other girl grinned and nudged her friend. “That’s what he said about you,” she told me, leaning against the counter. “Are you guys, like, a thing?”
“Only if best friends is a thing.” Laughing, I gave the first girl her change.
“You should give him a chance. Don’t judge based on appearances.” She folded up the ten-dollar bill and shoved it in her pocket. “He’s really great.”
For as much as I teased Will about being the object of a number of student fangirl crushes, I’d never actually met many young women who saw through the physical Will and into the heart and mind and guts of the friend I loved. That had certainly not been our experience when we were in high school. Maybe it only took ten years to change the culture of a place. Or maybe Will only had to be well out of their reach for the girls to see how awesome he was—despite how he looked. Maybe they were more in tune with the Real Will. I felt guilty at how the possibility surprised me. They seemed like bright girls. They were certainly confident and friendly. Did the thought surprise me because I was underestimating them? Or because I was underestimating Will?
“You’re right. Mr. Marshall absolutely is great. I’m excited to hear your song. Thanks again for signing up.” The girls waved and walked out.
A few minutes later, Will walked in.
“Welcome to the library. How can I help you?” I said in my best public-servant voice.
He leaned over the counter and used his best quiet-patron voice. “I need someone to eat this banana muffin that jumped into my bag,” he said, opening his messenger bag and pulling out a paper sack stamped with the Beans logo.
“I believe I know someone who can help you with that.”
He handed it over and smiled. “This is why I love this place. Excellent service.” He pointed to the Book Jam concert poster hanging behind me. “How’s the pre-concert business?”
“Great,” I said, nodding. “Two blue-haired students of yours came in to sign up a few minutes ago.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. Girls or guys?”
“Girls. How many blue-haired students do you have?”
“Plenty. It’s a trend. I’m thinking of jumping on it. What do you think?”
I didn’t answer right away. After a second, I lifted my hands and made a picture frame through which to study him. “I think . . . not.”
He looked embarrassed that I was examining him. “I was kidding, you know.”
“I know. But your look is too classical handsome boy-next-door for the flashy hair to work.”
He ducked his head. “Right.”
I shrugged. “You’re no Dr. Silver, circa 1961, but you’ll do.” I patted his arm. “Speaking of my fictional historical boyfriend, want to have a look at the scans I did this morning? I’ll shoot you a link to the files.”
“That’d be great. I’ll go hide out in our private research quarters and paw through the originals.”
I handed him the folder full of photos I’d digitized that day. “I’m off at six. Dinner?”
He looked surprised. “You don’t have plans?”
“You are my plans tonight.”
He smiled and checked the time. “That gives me two hours to do something impressive.”
“While you’re busy being impressive, I’m going to the basement to search for more Dr. Silver. Kevin is going to go in front of me down the stairs to keep me safe from crawly things.”
We both looked at Kevin, long hair swishing as his head bobbed to whatever music was coming out of his earbuds.
“You’re in good hands,” Will said, smiling. It was true—if anything attacked, the kid could argue it to death.
Kevin and I were down the basement stairs in record time. Nothing attacked, and Kevin only felt the need to explain one thing he’d learned about architectural subflooring from the late-nineteenth century. I grabbed a box from the nearest corner, and we zipped back upstairs.
When we’d opened the box and discovered dozens of cassette tapes, both commercially produced and home-recorded, Kevin lost interest and went back to repairing paperbacks. I flicked through the cassettes, looking at names of bands and titles of albums I’d never heard of.
“Greta?”
I turned when I heard my name. Marigold stood at the desk.
“Hi,” I said. “How’s the paper coming?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She pulled a folder out of her satchel. “Will you look this over for me?” She looked uncomfortable.
I didn’t reach for what she was handing me. “You mean like proofread it?”
She pulled it closer to her. “Kind of. Just go over it and see if you think it’s heading in
the right direction.”
I was not very interested in being her editor for free. “I don’t really even know what the assignment is.”
She put the folder on the counter and laid her hands on it. She didn’t raise her eyes. “I want you to know what I’m finding. It’s not looking so good for you. For this place.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t have to worry about that. We are selling lots of spots for the benefit concert, and I have a great author visit lined up. We are going to be fine. Money will be coming out of the floorboards.” I smiled at her. “It’s going to be great.”
Kevin slid over to my side of the desk in his rolly-chair. “If the traps Julie is setting are any indication, it’s not money that’s coming out of the floorboards.” He paused for a second. When we didn’t respond, he went on. “There is an uncommonly large number of uninvited wildlife in the walls of this building.”
What I wanted to say was “Shut it, Kevin.”
What I actually said was “Thank you, Kevin.” I pushed my foot against his chair, and he rolled back to his project, muttering about vermin.
I leaned toward Marigold. “I think he’s the only high school student who uses words like ‘vermin.’ It’s cute, right?” When I grinned at her, she seemed to relax.
“Yeah, it’s cute. Kid’s intense,” she whispered, as if maybe anyone in the vicinity hadn’t noticed Kevin’s leading personality characteristic. “So, will you take a look at this? Let me know what you think?” She slid the folder closer to me.
I didn’t sigh. “Sure. I’d love to see what you’ve got.”
Thanking me, she told me she’d be back on Saturday. I told her Will was in the periodicals room, if she wanted to say hi. She pointed with a question on her face, and I nodded. She was headed in the right direction. She turned to go, but came back and stood right up against the counter. “It’s going to be okay, right?” She was pointing to her folder, but I knew what she meant.
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