“Of course. Everything is going to be perfect.”
Chapter 14
Saturday morning felt chilly—our first real autumn day. I stopped into Beans for a cup of hot chocolate on my way to work. I clearly wasn’t the only one who noticed fall had arrived. It was a busy morning, so Mac and I didn’t have much time to talk as he poured my drink. His T-shirt said “1+1=<3.”
I slurped hot chocolate and read over Marigold’s paper. She had pulled the same letters to the editor that I’d read in the Franklin paper. She’d taken a straw poll at the university, and while her conclusions were inconclusive, she was definitely not putting a positive spin on the outcome. I flipped between her argument and her charts until someone asked me if I was almost done with the table. Looking up, I realized how crowded the shop was. When I pushed the door open to leave, I turned toward the counter, hoping to see Mac. Hoping he’d see me. He looked up. Smiled. Winked.
Winked?
Was that even a thing? Weird. I turned down the sidewalk. Why was winking giving me unpleasant shivers?
I stuffed Marigold’s paper into my bag and pulled out my phone.
He answered right away.
I hadn’t thought of Mitchell Grisham in years. He’d moved to Franklin when we were in middle school, and by the end of ninth grade, he’d managed to grow into this weirdly tall guy with the worst mustache—the kind that looked like an accident born of never looking in a mirror rather than an act of fashion or masculinity. And that mustache mixed with his tendency to wink created this persona of total skeeze. Had he, like Mac, tended to wear pickup lines on his T-shirts, his might have said, “I’m the one your mother warned you about.” Eww.
I remembered I was in the middle of a conversation.
I didn’t reply. What could I possibly say to that?
He sent another text.
Two minutes later, I got a text from Mac.
Well, that certainly made up for the wink. Poetic and thoughtful. I added those to the list of non-hotness reasons to like him.
Coming around the corner to the library, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Greenwood. I reminded myself that calling him “Old Man Greenwood” was disrespectful and cliché. But the guy was standing on his junk-filled porch, hunched over at what I assumed was the waist, his belted pants up around his armpits. Bushes of grizzled hair pointed aggressively in all directions from his head. His eyebrows covered most of his forehead, especially since they were drawn down in what could have been a perpetual grimace. My arm shot up without my consent and waved to him. He leaned farther over. I worried he’d tip, but he was squinting at me. I slowed down while I was behind the oak tree, but not even my beloved oak tree could hide me for long.
Once I was on the other side, I stared at the ground and told my arm it was in trouble. No waving, arm. Not to the scary old neighbor man who may or may not be cooking up a horrifying scheme starring me as the doomed and unsuspecting maiden.
I scuttled up the stairs and through the library door. Sigh of relief. Tucking my bag under the counter, I swiped my time card and shook off the creepy feelings of Mr. Greenwood, and, if I were being honest, Mac’s wink.
Inside the library, I headed straight to my stash of Dr. Joshua Silver photos and clippings. Here was some real comfort. I didn’t allow myself hours at a time with Dr. Silver, but I deserved to start each Saturday shift with a couple of hours of firsthand research. And pictures of Dr. Silver. And hopefully discovering where he’d ended up. Looking at him all handsome and hatted was one thing, but reading about his love for his job, his dedication to his causes, his admiration for the youth who were doing brave and difficult things made me kind of crazy about him. Where had he gone? What had happened to him after driving the anti-segregation bus into the sunset?
I pulled up my librarian account on Twitter. “Real people make great stories. What’s your story? Maybe it can change the world. #TellYourStory #SaveFranklinLibrary #GoToTheLibrary”
I was at the circulation desk when Stan came in to drop off the mail. I asked him if he’d always been a postal worker.
“Oh, no. I was a soldier. And a dairy deliverer. We called it a milkman back then, but I know how you young professional ladies like to keep things equal.” I absolutely did not laugh. “I taught banjo lessons for a few years. Let’s see. I went out West and fought forest fires in the summers for a while.”
“Forest fires?”
He grinned. “Sounds pretty macho, doesn’t it? Don’t kid yourself, sweetie. It was tough-guy work. But it turns out I’m more suited to small town domestic stuff.”
“Like banjo lessons?”
“And postal delivery work.” He winked. Why was it so cute when he did it, but when Mac did it, it remind me of Skeezy Mitchell Grisham?
When he left, I asked Bonita if she thought Stan might be the monthly anonymous donor who left us checks and purchasing suggestions.
“Can’t rule anyone out, but I doubt it. Stan doesn’t strike me as a typewriter kind of guy.”
“Is there someone in the universe we occupy who does strike you as a typewriter guy?” I asked. I had honestly never separated people into the categories of “probably owns a typewriter” and “probably doesn’t.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Something about Stan suggests that he’d rather stand around and talk about it—not leave anonymous messages. Also, those donation notes always have book recommendations. I’m not sure Stan reads books.” She said it without a hint of judgment or malice. It made me laugh anyway.
I had a thought. “We ought to have him come to the book jam and play his banjo.”
Bonita looked impressed. “That’s a great idea. I think you should invite him. Very inclusive. Good blending of the old and the new. Very ‘Pass the Bond.’”
I thanked her. “You know me. I’m all about passing the bond at whatever cost. Even postal banjo music.”
I made a Card for Kevin: “Stan the Postman used to fight fires. Who knew?”
Chapter 15
I hadn’t told Will about the kissing with Mac yet. It felt weird. Partly because I didn’t know how much was too much information and partly because he didn’t ask. And it wasn’t like I was only telling him about a couple of pretty awesome kisses. With his cousin. That he introduced me to. It was also the place—the park, the bench. The comparison. And my memories that had absolutely nothing to do with Mac and everything to do with Will. But I had to tell someone, and my mom was not an option. Not at all. I texted Marigold, knowing this was pushing the edges of our new friendship, but wanting those edges to widen.
I thought about throwing my phone, but I was a grown-up. I had adult relationships. I could set some boundaries to ensure that this thing with Marigold would never remind me of those horrible high school girls.
Well, it wasn’t exactly girlfriend giggling, but she had said she was sorry. It would do.
I wasn’t thrilled with her conclusions.
I was obviously not great at being friends with girls, but I was trying.
The day before the Book Jam concert, Will knocked on my apartment door. He walked in and handed me a piece of white-ish cloth.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a magic shirt.”
I unfolded it. “It’s not a magic shirt. It’s a retro concert T-shirt from a band that broke up before you were born.”
He shook his head. “Not retro—vintage. This was my dad’s. He bought it when he went to the concert. This shirt represents bravery and dignity and happiness and conviction and persistence. Also, stunningly bad hair.”
I angled the shirt for a better look. “I’m totally in agreement about the hair. The rest is a stretch.” I pretended to examine the faded picture. “I see no dignity. I promise.”
He pointed to the table, and we sat down in the chairs. He spread the T-shirt across the table and smoo
thed it with his hands.
Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to a super-secret pitch. “It only seems like a stretch because you haven’t heard the story.”
“Okay,” I echoed his whisper. “Can I hear this story?”
“It was the late 80s, obviously.” He indicated the shirt again, and I grinned. He backed up decades to tell the story.
“And my dad was, in his words, approaching cool.” He did one-handed finger quotes. Finger quotes were so Will. “Some guys from school were going to this concert, and they asked him to be the driver. Because he was famous for his sobriety.” He shrugged. “Blah, blah, blah, lots of details about transportation issues with four drunk lacrosse players in a Honda Civic hatchback. They went to the concert, bought T-shirts, and got home again with no problems.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded.
“Honestly? It’s a little anticlimactic.”
He turned to face me, straight on, and the smile changed. “The thing is, as you know, the sobriety thing didn’t work out for my dad so well in the long run. When I was in high school, he gave me this shirt and told me to do better than he did.” Making a throat-clearing noise, he looked down at the table and then back up at me. “I’ve never worn it, obviously. If he’d wanted me to wear it, he missed his window by about a hundred pounds.”
He could probably see the what-do-I-say-to-that panic in my face, because he grinned again. “But the shirt remembers. It holds the moment of when everything went right. Like flesh memory, but not. Cotton memory.
“So now, on the most important occasions, when I need everything to go right, I hold on to the magic shirt.” He sat back in his chair, but his arm was still behind me.
“And you’re holding it today.” I patted the shirt where it lay on the table.
“Only so I can give it to you. Well, not give. Lend. I’m going to need it back.”
I picked it up. “Right after I use it to save the library.”
“Exactly.”
I held it up against me. “What do you think?”
“Stunning. It’s never looked better.”
“Is it going to work?”
“I can’t see how it could miss.” He leaned forward like he was going to say something else, but then he shook his head. Pushing himself out of his chair, he walked around the table. Before he opened the door, he put his hand on my shoulder—just put it down and left it there. “It’s going to be great. You’re going to be great.”
I reached up and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
The next day I spread the shirt out on the foot of my bed. I was deciding if I could wear it to the concert. It wasn’t exactly professional attire, but these weren’t typical work hours.
He was right. I could use the magic. And the shirt could bring it. I was ready to believe.
Before I went over to the senior citizens’ center for the concert, I clipped my hair back. Then I took it down. Then I thought about shaving it right off. This was the part of my life where having a best friend who was a girl could come in handy. Will was no help to me in a hair emergency. I sent him a text anyway.
I put a couple of curls in my hair, and it was still unimpressive. I pulled out Will’s magic shirt and dragged it over my tank top.
I closed my eyes in front of the mirror. “I believe in the shirt,” I said. “I believe in the shirt.”
Opening my eyes, I looked in the mirror again. The hair was still crappy. The shirt was a sham.
My phone buzzed. Mac. Please, I thought. Please don’t back out. Please, I need to see you tonight.
I may have clutched my phone to my chest. And I may have read the message over and over. And I may have closed my eyes and sighed.
Who cared about messy hair?
Not me—for about thirty seconds. Then I wet my hands and scrunched up my hair until it was wavy. Better.
I chose to take tickets instead of overseeing the “greenroom.” There was nothing green about the room, in the first place. Also, it was the kitchen of the senior citizens’ center, a rectangular cave that smelled of gravy and mildew, where the dripping faucet reminded me of a late-night cable horror show I’d seen once while babysitting. Shudder. No thanks.
I sat behind a folding table fiddling with printed programs. I’d sent out several tweets over the past few days. People saw ads around town. They might have seen the newspaper. Someone probably heard a radio ad. So where was everyone? Every time the door opened, I launched out of my chair, my aggressively helpful smile wedged onto my face.
“Need a ticket?”
“No. I’m playing. Where do I go?”
I pointed down the hall, and another performer crowded into the spooky kitchen.
“Hi. Can I get you a ticket?” I asked a grinning older man, his shoulder-length gray hair moving as one solid unit as he strolled with eager steps up to the table.
“I’m with the band.” He waved his guitar case at me in case I hadn’t seen it, which I obviously hadn’t. Apparently that was funny, because he laughed.
I nodded. What else was I supposed to do? I pointed to the back.
“Hi, girls. Did you come to watch the concert?” I said to a pack of eleven-year-old kids. One of them popped her gum, her hand on her hip, and rolled her eyes. I wanted to roll my eyes too, but thought I should wait until after she paid for her ticket.
“No. We’re doing community service, which is why we’re here.” Her little posse snickered, so I guess she was being funny.
I smiled. “Great. That’s five tickets at twelve dollars each. Sixty dollars.” Holy cow. Would these kids be able to pay for that?
The gum-popper snapped her fingers, and one of her followers pulled a bill out of her pocket. She handed it to me. One hundred dollars? Okay. I handed her back two twenties and five tickets.
“Take a seat wherever you’d like, and thanks for coming. Enjoy the show,” I said to their backs.
I heard Will’s mom before I saw her. “Hi, Greta!” Everyone in the relative proximity heard Will’s mom. I waved from behind my table, and she grinned at me all the way from the door. Will had brought his mom to the library concert.
“Two tickets, please,” she said, as though nothing more exciting than this concert could possibly ever happen.
I saw Mac walk in and get in line behind her. He said, “Make that three, and it’s on me.”
Will’s mom turned to see who had come up behind her. “Mackay! Hi, honey.” She pulled him into a public hug—something I’d have loved to dare.
He kissed her on the cheek, and I pretended not to be jealous, and he fist-bumped Will. He handed me two twenty-dollar bills and said, “Keep the change.” Then he winked.
Again. He winked. Skeezy Mitchell Grisham skulked through my mind. I tried to wipe the image away.
Maybe Mac had a twitch.
Maybe winking was cool and I was behind the times, cool-wise. Maybe it was an allergic reaction to his contact lenses.
I thanked him and looked at Will. He was studying the quarter-page “set list” for the show, trying not to smile. He’d seen the wink.
“Go on in and take a seat anywhere,” I told them. As they walked away, Will turned around and did the world’s most horrible, unsubtle wink.
I laughed. Then I pondered. This was actually a good thing. Nobody’s perfect, and now I’d found Mac’s flaw.
He was a winker.
I decided to live with that.
Marigold walked in talking to a guy who looked like he was in high school—and completely stunned that this woman was holding a conversation with him. I checked him in, along with his band, and then I handed Marigold the press pass I’d made her. It was two business cards with their printed sides stuck together. I’d written “Press” on it with permanent marker and then run it through the laminator.
“This is awesome.”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Thanks for agreeing to write about this. I saved you a seat in the middle of the front row.”
She looked at me with a smile like you’d give a waddling baby penguin—like I was an adorable miracle. “Thank you.”
My mom came speed-walking in right at seven. “Am I late?”
“You’re fine.”
She started fishing around in her bag for her wallet. I shook my head. “No charge for you.”
She snapped the bag closed. She didn’t appear ready to argue it. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. Go find a seat.”
“See you in there,” she said, and I nodded and stared out the door.
Kevin, with his long hair and his eyebrow piercing, was the coolest-looking person who worked at the library so he easily won the vote to host the concert. I heard him welcome the community to Book Jam, the first annual library fund-raising musical adventure. Well, at least he looked cool. I stared at the door, willing more people to come in and buy tickets. I had gone over Kevin’s opening monologue with him, because as cool as he looked, Kevin still talked way too much about things people did not want to hear. All the time. As soon as he went off script, I felt my stomach clench. I kept willing crowds to come and tried to ignore Kevin’s opinions regarding the misappropriation of cultural celebrations.
Nobody seemed to notice the power of my will. No one else came.
After two bands played, I locked up the cash box and slipped into what we were calling the “performance space.” At any other time, it was called “Bingo Hall.”
Kevin had lowered the lights to half strength simply by turning off two of the fluorescent lights. It wasn’t exactly moody, but it did make it easy for me to find Mac and Will and my mom, each of whom had an empty seat beside them. Nobody was going to make this easy for me.
Check Me Out Page 11