by Hal Schrieve
The phone rang, and Z got up to get it before Mrs. Dunnigan could leave her room and reach the phone.
“Hello?” they said into the receiver.
“Hello? Z?” It was Mr. Weber’s voice on the other line. “I think I figured out a plan for Saturday. I think I can put an invisibility hex on you and get you inside the room alone to look for the books. I’ll try to create a distraction or just keep watch outside, depending on who is in the area.”
“Aren’t invisibility hexes dangerous to put on people?” Z asked. “I could suffocate . . .” they trailed off. “Oh.”
“I think that’s not a danger in your case,” Mr. Weber said. Z could hear the gum snap between his teeth. “It’s still going to be dangerous, though. I don’t have any idea what the staff schedule is like or if we will run into trouble. I’m going to try to minimize the danger for you as much as possible, but I can’t promise that this is safe. If there were other options, I would say try those first. But there aren’t.”
“Thank you,” Z said. “I do really appreciate it. I didn’t think you’d like . . . end up helping me. Everyone else has been so weird to me.”
“If you can get over to my house Saturday morning, we can drive over to the library together.”
“Oh,” Z said, trying to hide their excitement. “Great. Where’s your house?”
Mr. Weber gave Z his address, and Z wrote it down in green ink on a yellow Post-it.
“I am so worried about everything,” Aysel said to Z as they waited for Spanish to start on Friday. “The test is this Monday and I still haven’t caught up from last week.”
“What were you sick with?” Z asked. They felt ill and their eyes were puffy. They pulled their knit hat lower on their head, to hide the balding spots and the red and purple patches of skin that showed through.
“Nothing really awful,” Aysel said elusively.
“Mrs. Dunnigan’s been sick too,” Z said.
“I think I want to go shopping,” Aysel said. “That sounds so dumb, but it’d be fun I think. We wouldn’t be dumb about it. Will you come with me this afternoon?”
“Where would we go?” Z asked.
“I don’t know, Goodwill. The mall. I want some black clothes.”
They sat out by the dumpster during sixth period. Aysel ate Pop-Tarts and Z sat and threw rocks at crows. Aysel told Z about her crush on Kathleen Hanna, the singer.
“When you say a crush, do you mean a crush crush?” Z asked.
“I don’t know any other kind of crush,” Aysel said.
“Well, like, a gay crush, or a crush that just means you really like the band?”
“I am gay and I like the band,” Aysel said.
Z stewed in surprise for an instant, and then smiled. Aysel didn’t look as terrified of Z’s smile as she once had. “You’re gay?” Z asked.
“I’ve been told it’s very obvious,” Aysel said. “I also have a crush on Şebnem Ferah. She’s like the Turkish Kathleen Hanna, or maybe the Turkish Joan Jett. Or something. She’s more of a real rock star than Kathleen Hanna is. I also have crushes on Olivia Newton John, and Winona Ryder, and Julie Andrews. But they aren’t punk.”
“I sort of have a crush on this singer my mom likes,” Z said. “Joanna Newsom. I like her voice. And I think I had a crush on my swim coach when I was ten.”
The custodian came around the corner with a garbage can, humming. When he saw Aysel and Z, he shouted for them to go back inside. Z’s joints hurt whenever they tried to stand too fast.
The rain that had been so intense the previous week became deep mist.
Z and Aysel went to the department store downtown after the final bell. They both had homework to do, but because it was the start of a weekend they lingered under the fluorescent lighting, counting dimes and figuring out what they couldn’t afford. Aysel’s mother made an okay amount of money, Aysel said, but a lot of it was going back to repay her debts for law school, so things were still tight. Aysel was pretty good at shoplifting, she had told Z before going into the store. Z pretended not to be fazed by this information, even though they had never known a shoplifter before and were worried about what would happen if Aysel got caught. It didn’t end up being that dramatic. Aysel shoved things into her backpack while Z bought black eyeliner and the palest foundation the store had.
When they got outside and went down the street, Aysel started dumping the things she had stolen out onto the sidewalk. Z was sort of horrified by all the junk Aysel thought would be useful.
“Why did you steal pink mascara?” Z asked, picking up the little tube from where it had rolled off the sidewalk into the grass.
“It was the smallest, most expensive thing there,” Aysel said.
Z didn’t know what hours the library at Willamette University was open. When the sun came up slightly over the edge of the horizon, they were sitting at the window of Mrs. Dunnigan’s front room, looking out at the foggy street. Mrs. Dunnigan was up early even on Saturdays, and Z could hear her moving in her room, closing and opening drawers.
“Mr. Weber gave me a spell to disable the security on the Censored Materials room at Willamette,” Z said when the old witch opened her bedroom door and stood for a moment to put on her slippers. “We’re going there today together if I can get to his house.”
Mrs. Dunnigan blinked. She looked for a second at Z uncomprehending, and then her face settled into a smile. “Well, I’m glad that worked out,” she said. “Where does he live?”
Z showed her the address.
“That’s a ways across town from here, but it’s not terribly far from the bookstore if you take the bus,” Mrs. Dunnigan said.
“Do you think you can go there with me?” Z asked. “Or do you have the bookstore to take care of?”
“The bookstore is open today and I’ve sworn to myself that I’ll stay open in spite of the people who want to close it. You can come with me downtown if you want and I can send you on your way from there.” She cleared her throat and folded her bathrobe more tightly around her small body. “I wish it was the seventies so I would have the kind of thing you needed on the top shelf of the back room ready to give you, but they burned all my rare books about that kind of magic years ago and they do the same to anyone nowadays who tries to get at the ones they keep locked up.” She moved past Z into the kitchen and began making tea.
Z didn’t say anything, and stretched their arms above their head, listening to their own bones crack.
The bookstore had not been badly damaged by the rock or by the angry people who had shown up to protest the werewolf rights display, but there was a long, uneven line of splintered glass down the length of the front window that had been patched up unevenly on both sides with layers of clear packing tape. Z had carried the spell Mr. Weber gave them in their pocket.
“Okay,” Z said at the door of the bookstore. “I think I’m going to head on my way.”
Mrs. Dunnigan studied Z. “Do you think you can stay out of danger?”
Z shrugged. “I’ll wear a sweatshirt or something so people can’t see my scars.”
“Wear a hat too. But let’s see. You can wear my friend Sal’s baseball cap and sweater with the Oregon Ducks logo.”
“People hate the Ducks here.”
“If anyone asks you can say you’re from Eugene and you’re visiting your brother at school and showing your allegiance for the Ducks to spite him.”
Z nodded. “Okay.”
As they closed the door of the bookstore behind them, the bell chimed so loudly that it almost covered Mrs. Dunnigan’s goodbye. They caught the bus at the corner.
Mr. Weber’s house was low and small. It was close to the center of town, but in one of the older, more dilapidated neighborhoods of tiny bungalows. His yard was neat and his car sat outside, brown and bricklike. He was sitting on the stoop waiting for Z.
“All right,” he said as Z approached from the road. “Go Ducks.” He looked tired. At school Mr. Weber always dressed neatly, but today h
e was wearing baggy gray denim pants and a loose vest over a T-shirt.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Z asked.
“Well, I haven’t missed Shabbat morning service for years,” Mr. Weber said. “But I can today.”
“You’re Jewish?”
“Sure,” Mr. Weber said, standing. “It makes for dangerous living in central Oregon, especially when you’re black at the same time, but I guess I just like to live on the edge like that.” He stretched over and touched his toes, and Z heard his shoulders pop faintly. “Let’s do this, huh?”
Z looked at him to see if he was annoyed with them, but they couldn’t tell. “You really don’t have to. I know I’m here, but if—”
“I felt terrible about leaving you to do this on your own. I never wanted to be that kind of person. I thought about it all yesterday and realized I had to help you. I get scared sometimes, but this is something I need to do.”
The ride in the car on the way to the library was pitted with bumps from Mr. Weber’s car. Though it looked solid on the outside, it seemed to stagger along like an old dog.
“How is Aysel?” Mr. Weber asked.
“She’s okay,” Z said. “She was pretty sick the other week, I think.”
“She may get sick again. She misses school once in a while. Look after her, okay? I’m glad she has a friend. She’s a cool kid. She reminds me of my friend Sam who studies dragons.”
“You have a friend who studies dragons?” Z asked.
“Yeah, at the fossil fields out in Montana and Idaho and stuff. It’s fascinating stuff. You know, lizards are mostly descended from them.”
“Yeah, you told us in class,” Z said. “I meant more that it’s weird to think of teachers having friends.”
Mr. Weber laughed. “I have friends,” he said. “Mostly they got sick of Central Oregon, but there’s a few who are still around here.”
“Where does your family live?” Z asked.
“They’re down in the Bay,” Mr. Weber said. “Three of my brothers work in computers, one is a glassblower, one is figuring himself out and working in a pet store, and one has been directing a reality television show about narcissistic personality disorder for six years running.”
“Why do you live here, then?” Z asked.
“I mean, who knows, really,” Mr. Weber said drily. “I’ve gotten attached to teaching, though. It’s something I like doing.”
The library at Willamette had been built in the later eighties and was still fairly new. It was made of brick and glass and had a clock tower in the front that looked like it had been built more to represent the idea of a tower than to fulfill any real function.
“Originally it was going to be named after a US senator from Oregon, but once the senator was investigated for affiliation with dissident magical groups, the committee in charge decided to call it the Wells Library instead. After the Boeing guy,” he said.
“That’s sad,” Z said flatly.
“I didn’t like the senator much either,” Mr. Weber said.
It was made of brick and glass and had a clock tower in the front that looked like it had been built more to represent the idea of a tower than to fulfill any real function. You could not climb into it, though it was true that if you stood in its shadow it blocked you from the rain. Z passed under the clock on their way to the sliding doors that opened into the building. As Mr. Weber and Z passed the front desk a bored student employee looked up and then back down at the book they were reading.
“We’re going down to the basement,” Mr. Weber said in a low voice to Z.
The only other people in the library early on a Saturday were students who looked harried and sleep-deprived and carried with them large stacks of books or papers. Z’s feet made little noise on the thin blue carpeting as they made their way to the elevators. The elevator doors opened onto a flat, fluorescent expanse of shelving and computer banks, labeled in a way that Z couldn’t make heads or tails of. As the silver doors closed and the chain inside the elevator mechanism lowered Z and Mr. Weber to the basement, he cleared his throat. Z looked over at him, but he seemed to have decided against saying whatever it was he was going to say.
The elevator reached the basement floor and the small chime rang out as the doors slid open. Mr. Weber gestured for Z to stay where they were, pressed into the space on one side of the door.
“Invisibility,” Mr. Weber said.
“Oh,” Z said. “Right.” They squared their shoulders.
Mr. Weber pressed one hand lightly to Z’s forehead and muttered a rapid-fire incantation. Z recognized part of it from basic invisibility lessons the previous year, but it went on far longer. Z felt a sensation along their spine and in their fingers and toes as if someone had just wrapped them in a thin, sticky bedsheet.
“The archives are at the end of the hall to your right,” Mr. Weber said. “It’s all in cabinets and lockers. You’re looking for the last four cabinets on the right side of the hallway. I know from having broken in once before. You can probably unlock them easily once you’re through the outer security spell.”
“How will the invisibility work with me holding things?” Z looked down at the bag they were holding, trying to see if it was invisible.
“Whatever you touch and hold to your chest will be invisible until you get out of the building and probably to the other side of the quad. Duck behind a bush or something for a few minutes. Tap your foot three times when you’re on your way past me to the elevator so I know you’re leaving with books. Tap twice if you didn’t get what you came for.”
Z didn’t know what to say. “Thank you,” they said through the plasticky invisibility hex, their words muddled.
Mr. Weber nodded. “Go as fast as you can,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll talk to the librarian to buy you time. Hopefully there aren’t too many staff.” He turned and walked slowly out toward the open office door a few yards from the elevator. Z followed behind him, unsure if they were really invisible. They looked down at their own hands and body and could see just fine where everything was, though at the same time there was a kind of mauve cloudiness around the edges of their elbows and knees and fingers. They felt as if they were encased in a spiderweb as they started down the hall toward the large black metal door with the inscription Authorized Staff Only, fumbling in their pocket for the spell Mr. Weber had given them earlier in the week. The paper was crumpled and torn on one side. Z tried to remember the incantation for fire. Z glanced behind them and saw Mr. Weber standing near the open door of the librarian’s office, looking at them.
“Incendi,” they muttered at the paper as they neared the black door. They felt at a distance the magic, as if it was entering their head from behind and shooting through their arms. It was a shock like a lightning bolt. The edge of the charmed scrap caught fire and began to send up a ribbon of smoke. When the red ember reached the sigil scratched in the middle of the paper, it sent up bright white fire. Z pressed it to the door, unsure if this was what they were meant to do. All at once, a bolt of brilliant blue emanated from their palm and an acrid chemical smell surrounded Z. They pulled back their hand, and the door swung open.
Inside, the cabinets looked at first just like the ordinary filing cases that filled the rest of the basement. There were no windows, though the room stretched farther than Z had expected. It seemed to be organized in a different way than the rest of the library. Some cabinets were stacked one on top of another, and narrow ladders on rollers hung like long ship’s beams down the length of the walls. Z began to walk down the aisle of metal cabinets, looking for something about death, or necromancy. They remembered Mr. Weber’s directions and walked quickly to the back of the expansive room. The subject listings stood out on their small white placards, written haphazardly in a way that contrasted with the orderly university shelves outside the black room. Cohens, Hattie Mae. Commune, Paris. Druidic Rites. Fey, American.
Then, at the end of the long room, Z heard the sound of someone closing a dra
wer and the noise of footsteps. They froze in place.
“Augustine?” a voice called out. “Did you reorganize this section?” A woman’s head peered around the corner, wearing a surgical mask and glasses that had a slight tint. She was otherwise dressed with exacting plainness, in a brown sweater and corderoys. “Augustine? Are you here? Is this door open?”
Z edged past the woman as she made her way rapidly toward the open door, looking at the labels on the shelves. They were at the N section now. They opened the nearest cabinet, where the slightly peeling label Necromancy, Practical shone in the fluorescent lighting. It squeaked on rusted hinges, and Z froze before edging it open the rest of the way.
The drawer was empty. Z’s heart plummeted into their stomach.
Outside in the hallway, Z heard a shout and a sudden loud high-pitched screech that continued to drone on in a pulsing monotone. The lights above them in the room of censored materials began to flash red. After a moment of horrified paralysis they realized that it was an alarm. The noise was followed by the noise of running footsteps. Z frantically opened the remaining drawers in the cabinet. They were empty—folders divested of contents, and spaces where the books should have been. They moved in on the next one, which was empty too, and then desperately opened the drawers labeled Naiad, Nazis, Nigerian Exorcism, and Nostradamus. These drawers had volumes and folios inside them, but from what Z could see they all had to do with the designated subjects.
The noise of the footsteps got closer. Z heard a shout and realized that the voice was Mr. Weber’s.
Z had only moments to react. They shut the drawers with a bang and raced back down the corridor to the black door. Two people were standing near it, and Z slowed to look, their legs aching. It was a large security guard in a dark navy uniform, standing pressing something into the back of Mr. Weber’s neck. Z almost cried out, but at the last second remembered to stay silent. About ten feet away, the woman Z had seen in the Censored Materials room stood, mask off, next to another librarian, watching.