Thicker Than Water

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I’m also doing my best to avoid Charlotte Rooker, because I think Stan will lock me up in a jail cell himself if he catches me with her again.

  Guilt flicks me in the neck. I haven’t asked how she’s doing, how her leg injury turned out. Stan might not even know, but I can imagine how the conversation would go.

  Hey, Stan, have you heard how Charlotte is doing?

  Hey, Tom, hold still while I shoot you.

  I have no idea what I’ll find if I head west, but I’m not after anything in particular. Maybe I’ll stumble onto a highway and an eighteen-wheeler will put me out of my misery.

  Today’s heat comes packed with a wallop of humidity. I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but after three minutes in this weather, I feel like I swam a few laps in a pool and then got dressed without drying off. The trees offer some shade, but I might as well be walking in full-on sunlight.

  Cars zoom along asphalt nearby, so I must be close to something. After a few more minutes of walking, I spot bricks. A building. Then a mostly empty parking lot. A few shrubs and flowers wilting in the heat.

  A sign announces that I’ve arrived at the Garretts Mill Community Library.

  Okay, seriously. I didn’t expect to stumble into a rave, but surely fate could have offered up something a little more exciting than a library. They don’t even serve food.

  I sigh. Maybe I can get a card and some books to pass the time.

  The air conditioning is such a relief that I want to hug the security posts just inside the front doors. This isn’t a large library, but there’s a small bank of computers off to the right, just past the circulation desk, and two older women are sitting across from each other, clacking at the keys. The center area sports four round tables, but only one is occupied. A young mother is reading to a young girl with pigtails who has absolutely no interest in being read to.

  Bookshelves line all the walls of the room, with evenly spaced aisles leading to the exterior walls. Someone is shelving books off to the left, but I can only see the motion of the cart; the person is hidden by the stacks. The place smells like old paper and coffee and copy machine toner. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time about ten years.

  The best part is that no one notices me. No one cares that I’m here. No one throws me out.

  Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.

  I walk up to the circulation desk. There’s a little sign that says, “Ring bell for service.”

  There’s no bell.

  I stare at the sign for a moment too long. The heat has made my brain slow. The sign says to ring a bell. There is no bell. Does not compute. Abort. Abort.

  A girl brushes past me and ducks beneath the counter to pop up again on the other side. She’s blond and brown-eyed and a bit breathless. She’s short and rail thin, with few curves to speak of. The only thing that keeps her from looking boyish is the waist-length hair and the fluorescent pink glasses. She’d be a piece of cake to draw, full of lines, with big round eyes like an anime character.

  “Sorry,” she says quietly. “It was slow so Carla went out to grab lunch.”

  I have no idea who Carla is. “There wasn’t a bell,” I say, like an idiot.

  “Yeah, people complained about the noise so we took it away.”

  Yet they left the sign. Okay.

  She smiles. “I know. The sign.” She heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes, and then, I could swear she’s batting her lashes at me. After my reception over the last two weeks, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a girl flirt. Now I’m full of suspicion, and I’m going to look like a shady creeper.

  “Trust me,” she says, “I told them to get rid of it, but you have to file forms in triplicate to get anything done around here. Can you believe they said, ‘How will people know they have to wait if there’s no sign?’” She holds her arms out to indicate the space around her. “Like people wouldn’t know they have to wait if there’s no one standing behind the counter.”

  She’s animated and larger than life, and on someone so tiny, her attitude is almost comical. I smile before I can help it.

  “So.” She leans forward, folding her arms against the counter and giving herself the tiniest hint of a chest. “What can I do for you?”

  I keep my voice low. “I think I need a library card.”

  She brightens, then pulls a clipboard out from under the counter. “You’re going to have to give me your name and number first.” She clears her throat and spins a pen between her fingers, and now she’s definitely flirting. “For official purposes only.”

  I freeze. My name.

  Of course she needs my name. What did I expect, that they’d just hand me a library card, like it’s a grocery store membership or something?

  Maybe I can give her a fake one. Is she going to ask for ID?

  She’s peering at me curiously now. The pen has gone still in her fingers. I’ve taken too long to answer.

  I pull the hat lower on my forehead and look down at the form.

  Name. Address. Phone number. Driver’s license number.

  This is never going to work. She’s going to tell me to get out of here as soon as she hears my name.

  “Wait a minute,” she says slowly. “Wait. You’re . . .”

  “Forget it,” I say bitterly. “I’ll go.”

  She whistles softly through her teeth. “No wonder Charlotte sprained her ankle running after you.”

  There’s not much that would keep me at this counter, but that does the trick. “You know Charlotte.”

  “Intimately.” Then she makes a face. “I mean, not intimately intimately. We’re not that close. But maybe if we’re still single when we’re thirty.”

  I can’t decide if I like this girl or if she makes my head hurt. “She didn’t break it, then?”

  “Break what?”

  “Her ankle.”

  “Oh! No. Char’s family might want her to end up barefoot and pregnant, but she’s tough as nails. It’s a pretty bad sprain, so she’s on crutches, but she got away with an ace bandage and a Velcro boot.” She bats her eyes at me again. “Did you really carry her for five miles through the woods?”

  I cough. “Ah . . . no. It wasn’t anywhere near five—I’m sorry, who are you?”

  She holds out a hand. “Nicole Kerrigan. Library page and best friend extraordinaire.”

  Her hand is tiny, and it’s like shaking hands with a doll. “Thomas Bellweather.” I hesitate. What do I say? Unemployed and friendless? I sigh. “Social pariah.”

  “Yeah, she said you weren’t having any luck finding a job.”

  My eyebrows go up. Charlotte talked about me? “She did?”

  “Yes. Is that why you’re here? You should have told me you wanted an application.”

  I can’t keep up with her. “Wait. An application? For what?”

  She holds up her index finger, then slowly rotates it to point to her left. “Um. The job.”

  Right there on the counter, to the left of the sign about the bell, is a neon yellow piece of paper in an acrylic holder, declaring, “NOW HIRING. Technical Assistant. Part time. Flexible hours.”

  I frown.

  Nicole ducks and pulls another clipboard out from under the counter. She slides it across to me. This one is an employment application. “Fill it out. Old lady Kemper hasn’t been able to get anyone to apply for three weeks, and I think she’s going to make me teach her to use a computer if we don’t fill it soon.”

  I look at it, but I don’t move.

  “Please fill it out,” she says in a low whisper. “The last time I tried to show her something, she thought she could speak into the mouse.”

  I pick up the pen, but still, I hesitate.

  “What’s the problem?” says Nicole. “Too good for the library?”

  “No.” Maybe.

  I know beggars can’t be choosers, but this doesn’t seem like the kind of place where I can make enough money to eventually move out of Stan’s place.

  She shrugs and pulls the
application back. “Suit yourself.”

  I slap my hand down on the clipboard and the sound rings throughout the library. “Stop. I’ll fill it out.” I start writing.

  She watches me, and I sigh.

  “This feels like a waste of time,” I eventually say.

  “Why?”

  Maybe it’s her talkative nature, but I find myself saying more to her than usual. I keep my eyes on the paper and try to keep any hint of self-pity out of my voice. It’s more of a challenge than I expect it to be. “Because no one in this town is going to hire me.”

  “I find it hard to believe that any straight woman with eyes wouldn’t hire you, but maybe that’s just me.”

  That startles me into looking up. I’m not shy, but I’ve never met someone quite this forward.

  Her expression is bold, and she’s waiting for me to fire back. I keep thinking of what Stan said, about how anything could be used against me. I don’t know how to act, so I keep my mouth shut.

  I glance around the library again. The mother with the little girl has poured some snacks onto the wooden table, and she’s offering the kid a sippy cup. There’s a huge sign over her head that says, KEEP OUR LIBRARY CLEAN: NO FOOD OR DRINK ALLOWED. Maybe she didn’t see it. Or more likely, she doesn’t give a crap.

  The mother looks up and catches my eye. I quickly look back at the application before she can figure out who I am.

  “Don’t worry,” Nicole says. “Molly didn’t recognize you.”

  “Molly?”

  “The lady with the kid.”

  Am I that obvious? “I’ve been locked in the house for days. They keep running my picture on the news. Everyone here seems to think I’m a murderer.”

  “I don’t know about everyone, but Charlotte doesn’t. She’s my best friend. I trust her judgment.”

  This girl is a complete stranger, and she believes I’m innocent. Friends from back home are speculating that I did it all over Facebook. In a flash, I wonder if that will work against me. I imagine Ryan Jandy, a guy I worked with at Best Buy, sitting on the stand at a trial, telling them about how I always seemed like the type to keep a few dark secrets.

  I bend over the application again, filling in data because it’s easy and it keeps me from having to speak.

  Nicole hasn’t moved. I want to ask if she’s memorizing my social security number.

  “I like your handwriting,” she says.

  “I’ll pass that on to my elementary school teachers.”

  “Did you do it?”

  My hand goes still. I look up and meet her eyes. The question is asked just as equably as everything else she’s said, but there’s no doubt about what she means.

  Nicole is tough as nails, too. She doesn’t flinch, and she doesn’t look away. It’s a real question, and she wants a real answer.

  “I was asleep,” I say. I keep my voice soft so it doesn’t waver. “I found her. After.”

  Her expression softens. “How horrible.”

  “It still . . . it doesn’t feel real yet. Sometimes it’s like I’m still waiting to wake up.”

  Her lips part with a soft gasp, and in a flash, I can see her as a single thirty-five-year-old woman, writing letters to convicted felons because she finds their mug shots sexy. I’m not entirely convinced that she wants me to be innocent. Something tells me she’s more of the rehabilitation type. She doesn’t know me, but if she took the witness stand, she’d probably say that she always knew I had a dark side, but I knew how to look for the light.

  I look back at the application and fill out the rest of the boxes, then slide it back to her. I have to clear my throat. “Do you know when I should hear something?”

  “Give me a minute.” She yanks the form off the clipboard and walks to a closed door behind her. She knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, Mrs. Kemper. There’s a guy here who wants the computer job.”

  A woman’s voice calls back, “Did he fill out an application?”

  “Yup.”

  “When can he start?”

  Nicole raises her eyebrows at me.

  I raise mine back at her. “Now?”

  “Now,” she calls back.

  “He’s hired. Send him back.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHARLOTTE

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table slicing the ends off of green beans when my phone lights up with a text message from Nicole.

  NK: Guess who’s going to be working with me?!

  Knowing Nicole, it could be anyone. The president of the United States. The garbage man whose pants fell down in front of her house because his belt snapped. Brad Pitt. The guy who loads groceries at Lauders. Anyone.

  I slide my fingers across the face of the phone.

  CR: I give up.

  She sends back a photo. She’s obviously taken it surreptitiously, but she’s lucky enough to have one of those newer phones, so it’s pretty clear. I recognize Mrs. Kemper, the older librarian, but it takes me a moment to recognize the guy standing beside her, holding a stack of books.

  Thomas.

  It’s a good thing I’ve stopped slicing beans, because I’d probably cut a finger clean off.

  I text back as fast as I can.

  CR: No way. How?

  NK: He walked in and filled out an application!

  CR: And Mrs. K hired him? Does she know who he is?

  NK: Yes! And I have no idea if she knows! OMG Char he is so ducking hot. If your fam is going to keep you chained up in the tower, can I have him?

  A hand touches the back of my head. “How are my two favorite girls doing?”

  I jump and squeal and my phone goes flying. My father gives me a puzzled glance, then crosses the kitchen to kiss my mother. She’s peeling potatoes, but she kisses him back with gusto without losing her rhythm.

  They make me blush, but they’re so in love that it’s charming, too.

  And here I am thinking about my crush on an alleged murderer.

  My father stoops to get my phone, and I can see another text live on the screen. “It’s okay!” I cry. “I can get it!”

  He gives me another funny look before scooping it off the floor. “I don’t need you falling out of the chair, Charlotte.” He holds the phone out without looking at it.

  Maybe I can stop acting like a complete and total freak.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He taps my exposed toes. “How’s the ankle?”

  My foot is up on the opposite kitchen chair, my toes painted fluorescent pink with yellow polka dots. My grandmother complained that the pink was too bright for dignified young ladies, which made me add the polka dots. I’m also wearing the shortest shorts I own, just to spite her.

  She hmphed at me. I’m freezing in the air conditioning, but she can suck it.

  “The ankle is fine,” I say. My phone keeps buzzing with messages, but I don’t want to look, just in case Nicole is sending more pictures of Thomas.

  I really, really, really want to look, hoping she is sending more pictures.

  “Have you been keeping your weight off it?”

  I nod quickly.

  He frowns. “Why do you seem so keyed up?”

  “I’m not keyed up!”

  Okay, maybe I’m a little keyed up.

  “She’s been sitting here all afternoon,” says Mom. She glances over her shoulder. “Did something happen with one of your friends, sweetie?”

  “Yes. Yes!” My brain finally kicks into gear. “Nicole. Work stuff. They’re hiring someone to put the books on a new computer system, and they’ve hired some gross pasty nerd who keeps wanting to talk to her about his theories on Game of Thrones.”

  My father takes a handful of green beans and heads out of the kitchen, sufficiently bored by the conversation. “I’m going to get out of this uniform.”

  “Those aren’t washed yet!” I call.

  “If these kill me, I’m ahead of the game,” he yells back.

  I unlock my phone so hastily that I almost fling i
t across the floor again. Nicole has sent me nine more messages. Nine! Almost all of them are some version of my name.

  NK: You know I’m just kidding, right?

  NK: Char.

  NK: Charlotte.

  NK: Charrrrrrlllllllloooooottttttteeee.

  NK: I hope you haven’t fallen out of your chair.

  NK: No, seriously.

  NK: Char. Answer me. Char. I was kidding about taking him.

  NK: Are you mad at me? Do you think I’m serious?

  NK: I’m going to call your house in a sec. Char.

  I almost have a panic attack at that last line. My fingers trip over the letters from typing so quickly.

  CR: NO. OMG DO NOT CALL THE HOUSE.

  She responds immediately.

  NK: Finally! What’s going on?

  CR: My dad walked in. I dropped the phone. Worried you were sending more pictures.

  NK: Want me to?

  CR: YES.

  OMG, I so didn’t just type that. If she sends me another picture of him, I will die. Right here in this chair.

  A picture comes through almost immediately. He’s wearing a T-shirt and that baseball cap, and he’s carrying enough books to make his biceps flex.

  I don’t die. I bite at my lip and just keep staring.

  She sends another text.

  NK: I expected him to be scary. He’s not. He’s . . . I don’t know.

  I know exactly what she means. My fingers fly across the letters.

  CR: Intense.

  NK: Yes. Intense.

  Mom glances over, so I cut a few green beans and try to look bored. Another text comes through, and I grab the phone.

  NK: I can see why people think he did it. He makes you think, you know?

  CR: Yeah, Nic, I do know.

  She doesn’t respond for a little while, and I go back to slicing. Five minutes later, another picture comes through. He’s surrounded by stacks of books, and he’s got his hat off. He’s wiping his forehead on his arm and stretching at the same time. Biceps, check. Hint of stomach, check. He is so sexy. I wish I could blow these up and tape them to my bedroom ceiling.