Personal Effects (21 page)

“No way.” I suck on the phone. Obviously.

“Okaaayyy. So, if stalking her isn’t working, and the phone is out, then it’s probably time to go to the library where she works. Right?”

I push my chin into my chest, bite the inside of my lip.

“Come on, Matt.” She laughs, at me. “You know that’s what you’re going to have to do, unless you’re going to just mail T.J.’s letter to her. This isn’t rocket science.”

I guess I deserve the attitude. But it’s not helping me want to go to that library, where I don’t belong.

“Well?”

“I’m not sure I can get in if I’m not a student.” Visions of being detained by university cops for trespassing play through my head.

“Won’t know if you don’t try.” She sounds tired of me. Not even pissed anymore. Pissed would take more effort. More interest. “And that’s probably your best bet.”

I know she’s right. I knew even before I called her I would have to go there tomorrow. I guess I just needed to hear her say it. But the thought of actually going into the library really freaks me out.

“Hold on,” she whispers. There are muffled sounds. Then voices. Then I can hear her saying good night to her mom. Then her door closes again. She picks up the phone, but she doesn’t say anything for a too-long-for-normal pause. Maybe she’s in more trouble than she told me.

“Listen, I’ve got to go.” Her voice is strained. “The battery’s dying and Mom will kill me if she finds out I’m on the phone.”

“On the phone at all? Or just with me?”

“I’m definitely grounded for a yet-to-be-determined time. I don’t know exactly what level of groundedness I’m in yet.”

“How —?”

“She won’t say.”

Shit. If her mom won’t even . . . “And your dad?”

A puff of her breath — I can practically hear her thinking. I used to have this uncle-y thing with Shauna’s dad. It was sort of fake, with lame teases and little pats on my shoulder, but it was better than hate. If he hates —

“Honestly? I think he’s most pissed about the car, something about the insurance. But he keeps hugging me. He even took me out for ice cream after Mom left for bingo, and then he stumbled through this totally bizarre conversation, with a whole lot of sports metaphors about responsibility and trust and other stuff I have scoured from my brain. It was a little too A Very Special Episode of
The Grubers
for me.”

“Like he’s happy it’s only me on the lam?”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

I close my eyes. Hit my head back against the wall. Yeah, part of me wishes she were here right now. Hell, yeah. But I know I made the right decision. Even if she hates me for it.

“Shit,” she says. “Battery. Bye.”

“Shaun?” Shit.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She sighs, and I think she’s hung up, when she says, “Call me as soon as you meet her. ’Night.”

Not exactly still in hate with me. But not a whole lot better. I’d do anything if we could just talk like we used to, if we could just go back to how things used to be. Well, almost anything. And the
almost
is pretty much the problem. So, maybe this is just the way it is.

I pull the lists and directions she made me out of my backpack. I open the red folder to see her handwriting, small and sharp, in numbered rows, and on the tab of the folder. I’d know her handwriting anywhere. It’s neater than when we were ten, but the same, sort of slanted and way more legible than mine. If someone put a hundred pieces of paper in front of me, I could totally pick out the one Shauna wrote. If she was writing me letters, I’d know her letters from how she wrote my name on the envelope, before I even looked at the return address.

Maybe T.J. saw Celia’s handwriting on his letters and felt the thrill of knowing it was from her before he even opened it. Maybe he rubbed his finger over the words to have some kind of connection to her. They wrote letters, even with e-mail and all, to have something to touch, to feel. Celia said as much, but did T.J. feel it, too? Did he smell her on the paper?

I keep thinking about Saturday night at Stacy’s. I imagine I didn’t wuss out — that when Shauna asked if I wanted a candy, I said, “Yeah,” and stole hers right out of her mouth. That I got to taste her mouth, and put my hand under her shirt. That we made out all night and she never asked to come here with me. I can imagine what her mouth would have tasted like, would have felt like, her hands . . .

When I’m done, and the buzz has faded, I sink back into reality. I can’t go back. I missed my chance. She’ll never let me back there again. She never does — when a guy screws up this bad, he’s done. Not always dead to her, but might as well be. She never gives them more than a nod or a look again. They never get a second chance.

Well, except for Michael. Michael’s got some kind of do-over card. But, then again, he’s never screwed up. She just always gets annoyed and cuts him loose.

Maybe now she’ll take him back and go for the goal.

And if she did, nothing I could ever say about it.

The best I can hope for is maybe she won’t punish me forever. Maybe someday we’ll be us again, even if we’ll never be
us.

I’
M USED TO COLLEGES LOOKING LIKE COLLEGES, SEPARATE
and distinct from the towns around them, so that you know when you’ve crossed the border. Like Sucks U. back home, with its red brick and columns and green areas, all tree-lined, like a private park. You have to pass through a gate on either side, each marked by a spotlit sign, announcing the school’s borders. You can’t drive twenty minutes in eastern Pennsylvania without seeing a college or university, but they’re usually clearly marked, so you know when you’ve crossed into la-la land.

This is all city. But I must be “on campus” now, because there’s a parade of kids being led down the street by a clipboarded guide in a red shirt. And the buildings have names like people. Definitely college turf.

After parking in the cheapest place I could find, I hit the street. One of Shauna’s printed maps shows College Library, so I head that way, cutting through a shady area between buildings, past food carts and stalls selling stuff. Past students. Past a guy in orange coveralls playing a tiny flute. Past crazy guys arguing and two girls hanging up a banner. Past a couple kissing hard, right there on the sidewalk.

I emerge into bright sun and a big open grassy-green area, with a fountain in the middle. The library should be on the other side of the street.

Groups of people, not even all of them kids, are scattered in clumps all over the place, sprawled on the grass, slumped on benches, sitting on the steps of the buildings. Some talking and eating lunch, others sunbathing or hanging out.

Past the fountain and down to the corner, where three streets intersect. A little glimpse of water between the cement. A different lake from the one near Celia’s house, I think. Sailboats bob and sway in the breeze. So blue and so far across.

Turning away from the water, I see the glass doors and busy students and a sign that says,
COLLEGE LIBRARY
. I grab a seat on a big cement planter thing off to the side and watch the door. It’s almost all glass around the entrance, making it easy to see the people inside. No one stops anyone when they walk in, but a lot of them walk over to the main desk. Are they showing ID or something? I can’t tell. I move closer.

Sometimes the people behind the main desk look up or smile or something. Are they waving in students they recognize? I move to the side, against a wall, to get a better look. It doesn’t look like anyone is showing ID or checking in or anything. Fifteen more minutes and I’m sure of it: everyone’s just walking in.

But once I get in, where do I go? Near the front door, to the right of the main desk, there are some tables and chairs where I could sit, and maybe no one would even notice me. I could totally wait for Celia, and then maybe watch her for a while, find a way to go ask a question or something. A few more people go in.

Then I see her. Celia. I think. She walks behind the big main desk in front, talking to a guy. She disappears behind the desk and comes up with a book, does something I can’t see, and then hands it to him. He smiles and walks away. She stands there, talking to the woman behind the counter with her. She laughs. Another woman comes up, and the three talk, laugh some more. I think it’s her, but I’m not sure. It’d be pretty embarrassing to go up to the wrong woman. The other two leave, and she’s standing there behind the desk alone.

It’s now or never.

But I can’t make myself go in. I argue with myself, but I can’t move.

And then the easy answer appears: one of those tours heading this way. With a deep breath for courage, I wait until the end of the long line of people is at the door, and then I hoist my backpack over my shoulder, smooth down my shirt, and walk toward the door. I stay with the tour until we’re inside, giving me cover. Even so, just inside the door, I panic.

Celia is standing there, alone, behind the desk, with nobody else around. I could walk up and just ask a question, or maybe I should just go ahead and introduce myself.
Hi, we haven’t met, but I’m Matt Foster, T.J.’s brother . . . Celia? Hi, I’m Matt Foster. T.J.’s brother?
Or, no,
Theo’s brother.
She called him Theo.
Celia Carson? Could we talk for a few minutes? I promise I’m not a stalker.

Someone drops a book. My head snaps up. I’m still standing just inside the door, facing the counter. Celia is staring at me, head tilted to the side. I open my mouth to say something, anything, and then realize I’m too far away to really talk to her. But my feet aren’t working, or my legs. I’m stuck.

“Excuse me,” an annoyed voice says behind me. I’m shouldered out of the way.

“Oh, sorry, sorry.” I struggle not to fall over, what with the bumping and the nonfunctioning legs. My heart is pounding. Sweat breaks along my collar and hairline.

By the time I look back at the desk, she’s busy. I walk over and sit down at the table to the right of the door. There are some magazines on a shelf behind me. I grab one at random, look just enough to make sure I’m holding it right-side up, and position it so I can see over the top of the page while I pretend to read.

The guys walk away, and she leans over the counter, writing something. Up close, I’m still not totally sure it’s her. Her hair is way longer than in the picture, and in lots of small braids. Her face is different, too — rounder or softer, less soldier-like. Her skin is less glowy than in the vacation pictures. She seems smaller, too, not as tall, or maybe just not as tough. But I’m pretty sure it’s her.

She smiles at one of her coworkers, and then I’m totally sure. It’s the face in the pictures: familiar, pretty, transformed by the bright, open smile, dimple on her cheek. Just like in the picture of her and Zoe in my pocket. My fingers itch to pull it out and look at it, even though I don’t need to look at it to see it.

I look up over my magazine again, and she’s looking at me. But now her eyes are wider, so big they seem to pop forward out of her face. I feel the magazine drop down in front of me. I can’t look away. I smile, hoping to convey the
I-come-in-peace
line that keeps running through my head. I push my chair back, ready to go over to her. But she’s gone. I wait, wondering if she’s just ducked behind the counter. I didn’t see her go anywhere, but she disappeared in the time it took me to reach for my backpack. I guess I should sit again, wait some more. Maybe she went on break?

I stare at the magazine in front of me. It’s been almost ten minutes. Some guy came out and took up a post behind the counter, and he keeps looking this way. I think maybe I screwed up this plan, too. But I can’t think of another, so I wait, hoping I’m just being paranoid and she’ll come back out behind the desk soon. Or maybe she’ll just leave for the day. Would she leave by another door?

“Can I help you?”

Whoa. Tall woman. Between me and the door. Guy at the counter, standing at the end closest to us. OK, so not paranoid. This plan sucks.

“Is there something I can help you find?” Her voice is too calm. She knows I don’t belong here.

“Uh, no?”

“Do you need help finding something for a class?”

“N-no?”

She smiles down at me, hands clasped in front of her, like I’m mental. She’s clearly waiting for me to say something, or else stalling while someone calls security.

“I — I promise, I’m not, uh, crazy or anything.”

“Well,” she says too nicely, “I didn’t think you were.”

“Oh.”

“But it looks like you’re looking for something. So, can I help you find it?”

“Um, actually, I was looking for Celia? Celia Carson?”

Her eyes sort of blink, or flinch, on Celia’s name, both times, but otherwise she doesn’t really react. Like she knew exactly who I was looking for.

“Is she expecting you?”

A little, gruff laugh escapes before I can help it. “No, not exactly. But, uh, I need . . . I, uh, I’d really like to just talk to her, for a minute, or a couple of minutes, if that’s OK?”

She stares at me, eyes narrowed. Counter Guy flexes his hands, moves all the way out from behind the counter.

“I promise I’m not psycho or anything. I just want to talk to her, and then I’ll leave. Promise.” I cross my heart.