The Library Agreement

08

Charlie's right.

I am way bolder behind a screen.

I scroll through the texts that were exchanged during fifth period today, just beginning to realize how idiotic it was to even send them. I shouldn't have said those things. I barely know him.

Then why does it feel like I do? Why does it feel like I've known him my entire life?

I don't know. I don't know.

It's dark outside. I look over my shoulder, at my parked Honda, then back to the warm glow of the library. My hand is on the doorknob, which is nice and cool against the warmth of tonight. I check my phone for the time.

11:59 P.M.

At least I'm not late.

I think about texting him—wondering whether I should tease him to open the door for me or not. My fingers are on the keyboard, prepared to type a snarky comment, but then I catch myself.

That's stupid. He's not going to understand why you texted, and even if he does, he'll think it's weird. Just walk inside like a regular person.

Biting my lip, I pocket my phone once more and look up to find that there's already someone standing on the other side of the door.

I inhale sharply, clutching a hand to my heart. Charlie Portman's blue eyes glint at me through the glass.

"You scared me!" I hiss, fighting to hide my growing smile.

He grins back. "I know."

Taking a small step back, I ask, "Well? Are you gonna let me in?"

Charlie gives a playful wink, and I can practically feel myself start to melt.

Dammit, Portman. Stop being so charismatic.

Nevertheless, I maintain an expressionless face until he holds the door wide, the tinkling of a bell announcing my entry. Once I'm inside, he closes it. I breathe in the scent of old books with relish—paper and ink and something that I can only describe as vaguely cinnamon-like, all combined into something that I want to bottle up and keep with me for the rest of my life.

"So, what brings you here, doll?" Charlie asks, his voice a smooth drawl. "Looking for another book?"

"Doll?" I say with a snort, and his cheeks tinge pink.

"Sorry. I was watching an old black-and-white movie earlier, just thought I'd try it out—" he clears his throat awkwardly. "Um, sorry. Anyways, uh..."

"I am here for a book." I say coolly, even though my heart is still skipping from the way he called me doll. I feel kind of bad for shooting him down about it, but it wouldn't be right if he saw how much I actually liked it.

I didn't know people could still pull off old forties lingo.

But he can, that's for sure.

"Cool. Which one?"

"Hold on," I say, holding up a finger as I reach down to dig into my purse. When my hand clutches the familiar worn corners of The Great Gatsby, I pull it out from under everything else, handing it to Charlie.

"That's a return."

"Did you like it?"

"Well, it was for my sister." I say quickly, and he nods, looking somewhat put-off by this fact. Frantically, I tack on another sentence. "But I ended up reading it after she did. It was good. Different, but—but good."

At this, Charlie grins at me. "Yeah? Most people hate this book."

"I found it enlightening. It was interesting to read about mannerisms in the twenties and all the different social classes."

Charlie Portman is now laughing at me as he slides the book under the barcode scanner.

"What?" I demand. "What's so funny?"

"So you really did read it."

"Yes, of course I did!" I protest. "What, did you think I was lying?"

He shrugs, and the smile creeping up on his features is teasing.

"I don't know. You just don't seem like a Fitzgerald kind of gal."

Again with the forties lingo. It's killing me.

But I ignore the slight jump in my chest and reply with a snippy,

"Yeah? Well what kind of 'gal' do I look like, then?"

Charlie looks up sharply at this, his eyes locking with mine, and I resist the urge to step closer. My throat closes up a little, but I can't seem to look away. He's thinking. I can see it in his face. The slight furrow of his brow, the intensity in his gaze.

Neither of us look away for what seems like hours.

And then he breaks the silence, his soft voice cutting through the quiet air, and I find myself looking down at my sneakers.

"Come with me."

I nod, my cheeks infused with heat. I have to stop blushing so much around him. It's beginning to get annoying.

Nonetheless, I follow him. He leads me down a different path than all of the others that we've taken, moving in and out of bookshelves, until we are in the far left hand corner of the library. Charlie's hand skims across the spines of books gently, carefully, as if a single harsh movement will cause them to fall apart.

And then his finger pauses. Hovers over one particular title.

He pulls it out in one swift motion, placing it in my hands.

I look down at the cover. It's powder blue, frayed around the edges, and made out of that hard cardboard-like material that all older books are. The golden typography reads,

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

"Alice in Wonderland?" I breathe, and Charlie nods.

"Lewis Carroll." He says, with a smile that quirks up on one side.

"I—I thought this was a children's book."

"It's only called children's book because most adults have lost their imaginations. Not because the concepts or morals are dumbed down for younger audiences."

"You sound like you've thought about that before." I say quietly, bringing my eyes up from the cover to meet his.

He shrugs. "That's because I have."

I nod slowly, trying to keep from saying what I so desperately want to say. A few seconds pass. I tighten my grip on the book.

But I can't help it. He needs to know. I have to say it.

And, suddenly, I'm saying everything at once.

"Why won't you talk to Sanchez in class?" I blurt out, and Charlie stares at me. "I mean, I know no one does, but you're one of the only people who's responses would actually be worth it."

Portman looks startled at my sudden outburst. "Hailey, I—"

"No." I say firmly, and he closes his mouth. "Let me finish."

He nods, and I take a deep breath.

"I just wish you would talk at school like you talk here. I wish you would say the things you're saying to me right now. About how children are imaginative, and they can understand things just as well as adults can. I wish you would tell them about the library, about how you know all the names of all these books, and their authors, and whether they're good or not. And I wish you would show them the side of you that's just so likable. Because before this—before the Library Agreement—you were untouchable. And now..."

My breath is shallow and shuddering, I can feel tears building in the back of my throat, and I don't quite know why they're there.

"Now you're my friend."