I put my head on the desk.
The final bell couldn't ring quickly enough.
CHAPTER 18
Three o'clock found me sitting on Bolton's front steps, impatiently waiting for Hi and Shelton. As usual, they were late. Two granite lions kept me company, guarding the gothic stone building with hulking menace.
I hummed, aimless. And tuneless. I'm tone deaf.
The weather was pleasant, with clear skies and temperatures in the low eighties. The courtyard was abuzz with the song of sparrows and cardinals.
Bolton's landscapers toil year-round seeding, pruning, and sculpting the grounds into postcard-pretty settings. Paths meander through tree-speckled commons, rock gardens set with stone benches, and around a small pond. The place is visually stunning. Tuition-paying parents expect nothing less.
The campus occupies a full block of Charleston's southwestern waterfront, near the peninsula's tip. Pricey turf. A ten-foot brick wall surrounds the school, complete with ornate cast-iron gates adorned with copper griffins.
Broad Street cuts straight east behind campus, through the heart of old Charleston. It's a short stroll to the Battery where decommissioned guns provide climbing opportunities for resident schoolchildren. The city's grandest estates are right around the corner.
Just north lie the city marinas. Yacht central. Moultrie Park and Colonial Lake are mere blocks away. Tucked in its corner, gazing across the bay toward James Island and Charleston Country Club, Bolton's address can only be described as "premier."
The boys finally appeared, Hi pleading that he'd misplaced his iPhone. Whatever. Truth be told, I'd enjoyed my brief sojourn with the marble kitties.
Given weather conditions, we decided on the scenic route. Broad Street.
Charleston is one giant garden in spring, each block striving to outdo the next. Live oaks and oleanders overhang shady streets, their perfumes mixing with the scents of azaleas, begonias, and yellow jessamine. Flowering dogwoods and redbuds shade lawns and parkways. Colors and scents bombard from every angle.
"I can't get over these goofy houses," I wisecracked as we walked.
"Darlin', don't knock my city's sense of style. " Hi mimicked a deep drawl. "She has her own special flavor."
"Special flavor?" I exclaimed. "Who puts a house sideways?"
Old Charleston homes are built long and narrow, with the short end parallel to the sidewalk. Street-facing doors open onto the side of long porches, called piazzas. Usually two to three stories high, most houses have multilayered balconies facing inward, overlooking a courtyard or garden.
Locals say the architectural style emerged to save money, since property taxes were calculated based on street frontage. The more likely truth? The Lowcountry is hot. Southwest-facing houses capture harbor breezes, and piazzas protect windows from the scorching sun.
Personally, I prefer the tax story.
At Meeting Street, I glanced to my right. Just south, near the Battery, loomed the Claybourne mansion. Chance's mail was delivered to one of the poshest addresses in town. Big money country.
Turning left, we passed City Hall and the white spire of St. Michael's Episcopal Church. Our route sliced through the heart of Charleston's shopping district. Expensive storefronts displayed high-end clothing, and aggressive restaurateurs called from doorways, urging us to feast within.
Continuing up Meeting, we skirted the old market, often called the slave market, though slaves were never sold there. It's now a world-famous open-air bazaar.
Gullah women wove sweetgrass baskets on the sidewalk, hoping to score bucks from out-of-towners. Tourists in visors and sneakers examined trinkets and crafts spread across tables. Further up, outside Hyman's Seafood, a line of would-be diners snaked from the front door.
Eight more blocks brought us to Calhoun Street and the main branch of the Charleston Public Library. Built in 1998, the building is modern brick and stucco.
We entered and crossed a brightly lit atrium to a help desk manned by a small, rat-faced guy. Skinny, maybe thirty-five, he had black hair, oiled and razor-parted. His brown sweater-vest covered a tan shirt hung with a yellow paisley tie. Brown corduroy pants completed perhaps the most boring ensemble ever conceived.
"Can I help you, children?" Annoyance pinched Rat Face's already pinched features. A dog-eared copy of Battlefield Earth was pressed to his chest.
Time for some buttering up.
"Yes, sir," I chirped. "I certainly hope so. We've got a research problem. My teacher said that only public library people are smart enough to help."
Rat Face puffed at my largesse, so I plowed ahead. "I know your time is precious, but could you spare a moment to mentor us?"
The weaselly face brightened. "No trouble at all! My name is Brian Limestone." He laid down his book. "What's yours?"
"Tory Brennan. These are my friends, Shelton and Hiram."