“What if you’d been wrong?” he griped.
I shrugged unrepentantly. “Then I guess we’d be having a very different conversation.” Turning back to Natty, I said, “Seriously, though, you can’t tell anyone. Not even Thom or Jett. And especially not Willow.” I didn’t want her to have any more reason to worship me. “Simon’s the only one who knows.” I gave her a serious look to let her know I meant what I said. “And now you.”
Simon threw my shoes at me. “And now half this town. Since they know what we look like, we need to find someplace to stay hidden for the next . . .” He hesitated, clearly irritated that I’d put a kink in our plans.
I glanced at my new watch, trying to be helpful. “Two and a half hours,” I offered.
“Two and a half hours,” Simon huffed, shoving his feet into his own shoes and pulling me up by my arm. I’d clearly landed on his shit list.
He dragged us behind the run-down houses, keeping close to shrubbery whenever possible.
We hid behind garbage cans and cars and anything else big enough to conceal us. I was anxious, because what if it was already too late? What if the sheriff, or whoever had been called to the bowling alley, had put two and two together and figured out we were half of the missing teens the Daylighters were searching for?
For all we knew, Agent Truman was already on his way.
When we made our way back to the main road, just a few blocks from “downtown,” I pointed at a house that looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. “There.” It had pink trim and light blue shutters, and on the large wraparound porch there were two rocking chairs painted a bright shade of yellow. It was cozy, in a gingerbread house kind of way, and made me wonder what kind of life-sized Barbie doll might answer if we knocked. Except we wouldn’t have to knock on those doors to get inside this Dreamhouse.
Columbia Valley Library, read the pink-and-gold sign planted in the front yard.
“The library?” Simon asked skeptically.
But I was already dragging Natty across the street. “Think about it—it’s perfect. The cops probably won’t look for us there, and if we’re lucky, whoever works there won’t have a clue what just happened at the bowling alley.”
Natty chimed in. “Besides, it wouldn’t be weird for us to be hanging out in a library for a couple of hours. That’s what they’re there for, right?”
“I don’t know . . .” Simon hesitated. “I’m not much of a reader.”
“Okay. Sure. I understand.” But we were already on the porch, and I grinned at him over my shoulder. “If you need help, let one of us know. We can help you sound out the big words.”
The inside of the library was nothing like the outside. And while it barely resembled a Barbie Dreamhouse, it was hardly like a library either, at least not the library we’d had back in Burlington, which had these enormous windows and tall ceilings, state-of-the-art computers, and neatly organized shelves and displays.
This place was dark and dusty, and the books were scattered around in almost total disarray. If there was a system—Dewey decimal or otherwise—it wasn’t apparent. The only similarity I could see between this and the Burlington Library was the fact that it called itself a library. That, and the fact that there were, indeed, books.
Still, I was surprised by the guy who came down the stairs to greet us. He didn’t look all nerdy and bookish, which despite not being library-ish, was the kind of Norman Bates vibe I’d expected in a place like this. But instead of wearing a sweater vest and bow tie, this guy had on baggy jeans and a faded Rolling Stones T-shirt. He looked like someone’s slacker brother who should be stuffing his face with Cheetos and playing Xbox in the basement.
“So, let me know if you need help finding anything. Nonfiction’s in the back . . .” He pointed through an opening that might have once been a dining room or a living room, but now had stacks of disorganized shelves covering the walls. “And fiction’s through there.” Again, he pointed, this time through another opening, on the opposite side of the stairs. “If you need to use the computer, lemme know—I’ll give you today’s password.” He nodded at a desk in the corner. Next to the desk, a sign read:
We’re sorry!
Due to national security concerns, we are unable to tell you if your
internet surfing habits, passwords, and email content are being
monitored by federal agents; please act appropriately.
My breath snagged in the back of my throat at the mention of federal agents, but the guy just shrugged and said, “Patriot Act,” like that explained everything. Then he threw in, “Just try to stay off the porn sites. Gives us all kinds of viruses.”
I raised my eyebrows at Simon, just the tiniest bit, making it clear I doubted the guy was talking to Natty and me. Simon scowled back, letting me know he didn’t think I was funny, even the tiniest bit.
Natty didn’t hesitate, and took off toward the fiction section, while Simon stayed with me. I was tempted to ask for the computer password so I could maybe go to my dad’s old online forums, those weird conspiracy theory sites he used to frequent. I doubted he’d risk visiting them now, but there was a part of me that thought if only I could spend a minute or two in the places he used to spend hours-days-months of his life before I’d returned, maybe the ache I felt to see him might dull, even if it was only temporary. Even if whatever connection I’d feel wasn’t real.
But I was equally nervous that somehow Agent Truman might expect it and be monitoring those sites, waiting for me to slip up like that so he could track us down.
“Thanks,” I told the librarian politely as I made my way, instead, to the nonfiction section.