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Lizzie
Idon’tmakeit to the library for several days. I’m kept busy by the recovery of a broken down long-hauler, Mr. Fritz’s problematic classic mustang, and a strange ticking in the local school bus. By now, it’s been a week since my arrival and most of the town has swung by Winter’s AutoRepair to say hello.
I’m touched by the small-town welcoming committee, but I know the people of East River are motivated by more than curiosity. In places like the Forge, any form of change—from the arrival of a new resident to a redesign of the local restaurant’s breakfast menu—is cause for attention. I’ve quickly realized that I’m not personally special, I’m just the new attraction.
I feel like I’ve met every resident of the little town by now, so I’m surprised to see an unfamiliar face behind the check-out desk of the library.
The library fills what was once a turn of the century church. Built from wooden slats, painted white and still sporting a large cross on the wall at the far end, the library had switched out the pews for aisles of bookcases. The south transept glows with the light of computer screens and I can see a small section of rentable DVDs on the northern wall. There’s a surprisingly large collection of books for so small a town.
And there isn’t a soul in sight besides the young woman behind the desk.
She doesn’t notice me stepping inside. She’s too distracted by the romance novel in her hands, but she jumps to attention when the door swings shut with a resounding thump.
“Oh!” She looks up and shoves the book out of sight with such haste that I see the pages bend out of shape. She’s a little flustered and delivers her greeting with a nervous tremor. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
As I move closer to the desk, I realize she isn’t as young as I had originally thought. Short, dainty, and petite, she is the kind of young woman who can easily be mistaken for a teenager or freshman at university. Her lack of make-up, ashy-brown hair, and thick glasses contribute to an absence of what my mother always refers to as ‘presence’.
The importance of aura and countenance had been trained into my mother, Jocelyn Lucas, since birth. But I’ve always been slower to the bandwagon. Attention can be had in different ways and is only worth something if it’s desired. But the girl behind the check-out desk does not seem the type to want any attention at all. I realize we’re probably closer in age than I first thought.
She watches me nervously, her gaze skimming me up and down and obviously surprised by the overalls I have tied at my waist. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, the chapped and dry bits of skin catching behind her teeth. Her fingers are twisting together in front of her.
“I was hoping to use your computers.” I try to make my smile gentle and friendly.
“Oh.” Is it my imagination or do her shoulders drop a little? “Of course. They’re just through there.” She points me in the direction of the monitor glow.
Glancing at the old but unworn carpet, I wonder if a fresh face had presented the potential for a rare book-lover in town. Maybe she had hoped for the arrival of another bookworm?
“I just need to place some online orders and do a few emails,” I explain. “After that, I’d love to chat. Maybe you could recommend that book you’re reading?”
Instantly, the girl’s face flushes with the most intense pink. Pale as a snowdrop, her blush is impressively obvious, and she seems to know it. She drops her head and hair spills from the clip on the back of her head to mask her face. Her ears, I notice, are just as scarlet.
“Oh, I… I don’t think that’s something you would—”
“Nonsense!” I reassure her. I lean on the desk, lift one foot, and angle myself closer like we’re plotting something. Despite her shyness, she mirrors me a little. “Romances are my favorite.” I whisper.
“Really?” Her eyes grow wide, and her long lashes, almost invisible they are so pale, curl upward.
“Oh yeah. The trashier the better. Either that or a good horror. Apparently I’m a girl of extremes. Gimme gore and glamor in equal balance and I’m a happy woman.”
It feels like a victory when the librarian smiles. Her whole face brightens.
Glasses, shy, and a love of books… I try not to make assumptions but I’m starting to piece together an image of this girl in high school. It puts her nervousness around strangers into easy perspective.
“You say the computers are just round there?” I double-check, gesturing beyond the Mystery section.
“Yeah, just to your right. There are some boys in there at the moment, but they shouldn’t disturb you. If you need anything just call. I’m Alice, by the way.”
“I’m Lizzie. Well, Elizabeth, but only my grandmother calls me that. I’ll be right back to pick your brain about that book.”
I wink at her and hurry toward the computers where I find the group of three boys huddled around a single computer screen. The screen is streaked in the black and red palette of some rock band they are looking up.
I ignore them and select a computer at random. I’m shocked to find it’s doesn’t require a password. I put the lack of security down to small-town trust and fire up a browser.
Thirty minutes later and I’m done. I’ve ordered the windows, lumber, external paint, and ride-on mower that Caleb’s list instructed. All with forty-eight hours before delivery cancellation policy—I’m not stupid. House buys are slippery things—and I’ve checked my emails.
Thathad taken longer than intended. I sit for a moment, eyes closed and emotions raw. I breathe in slowly through my nose.
The first email had been easy. Mom had messaged, complaining that I’m not returning her calls and asking if I’d received her parcel yet. A quick check of the tracking number had revealed the package to be sitting in Gatlinburg’s post office, the next town over. I’m impressed it got that far, since I don’t have a permanent address. Trust my Mother to expect a miracle.
