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A good weird.
I also couldn’t help noticing that Xavier looked like he’d rather be watching paint dry than be there. He barely ate. Barely talked. He didn’t laugh when everybody else did.
I’ve been hanging out with the jocks for months now, and while Xavier isn’t as chatty as his buddies, he’s also never this quiet. He usually talks back, entertains Finn and Theo’s rubbish, but not today.
Finn was worried about him, I could tell. He kept glancing at his best friend as though he wanted to say something, but never did. All in all, I’ve decided to cut the lot of them some slack. Maybe they’re not so bad.
Nudging the door to the library open, I slip my phone into my back pocket. Lucille stands behind the computer, ruffling through her purse. Her shift is over, and she looks ready to get the hell out.
Good.
We exchange pleasantries before she feeds me a run through of all that is left to do tonight. I nod along to her list, so desperate for her to leave I mentally count down the seconds until she’s out the door.
The minute she’s gone, I study the library, which is now deserted with the exception of me, and enter my access code into the system to search our catalogue. I type in the name of the poetry book, and the loading circle pops up on the screen.
Come on, you dinosaur.
Get a move on!
The computer gives me what I want three excruciating minutes later. For the first time since Thursday, it feels like I can breathe again. Like my shoulders have shed the weight of the world in a single second.
The book is in stock.
It was returned today. After I came searching for it, obviously. But by who?I take my investigation further, seeking the book’s borrows history.
“Mr. Tate?” I think out loud.
Why in the ever-loving hell would my science teacher check out a poetry book? I notice he borrowed nine other books along with it and frown at the date.
Sunday.
Wait, what?
But the library was closed on Sunday.
He must’ve worked something out with the school to get the books. That’s the only explanation. I don’t overthink it for a moment longer, speed-walking to aisle six to grab the book and hopefully my letter to Ms. Callahan.
Please be there.
Please be there.
Please be there.
I could sob tears of joy when I spot the crumbled sheet of paper. It’s still there. Same pag—
Wait.
At first, I think I’m imagining things. Then I see them. The scribbles, the words, the comments. Someone replied to me.
Even worse, someone corrected me.
Now, before I proceed with my rant, I’d like to apologize (not really) for any mistake I might make in this letter that your never going to get.
**Your is the possessive adjective, you’re is you are. JESUS, IT’S NOT THAT HARD.
I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Who the heckdoes he think he is? I say he because the handwriting looks like a boy’s.
I’m in a bit of a time crunch between trying to graduate high school, score a once in a life time scholarship
