Won't Let Go (7 page)

My easy stride picks up pace as the finish line is in sight. But I’m forced to stop when loud thumping footsteps and a voice calls out, “Alex? Alex, wait up!” Slowly, I turn on my heels. Allison, the grocery store clerk, is bustling up the street towards me. Her face is flushed, and she’s huffing and puffing as she draws nearer. I’m not surprised she’s out of breath. Slung over her shoulder is a very large, very heavy looking designer bag.
Is that thing filled with rocks?

I lift up my hand and give her a small wave. “Uh hi, Allison.”

Just as Allison reaches me, the bag falls from her shoulder. She grabs the straps and hoists it back up. “I thought that was you.” She smiles.

I look over my shoulder, at the library. I can almost feel my body being pulled in that direction.

“Are you busy? We could grab a coffee?”

I give her a once over. I can’t help it. The designer bag of bricks isn’t her only fashion statement. She’s got on a very slim pair of black skinny jeans, making her legs look long and lean and a cute pair of red heeled strappy sandals. This girl is way too perfect. Her shirt, though stylish, is a little off-putting considering the warm spring heat.
Can we say pit stains? Cause that’s totally going to happen.
It’s a thick long sleeved v-neck. It really hugs her in all the right places so maybe it’s a style over comfort thing. And the big splash of color in the form of a vintage-style rose attracts your attention to her ample chest. Even her hair is perfectly smooth, cut just so the angle in the front delicately frames her oval face. Her make-up is simple and clean. The entire package forces me to look down at my own tattered, plain jeans and T-shirt.
I doubt I’ll fit in with her clique.

I want to say no—about the coffee. I really do. I look again at the library.
It’ll have to wait
. Besides, there’s a good chance Allison might be able to help me out. What’s that old saying? Something about the locals knowing everything? “Sure.”

I fall into step with Allison as we backtrack to the donut shop I passed earlier. She opens the door and ushers me inside. The aroma of sugar and yeast fills my nose as a waft of warm air encircles me. I step up to the counter. A large back-lit menu board is hung against the wall. To my left, there’s a case full of donuts, muffins and cookies behind handprint smudged glass. Allison jumps in, ordering a double-double and an apple fritter as I try to make up my mind. She pays, takes her coffee and soggy looking fritter into her hands and steps to the side.

The counter person shifts and sighs, waiting to take my order. It’s funny, this place with its yellow walls, cracked tiled floor and slightly grimy everything is trying to be a Starbucks but to no avail. They offer fancy drinks, but when I order a Macchiato, like the menu board promises, the know-nothing barista stares at me with confusion. She, black hair pulled up into a net, brown visor and dirty apron, says, “Coffee’s fresh.”

Taking this as a sign, I order a black coffee. I always wondered why people drink coffee, if only to mask the flavor—like Mom does—with sugar and cream.

I toss over a crumpled five dollar bill and accept my change.
At least the prices aren’t like the fancy coffee back home.

We sit by the window. My chair is hard, worn wood, and the table’s unlevel, tilting precariously to one side. I have to put my foot on the base just to steady it.

Allison digs into her fritter, and with a mouth full of dough and apple, she says, “I’m so glad you came.”

Looking out the window, I nod. I can’t look at her.
Who talks with a mouth full of food?
It’s apparent her grocery packing skills aren’t the only things lacking. Then I chastise myself for being such a—nit-picky freak.
I thought I was going to work on that too, wasn’t I?

This time she swallows down her food with a swig of coffee before she says, “So, how are you liking it here? I mean it’s no California.”

“It’s quaint.” I take a sip of coffee. Watered down and piss warm. Then it hits me. I don’t think I ever told her where I was from. “How’d you know?” I ask, surprised.

Allison’s head tilts to the side. She waves me off. “A hunch,” she says. “It was either that or Florida.”

I nod. Then I say, “I haven’t had much time to look around, yet,” with a smile, realizing I should try to fit in and not completely alienate myself.

“Oh, well. There’s not really too much to see. I mean, I like it here, but I bet it must seem tiny to you.”

"It's quiet." I take another sip of coffee. My foot begins to fidget. The table begins to vibrate as my impatience gets the better of me.
So much for trying to steady the table and make small talk.
Suddenly I wish I had said no. I’m not sure if Allison can help me out. Nor do I think I want her to. But that doesn’t stop me from trying. I push my own feelings aside and remember I’m here for Oakley, if nothing else. “So, I was wondering, I just moved into that house, at the top of the hill on Elm—”

She leans forward, and taking a napkin from the dispenser, brushes her fingers with it.

“Do you know anything about it? I mean its history?”

She thinks about this for a minute. “Oh, it’s got history, just not the historical kind.”

My eyebrows furrow.
Is there any other kind of history?
“What do you mean?”

“Well—” She wraps her hands around the coffee mug and brings it to her lips before setting it back down on the veneered table top. “I’m surprised you don’t know, being its new owner and all.”

“Please, enlighten me,” I say. Quickly I put another smile on my face, trying to be more personable.

The mug of coffee finds its way to her lips again. “It’s quite sad really. Shook the whole town up.” She pauses.

I lean in, folding my arms on the table, silently begging her to spit it out, because my head is coming undone with all sorts of scenarios, all of them involving Oakley.
I wonder what he’s doing right now...

 
“A few years back, maybe four or five, the two brothers who lived there got into a fight or something. I think one of them died. I don’t really remember much. It was a long time ago, and the boys were quite a bit older than me.”

“What?” I’m in shock. My hands tremble as I pull them from the table and slide them into my lap, wringing them together. I can’t imagine Oakley getting into a fight. He’s so—so I don’t know...I just can’t see it. Allison also sounds unsure, like she’s grasping at the memory, but might not have the facts right. Four or five years ago I was in middle school, so was Allison. Something like that, in the news, wouldn’t hold much interest to a preteen.

This, however, is the only pseudo lead I have, the only local I know, so I press for more facts. “Can you think of their names? I mean you know the house, you might know the names of the people who lived there, right?”

Allison holds the mug, about to take another swig. She shakes her head. “No, not really, it was...a long time ago. Do you know what classes you’re taking this semester?”

“No, not yet. I’m supposed to get my schedule first day back. How about someone else I can talk to? Don’t you have an older brother or sister?”

“Uh, nope,” she says quickly. Her right hand leaves the mug and tucks some hair around her ear.

“Can I talk to your folks? I mean they’d have to remember—”

“You can’t. They’re...on vacation.”

My eyebrows rise. Odd. I shake out the trembles in my hands, grab my coffee cup and chug it down. “I’ve got to get going,” I say hastily.

Now, more than ever, I want to get to the library and figure out once and for all what happened. No matter how sad it is, if Oakley was killed by his own brother, I need to know.

I’m already pushing my chair out, standing up when Allison says, “O-Okay, well I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the coffee.” I make a beeline for the door, push it open and step out into the warm April air. I don’t bother looking back, I’m pretty sure if I did, Allison would be staring at me, mouth open—probably thinking I’m one rude California girl. And I almost feel bad for leaving that impression. On a good day, that’s not who I am at all, not anymore, at least.

The cool air of the library instantly tickles my skin with goose-bumps as I step through the door. The climate difference, from smouldering hot to cold, makes me wish I had a hoodie or long sleeves. But I know this is only temporary, that soon enough I’ll be back outside, suffocating in the heat. I settle for rubbing my hands over my bare arms as I walk towards the information desk.

I’m not sure what it is, but all libraries are the same, the smell of paper and glue assaults my nose. The so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop makes me want to hum a tune just to make sound.

At least librarians are friendly, eager to please, and Willard Grove’s librarian is no exception. As I approach the desk, my sneakers making suction sounds against the polished floor, the woman behind it looks up. Her long slender finger quickly reaches up, pushing her glasses tight against her head. Only they slip slightly down the bridge of her nose, again. Her smile is warm, inviting, and her eyes gleam behind thick lenses.

“Welcome, can I help you find anything?” she says with a small voice. It matches her small frame that swims in her oversized gray cable-knit cardigan. And peeking out from beneath the wool and buttons is the frill of a pink silky looking blouse.
Apparently she missed the memo that librarians no longer need to look like ‘50’s schoolmarms.

Since I’m only a small percent sure of what I’m looking for, I decide to forgo help, for now. “I’m just going to look around,” I reply. “If I need help, I’ll be sure to ask.”
I could use a few moments of peace and quiet. To think.

She pushes her glasses up again, then smoothes her hand across her graying black hair that’s pulled back into something reminiscent of a bun, with a little more style. What do they call that, a chignon?

“Well, alright then, but if you need help please don’t hesitate.”

I flick my chin in a nod. “Will do.”

As I work my way through the stacks, I find my mind wandering. Back in California, I would have never been caught dead in a library unless it was forced. Like when we had study hall and the odd time I had to check out books for homework. But it was always painful. The sheer thought of spending time in one, studying, was enough to make me cringe. Bryce was even more anti-library than I was. I don’t think he ever passed through the doors of the school library. Instead, he’d talk someone else into getting his books for him. Darcy and Rachel treated the room, and the people who went in, as if it were a disease, like leprosy. They always joked about it. To them learning was secondary, at least, to causing trouble and being popular. High school was a big joke. One that could be conquered by shedding tears over a bad grade, faking a doctor’s note, or paying the diseased geeks—who spent hours in the library, just for fun—for test answers.

I was lucky to be born with enough smarts that school came rather easily. Sure, I had to crack a book here and there, but I didn’t have to try too hard. And I sure didn’t have to cry to the teachers, get my dad to write notes, retake tests,
or
cheat.

The expanse of this library is laid out over two floors. Shelves upon shelves of thick books, holding so much information, and I hope, answers. I trail my fingers against the leather bindings of books in the poetry section. Names like Dante, Eliot, Frost, Shakespeare, Poe and Yeats jump out at me. A guilty pleasure I’m ashamed, almost, to admit. There’s just something about poetry that catches my attention. Maybe it’s how a few stanzas can turn an entire moment around, giving you something intense to think about.

I pluck Whitman from the shelf. It’s heavy, thick, the hard cover worn down, the binding creased and weathered. I crack it open to a random page. The paper is delicate and soft beneath my fingertips. I bring the book closer to my nose, inhaling the scent of its archaic prose. It’s comforting, and my eyes scan the words and read the lines.

After a few minutes, I close the book, slip it back onto the shelf and walk away. Poetry has its strong points, soothing words, and eloquent language. It’s easy to get lost in it. But I must not forget why I’m here. The periodical section hopefully holds the answers.

That doesn’t stop me from reading the titles of the books I pass by, weaving in and out of the countless shelves. Like swinging on the swing or washing away my troubles in the shower, with each turn further and further into the tangle of shelves, my mind eases, clears.

I’m so lost in my own head that when I turn another corner I collide with something.

I leap back a step, rubbing my head.

“Sorry?”

When the stars dissipate and my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I notice a tall boy standing before me. He’s gangly. The tip of his brown hair covered head nearly reaches the highest shelf of books.

“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say as a scorching blush spreads over my cheeks.

“Well in that case, I’m not sorry.” He chuckles. “But apology accepted.” He rubs his right hand against his blue jeans and then extends it. “I’m Dawsyn.”

He has to be about my age. His tone, his slightly baggy jeans and graphic T-shirt fit in with what kids at my old school wore. I reach out. “I’m Alex,” I say, looking down at our now clasped hands. His skin is warm, and his grip is firm as he gives a tight squeeze before pulling back. Trying not to be obvious, I brush my own hand against my jeans.
Sweaty germs are the worst kind.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. He grabs a book from a small metal cart to his left, scans the binding, and then he places it on the shelf. “Can I help you find anything?”

I had turned down help from the librarian without much thought, but for some reason, I have no problem saying, “Uh, I’m looking for the periodicals?”

Dawsyn clucks his tongue as he pushes his cart forward a few feet. “Periodicals you say. You sure you don’t want some girly fiction novel?” He grabs another book from the cart, flips it over in his hands, sets it back down and then reaches for another.