Page 30 of Finders Keepers
“Library tomorrow afternoon,” I agree.
I’m still not convinced this treasure exists. But for my sake, I hope it does and that we find it as soon as possible. That way I can stop dwelling on Quentin at all.
13
The library’s alsochanged since I was last here, which I think was a few months before I left for college. There’s still a wide spiral staircase leading up to the second floor at the center of the main level, but the area surrounding it has been fully reimagined. It’s now open and sunlit, the floors smooth and shiny instead of covered in threadbare carpet tiles.
It’s also a lot noisier than I remember it being.
“ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ”
In the center of the space is a gathering of teenagers standing in front of an audience of senior citizens, probably bussed in from a local retirement community considering how many there are, plus one or two kids their own age who are likely here out of friendly obligation. The actors are each wearing one or two accessories to denote their characters, but otherwise it’s as low-budget a production as it gets.
A flyer taped to a nearby pillar helpfully explains that I have stumbled upon the library’s Summer Teen Drama Club rendition of “Selections fromHamlet.”
Quentin left to procure a new library card and is still chatting genially with the desk staff, so I lean against the wall and watch from afar for a moment longer. The kids overacting their hearts out are a bit younger, but they remind me of the students I had in my freshman classes at Malbyrne. That patented mixture of over-assuredness and insecurity that spikes around that age, making teenagers somehow both the cringiest and coolest people you’ll ever meet.
The thought that I almost certainly won’t be going back to a college classroom in August hits me anew. It was relatively easy until now to push it to the back of my mind, summer being my usual time off anyway. But seeing these teens here now makes me recall reality, and my heart aches.
I may not have won awards for my teaching, but I did manage to keep the attention of a bunch of hungover eighteen-year-olds at 8:30 in the morning—no mean feat.
“Do you remember,” Quentin whispers, suddenly beside me, “when we readA Midsummer Night’s Dreamaloud in sophomore English?”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “How could I forget? You had a fantastic Bottom. Were!Werea fantastic Bottom.” Oh god. I stumble for more and land on, “The ass. The guy with the ass head.”
Man. This not-being-able-to-talk-without-making-a-fool-of-myself thing sucks. If I could die from embarrassment, I’m pretty sure I would’ve done it like six times over by now.
Quentin grins, clearly wanting to comment on what I’ve said but deciding it’s too easy of a joke. “You ready to head up?”
It’s tempting to stick around for another few minutes, to support these kids who are admirably spending their summer being cute little drama club dorks instead of getting into mischief.But I also don’t want to keep being reminded of how much I’ll miss my students, even if they did sometimes whine about their grades and leave inappropriate comments on my teaching evaluations.
Also, if we’re busy looking through the Fountain files, I am less likely to accidentally compliment Quentin’s ass again. Or be thinking about his ass at all.
“Let’s go.”
We travel up the winding staircase and head to where the special collections room is still tucked in the library’s back corner as if it’s in its own secret world. The door is closed, adding to the feeling that there’s something particularly valuable or sacred within. A sign taped onto it assures us that it’s open, though, so Quentin reaches for the handle and turns it. The familiar scent of a place filled with old paper hits my nose, and I breathe it in with relish. I scan the room, which is almost exactly the same as I remember it, right down to the scowling face staring back at us from the desk in the corner.
Mrs. MacDonald sits completely still, like a creepy animatronic waiting her turn to speak in a theme park show. If her eyes weren’t open, I would assume she was asleep.
Unless…
“Oh my god, is she dead?” Quentin whispers, voicing my exact thought.
“I’m never dying!”
We both jump in response to the sudden exclamation. I hold a hand to my chest, trying to keep my heart from making a run for it. “Mrs. MacDonald,” I say. “Hello. Good to see you, um, well.”
“Who says I’m well?” she snaps.
“Sorry to hear that you aren’t?” I try.
“Who says I’m not?”
My eyebrows dive as I attempt to figure out what exactly I’m supposed to say here. I land on, “Either way, it’s good to see you.”
“I don’t know if you remember us,” Quentin chimes in. “We came here a lot back in 2008, when we were researching Julius Fountain.”
Mrs. MacDonald stares for a long time. Long enough that I’m worried she has actually passed away in this very moment. Then she slowly extends a knobby finger in Quentin’s direction.
