Page 31 of Finders Keepers
“The gum boy,” she says accusingly. “I thought I banned you.”
Oh. Right. Quentin is technically not allowed in here. Not since the Trident Tropical Twist Incident. I suppose that’s another reason we didn’t concern ourselves much with the house itself—lack of access to research materials after about mid-July.
“Wow, what a memory you have!” Quentin says, flashing her his most charming smile. If I had any lingering doubt about it being an intentional trick, it’s laid to rest as I watch him summon it. “That was almost twenty years ago. I mean, I can barely remember—”
“I remember it like yesterday.” She narrows her eyes as she says it, and it somehow sounds like a threat. “And you, young man, are not allowed in my special collections room.”
Quentin’s responding laugh is a nervous one—filed underThe time he stapled our second-grade teacher’s calendar together and she threatened him with lunch detention. “Mrs. MacDonald…” he starts, but I cut him off. The old archivist has always had a soft spot for me. Or as soft of a spot as the woman possibly can. “I think what my friend is trying to say is that he is incredibly sorry for his reprehensible actions as a youth and hopes you canfind it in your heart to give him another chance now that he has grown up and learned from his past transgressions.”
“Yes,” Quentin says with a nod. “Thank you, Nina. That’s exactly what I’m trying to say.”
Mrs. MacDonald deliberates for a few seconds that feel eternal, then grumbles, “Fine.”
“I promise I won’t disappoint you,” Quentin says earnestly.
“I even catch you looking like you might start chewing and you’re out of here,” she warns. “Both of you.”
“Understood,” we reply in unison.
“Now, what do you want?”
“The Julius Fountain papers,” I say. “If you have a way to search the catalog, I’m happy to give you the exact record group—”
“We don’t do that here,” she says, and is off into the stacks of bankers boxes before I can finish.
Quentin says, “Sorry. I forgot about the gum thing.”
“So did I. Although I don’t know how. That was super gross. Why did you even do that?”
“The trash can was too far away and I thought I’d just stick it under the table until I got up again. But then I forgot to grab it. It wasn’t like…I didn’t make a habit of it or anything.”
“Still extremely gross.”
“It was far from the grossest thing I did as a kid, believe me.”
“Ew.” I give him a light shove. “That in no way helps your case. What did I ever see in you?”
I say it without thinking, and Quentin’s smile shrinks and his brows come together as the words register.
“Did you see something in me, Nina?” he asks. And there’s no teasing in his tone, no flirtation. Just a sort of confusion and…curiosity?
“I…Well, no, I just meant…” I am not about to confessto having had a crush on Quentin Bell when we were fifteen. Why would I? So he can laugh at how stupid I was to think we meant something to each other?
Thankfully Mrs. MacDonald saves me with her reemergence from the stacks, hunched over and pulling a yellowed box inch by inch toward her by its handle. It drags along the old, rough carpet, making a sound like someone loudly and prolongedly shushing us.
“Let me help you with that,” Quentin says, moving forward.
Mrs. MacDonald stops for a moment, out of breath. “No. You sit. I’ll be there when I’m there.”
“Really—” His outstretched hand is actually slapped away as he tries to take the box.
“I saidsit,” she commands as if we’re overexcited beagles instead of two adults attempting to do historical research.
And, I don’t know, maybe there’s some part of us that is beagle-esque, because damned if we don’t both immediately go to the table in the center of the room and take a seat on perpendicular sides of it.
“I feel really bad that she’s doing this,” Quentin mumbles. “Like, every single instinct I have tells me to intervene, but to be honest I’m kind of really scared of her.”
“She’s terrifying,” I confirm.
