“Really?”
Her guilty expression told me everything I needed to know.
“Bathroom. Now. And actually use the toothbrush this time.”
Twenty minutes later, we were finally in the car with a travel mug of coffee for me and a Pop-Tart for Debbie, who was chattering about something that had happened on her favorite cartoon while I tried to remember if I’d locked the front door.
“—and then the princess dragon breathed rainbow fire and all the mean knights turned into flowers, which is much better than being dead, don’t you think, Daddy?”
“Much better,” I agreed, though I’d missed approximately half of her story.
I dropped Debbie off at her elementary school with a hurried kiss and a promise to remember to pack her the “good” fruit snacks in her lunch tomorrow, then wove through three neighborhood blocks to reach Mount Vernon High School. The parking lot was full, which meant I was definitely late. Students were gathered outside the library doors like a mob waiting for the gates to open.
Shit.
How had I completely forgotten about the freshman orientation?
I practically sprinted down the hallway, my keys jangling and my coffee sloshing. The group of fourteen-year-olds parted as I approached, their faces ranging from bored to mildly curious about why their librarian looked like he was being chased by wolves.
“Good morning,” I panted, fumbling with the lock. “Sorry I’m late. Technical difficulties at home.”
A few of them snickered, but not unkindly. They probably appreciated having a teacher who looked as frazzled as they felt most days. They definitely enjoyed few moments without class or work or “adulting,” as they’d come to call homework.
Oh, the blessed ignorance of youth.
I got the doors open and guided them inside, thankful my principal wasn’t one of the herd in need of, well, herding. My mind automatically shifted into librarian mode despite the chaos of the morning. These orientations were important—and it had taken me two years of pleading with our administration to mandate them. They were first impressions of the library that could make the difference between students who saw it as a refuge versus those who avoided it like the plague.
“Welcome toyourlibrary,” I began, straightening my cardigan and pushing my glasses up my nose. “I know you’ve heard this is where books come to die, but I promise it’s much more interesting than that.”
A few genuine smiles appeared in the ever-squirming amoeba of standing bodies.
I launched into my usual spiel about library resources, study spaces, and the revolutionary concept that librarians were actually there to help, not to shush people into silence. The students were surprisingly engaged, asking questions about computer access and whether they could eat in the reading area (“Yes, but clean up after yourselves.”) and if I really had read all the books in the building (“No, but I’m working on it.”).
It wasn’t until they were filing out, chattering about research projects and study groups, that I noticed my phone on the circulation desk where I’d tossed it in my rush to get the morning started. Someone had bumped it, and the screen was lit up with a text notification. I glimpsed Jeremiah’s name before another student approached with a question about inter-library loans.
What freshman in high school knew about those? Jesus.
As I tried to focus on the girl fidgeting before me, my heart did something acrobatic.
Jeremiah texted me.
But I couldn’t look at it.
Not yet.
Not while there were still students milling around, waiting for help with book recommendations and printing problems and the eternal mystery of why the computers always seemed to log them out at the worst possible moments.
I spent the next forty minutes helping a kid find sources for a history paper, showing another how to access the online databases, and explaining to a third that no, Wikipedia was not considered a reliable source for his English essay, no matter how many footnotes it had.
Finally, blissfully, the library emptied.
I grabbed my phone with hands that were definitely not shaking and opened the message.
Postie: How’s our little chef? Can’t wait until next time.
Don’t ask me why I named him “Postie” in my phone contacts. Jeremiah wasn’t a postal worker. He delivered packages for one of the big delivery companies. Not the brown one—he wore blue, but not the FedEx blue. Did I really not know which company was on his shirt? I felt like such an unobservant idiot. I’d been so blinded by his teeth and eyes and chest and arms . . . hell . . . I’d totally missed the patch sewn a few inches above his hard, perky nipple.
Theo, stop!my inner voice snapped.
