“I think so too,” Juniper says grimly.
“I’ll tell Garrity. I didn’t pay attention to her because her hair isn’t blonde in this picture,” I say, leaning in even further. “But I think it’s her. And I think…” A chill runs down my spine, despite the stale warmth of the air back here. “I think I know her from somewhere. Maybe just because she’s a student, but she looks familiar.” I try to force my mind to focus; is she one of the students I’ve had in my office before for troubles at school? I don’t think so; I’d remember. “She’s not a senior, is she?” Our school is small, but unless the students have problems they need to talk about, I only have scheduled meetings with the seniors.
Juniper shakes her head, looking sad. “She was a junior.”
Was.The past tense hits me like a fist to the gut, and accompanying it is the all-too-vivid image of the girl in the woods.
Blood-matted hair. Red-smeared skin. Limbs awkwardly askew.
The bitter taste of bile hits my tongue, and I swallow it down, almost gagging in the process. I scoot back, away from Juniper and the yearbook, closing my eyes and forcing myself to breathe. I hear the sound of a camera click—Juniper taking a photo of Sandra’s picture, I assume—followed by the sound of the yearbook snapping shut. I finally open my eyes again, just in time to see Juniper putting the book back on the shelf.
“How far back do these go?” she says, not looking at me.
“Years,” I say. I push aside the rush of gratitude I feel knowing that she’s changing the subject for my sake, that she’s averting her eyes to give me a chance to compose myself.
She’s surprisingly tactful. I noted it too when we first met at Grind and Brew—I saw her notice that I was struggling with an oncoming headache and then wrap the conversation up quickly so that I could go.
“Huh,” she says now, still looking up at the shelves. “Back to when my mom was here, I see.” She stands up, her body unfolding more gracefully than mine ever does. Then she reaches for the top shelf and trails her fingers over several spines, finally stopping on one from thirty years ago. She hesitates for only a second before prying the book from its spot.
A little cloud of dust erupts into the air when Juniper pulls the yearbook down. She blows on the top, sending another puff of dust everywhere. Then she sits back down,her eyes never leaving the book in her hands.?*
And for a moment she just stares at it. Her hands are reverent as she runs them over the cover, almost caressing, but they’re hesitant, too, and I can see it in her eyes—she’s still deciding if she wants to look inside. She’s still deciding if she wants to see her mother as a young woman.
“A library, a cathedral,” she murmurs, and it seems more like she’s talking to herself than to me, so I keep my mouth shut. “A sanctuary of knowledge. But this corner is different. Pews made of paper, altars of memory—on my knees in front of the ones who came before me.” Her voice is barely audible now; she’s definitely talking to herself. This is not meant for me to hear.
And yet…I listen anyway. Because something about her words is enthralling, a wandering lilt that tells me what I’m listening to is pure stream of consciousness. Mazes of words, riddles unfinished and trails she follows without knowing their end.
Even though I have no right to observe such an intimate part of this woman, I’m utterly captivated, waiting to hear what will come out next. Is this what her writing is like? Meandering, vivid, nonsensical and poetic?
I want to read her books. I want to capture that beauty in a jar and tuck it into my pocket.
I blink, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can and shaking my head. I’m thinking crazy thoughts. Crazy, stupid thoughts that will get me nowhere.
And anyway, Juniper’s beauty isn’t the kind you can capture in a jar and save for a rainy day. It’snot a conventional prettiness. It’s the type you have to experience, the type that doesn’t really reveal itself until you understand her a bit better.
I fix my gaze to the floor and swat away those pesky thoughts like they’re mosquitoes buzzing around my head. It takes a second for me to feel more clear headed, but then I’m back on track.
“Gonna open it?” I say, letting myself look at her again. “Or still deciding?”
She hums thoughtfully. “Gonna open it, I think,” she says after a second. Then she nods more decisively. “Yeah. I’m opening it.”
I gesture at the yearbook wordlessly.
With one deep breath, Juniper cracks open the spine of the yearbook. In my head I picture any number of scenes from childrens’ movies, where the kids open a book and then topple into its illuminated pages, landing in a whole new world full of magic and adventures.
I don’t know what Juniper will find in these pages, but I don’t think it’s magic. I don’t think it’s adventure.
It takes me a second to realize I’m holding my breath. I’m nearly as tense as she is. Her posture is stiffer than it was a moment ago, and her hands are clasping the book tightly. She turns page after page, though, almost mechanical in her timing, until she finally reaches what she’s looking for.
I know she’s found it because the page turning stops, but also because a little sigh escapes her.
“There,” she breathes. “There she is. Nora Bean.” She points, and I lean closer, noting that sweet citrus scent of hers again. It seems to be stronger when her hair is wet.
“Oh, I see,” I say once I’ve focused. The photos in the yearbook are small, and they’re in black and white, but still I can kind of make out the features. The girl is smiling, with blonde hair.
“And here,” Juniper says, pointing at another photo, this one larger, part of a collage. It’s a blonde girl surrounded by three guys, all of them smiling.
“Wow,” Juniper says, her voice cracking. “She looks so…happy.”
