Bookish and the Beast
Except for, maybe, this.
THE POLITE (AND INCREDIBLY HOT) ER NURSE said that my ankle was sprained, so he gave me crutches and told me not to lean on my foot too much over the next few days. Which meant that I would go from uncool to super uncool, especially when my dad insisted on taking me to school, which was mortifying enough when your dad is the Super Hot Dad that everyone thirsts over (the last time he graced the halls was for an open house, and the theater kids nearly erected a shrine in his honor), but because I picked Quinn and Annie up every morning, he also offered to take them to school, too.
I want to die.
“Space Dad taking us to school is a blessing in disguise,” Annie says with a sigh, pressing her hands together in prayer. “My crops are watered and my skin is clear.”
I wish I could hobble faster into the school, but alas, crutches only have one speed—painstakingly slow. In the carpool lane, Dad pokes his head out of the window and yells, “Make good choices! Bye, Rosebud!”
I try to ignore him, but Quinn and Annie wave back with, “Bye, Space Dad!”
Traitors.
As Dad pulls away—earning a few looks from some of my classmates in the drop-off area—Quinn and Annie catch up to me. A part of me wonders if I can just toss the crutches and deal with the pain, but as soon as I try to stand on my foot, a sharp jab shoots up my ankle. Nope—no. Bad idea, abort mission.
Quinn holds the breezeway door open for me as I navigate my crutches inside, Annie bringing up the rear. “Hey, maybe Space Dad can do a PSA for me and I can get it aired on the morning announcement,” they say.
Annie gasps. “That’s an excellent idea!”
“No, it’s not,” I deadpan, but neither of them listens to me as they slowly meander with me to my and Annie’s lockers. “Y’all—aaahh—” My nose tickles, and I let out a sneeze that almost tips me over my crutches.
“Whoa there,” Annie says, steadying me. “You aren’t getting sick, are you?”
I sniff and rub my nose. “The ER was crawling with snot-year-olds last night.”
Quinn makes a crossing motion with their fingers toward me. “Don’t give it to me! I have to go on the announcements tomorrow morning for a Homecoming thing, and the Space Dad PSA was a joke.”
“Oh, so I can’t snot all over you?”
“Negatory, Bob—oh, that reminds me.” They fish something out of their backpack and hold it up to me triumphantly. “Here, take this. My mom swears by it. Remember when I got that cold this summer? I took this and—”
“It kicked the demons right out,” Annie fills in.
“Something like that,” Quinn agrees. “It works.”
I flip over to the back of the packet and read the ingredients. “This is basically orange sugar water.”
“Don’t spill it on a white shirt,” they advise. “You can also dye things with it.”
“And you want me to drink it?”
“Well, if you don’t want it, give it back.”
“I never said that.” I slip it into my back pocket. I’m not opposed to some questionable medicines, honestly, even if it is just glorified Kool-Aid. “Too bad it can’t heal my ankle.”
Annie closes her locker and asks, “How did you end up spraining it, anyway?”
I took a tumble down the stairs while trying to get away from Vance Reigns, who I found out was the guy I had been dreaming about for the last month, I want to say, but then that’ll just birth more questions, like What dreams? and When did you meet him? and Is that what you did when we couldn’t find you at ExcelsiCon?
And I would rather not answer any of those questions. Not because I don’t love them, and trust them, but because…
Because it was mine. The moment, the night. It was mine. I know that’s selfish, and it’s silly, but I was afraid that if I told them about Sond and that night, then it would just…disappear. That it would just become a thing that happened, not this magical dream that existed in my memories. I knew I’d never meet him again, and I’d never learn his name, and we’d go about our lives and never cross paths again and…
Fool me once, universe. Fool me once.
“I fell reaching for a book,” I lie.
Quinn scrunches their nose. “Isn’t Vance supposed to help you?”
I give a one-shouldered shrug. I don’t want to think about Vance. I don’t want to think about how long he’d known I was the girl from the ball, because then I’ll just think about why he didn’t say anything earlier, and isn’t the answer obvious? Because he didn’t like that it was me. That’s the only reason I can think of.
I hike my bookbag onto my shoulder and push my crutches under my arms again. “Let’s get to class before we’re late—again.”
* * *
—
A PART OF ME DOESN’T WANT TO GO into the castle-house today. Not even to see the books. And because I can’t drive—well, more like my dad refused to let me—he picks me up, having taken a late lunch, and drops me off at the estate. And I can’t tell him that I don’t want to go today because then I’d have to admit that I lied to him about how I broke my ankle, and he’s already rooting for me to quit—I think he still has his checkbook in his suit pocket to whip out at any moment—and as I keep saying:
I am stubborn as hell. It’s part of my charm.
He glances up the driveway as I open the door and toss my crutches out. “You know, Elias will probably let you off today if you want to just go home.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
“But—”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, pushing myself out of his car. I grab my bookbag and close the door behind me. Dad doesn’t linger for very long, because he’s on a rather tight lunch break, but he does give me one last look—to make sure that I’m certain—before he drives off.
As I crutch my way up the driveway, I glance up to see if there’s any movement in Vance’s window, praying that he took Sansa out for a very long walk, and there’s nothing. Maybe he’s out exploring the town—for once.
I head into the kitchen, where Mr. Rodriguez is checking on something in the oven. “Whatever you’re cooking smells incredible,” I tell him as I dump my bookbag on the island barstool.
“It’s a secret tamale recipe passed down from my abuela,” he replies, wiping his hands on a towel that he then throws over his shoulder. He’s wearing a pale pink button-down today and gray chinos. “I made enough, if you want to stay for dinner.”
“My dad’s expecting me home. We’re having Chinese tonight.”
Mr. Rodriguez perks. “Oh? He cooks?”
I laugh. “I wish! I’m picking up Chinese from the place down the street, is what I meant. Their egg rolls are to die for.”
“Ooh, I’ve been meaning to try that place!”
“Highly recommend.” And then—though I don’t know why—I add, “Maybe we can all do dinner one night and order out.”
The moment those words leave my mouth, I think I should regret them, but I…don’t? Dad needs some friends, and Mr. Rodriguez looks about my dad’s age, but I really can’t tell with any man over twenty-five. They all look old to me, and it doesn’t help that he’s always smiling and whistling, and a part of me can’t believe that he hasn’t quit working for the likes of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named yet. He’s like a bubbly Hufflepuff.
Then again, I heard Slytherins and Hufflepuffs go together like peas in a pod.
Mr. Rodriguez grins. “I think that’s a great idea. We should plan that.”
“I’ll let him know.” My watch beeps. Four o’clock. “I should probably get to work.”
“Have fun!—Oh!” he adds as I turn toward the library. “The bathroom downstairs is out for the day. We’re having a plumber coming in to fix it but he hasn’t shown up yet,” Mr. Rodriguez says, wiping his hands on his KISS ME, I’M NOXIAN apron. “You can use Vance’s upstairs if you don’t mind the stairs? I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he adds, eyeing my crutches.
“I’ll be fine,” I scoff in reply, because I can hold my pee with the best of them, and there’s no way I’m ever going back upstairs. My curiosity is sated, after all.
After what happened last night, I half expected Vance to order Mr. Rodriguez to fire me the second I walked in the door, but Mr. Rodriguez doesn’t seem to be doing that, so either Vance doesn’t hate me, or he has no power over me.
I like the second option even better than the first, really.
Doing anything in the library today ends up being an absolute pain. I end up propping my crutches against one of the chairs and just taking it slow as I unpack a series of fantasy books from one of the boxes. The volume I had been looking for yesterday ended up being at the bottom of a stack of books on the desk, which was fun to discover, but I push that out of my head—along with the thought that maybe it wasn’t Mr. Rodriguez who took the books off the top shelf for me the other day—and work.
Around 5:30 p.m., however, the bottle of water I chugged after school creeps up on me. I tried it with a little of Quinn’s magic medicine, but I only used half of the packet and it tasted so bad I couldn’t bring myself to dump the rest in.