Eight

Henley

2009

I wipe my hands on the legs of my jeansbefore hitching my backpack up on my shoulder, mentally preparing myself to knock on the door. Yesterday, ten bucks an hour to tutor Conner Gilroy sounded like a dream job. Now, standing here, trying to screw up the courage to knock on the door, I feel like I want to throw up.

I rushed home after school and changed into the only pair of jeans I have that are still long enough to cover my mismatched socks and forced my crazy hair into a braid.

My dad was passed out on the couch and my mother’s nowhere to be found. Ryan, as usual, is somewhere else. I took the half-drained bottle of cheap whiskey from between his slack fingers and set it aside so I can roll him over onto his side. He woke up long enough to mumble something at me about being a good girl and then slipped away again. Before I left, I carried his bottle into the kitchen and dumped what was left in the bottom of it down the drain.

Now, I reach up and do my best to smooth my hair down, which is currently fighting its way out of its braid. I think about Jessica Renfro. She wouldn’t be nervous, standing here. She’d be cool and confident. She would’ve knocked on the door five minutes ago. She’d already be inside, laughing and tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder and giggling at every dumb thing he said.

Ignoring the way my stomach dives for my toes when I raise my fist, I wrap my knuckles against the frame of the screen door. I wait, listening to the interior sounds of the house. It’s quiet. Nothing like mine. No screaming. No shouting. No blaring TV. What would it be like to live in a place like this? Before I can think too much about it, the front door opens, and Conner’s mom appears on the other side.

“Henley?” She looks confused, shooting a quick look over her shoulder. “Ryan isn’t here. I haven’t—”

“I’m here for Conner’s tutoring session,” I say in a rush. “He said to be here at four o’clock, so…” I shrug, running out of steam.

“Tutoring?” Now she’s looking at me like she’s not sure we’re even speaking the same language. “Okay,” she says when I nod my head. “Sure, come in.”

She unlatches the screen door and pushes it open, wide enough for me to pass through. As soon as I’m inside, she shuts the door before turning toward me with a puzzled smile. “I’m sorry, Henley… who’s doing the tutoring again?”

“I am,” I say. “Conner said he got a failure notice in the mail and asked me…” I shake my head, no longer sure what I’m doing here. “Should I not be here?” I say, sounding and feeling a little panicked. I like Mrs. Gilroy. She’s always been nice to me. Treated me like a real person. Other moms always make polite small talk with me, only to start whispering to each other before I’m even out of earshot. She’s never done that to me. I hate the thought that I’ve done something to upset her.

“No, no, honey,” she says, reaching out to give my shoulder a reassuring pat. “Conner mentioned it to me, I remember now. It slipped my mind, is all.”

“Okay,” I say, shifting nervously, from one foot to another when all she does is stand there and look at me. “Is he here?”

“Oh! Right.” She nods, giving me a smile. “He’s upstairs. You can go on up, his room is the last door on the left.”

Okay—thanks,” I say before turning to take the stairs, two at a time. I charge down the hall, knocking on the door before I can chicken out and bolt.

“Go away, fuckface.” The response, muted behind the closed door makes me wonder if I have the wrong room. Instead of announcing myself, I knock louder.

“I told you, it’s none of your business what I’m do—” The door flies open, and Conner is standing over me, bellowing angrily. The sound of it roots me in place. Makes me feel right at home.

As soon as he sees me, Conner goes silent. His face relaxes. He seems to shrink six inches.

He just stands there and stares at me.

“It’s four o’clock,” I say because I feel like I need to explain myself. What I’m doing in his house. Why I’m standing here.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking past me, down the hall. “How did you get up here?”

“Seriously?” I say, feeling my stomach twist. “You told me to come over. You said—”

“What? No. I know—” he shakes his head. “It’s just, my mom doesn’t let girls up here.”

“Oh, well….” Behind him, I see the kind of room I imagined. Full-size bed. Desk. Computer. Dresser. And more books than I’ve ever seen outside of a library. An entire wall is taken up by a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. Embarrassment and potential prank forgotten, I push my way past him, drawn to them like I’m caught in a tractor beam.

“Henley,” he reaches out, snagging me by my backpack and I let him have it, shrugging it off my shoulder as I pass. He heaves an exasperated sigh that barely registers. “I’m serious. My mom is going to freak if she catches you up here.”

It’s not just the bookcase. There are books everywhere. Stacks and stacks of them. Under the window. Leaning against his desk. Against the wall. Some I’ve read and loved. Some I’ve never even heard of. Some in languages I can’t speak. Classics and popular fiction. Poetry and textbooks. No rhyme or reason. It might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“No, she won’t,” I say, sinking to my knees to run my fingers along the row of hardback spines. “She’s the one who sent me up here.”

“What?” I look up long enough to see a confused look cross his face, my ratty backpack dragging at the end of his slackened arm. “My mom sent you up here?”

“Yeah,” I say, letting my attention revert to the books in front of me. “I told her I was here to tutor you and she told me where your room was.” I pull a book loose from the shelf and sink down, sitting cross-legged to settle it into my lap. “That I could come on up.”

“You told my mom you were here to tutor me and she just let you come up here?” He repeats what I said in the form of a question. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a girl.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like I’m dumb for not understanding what he was trying to say.

“Not really,” I say, running my hand over the dust jacket, my mind already a million miles away. Books have always been able to do that for me. Take me away. Make me someone else. Give me a life, better than my own.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean I’m not really a girl,” I say, opening the book so I can flip its thick, creamy pages through my fingers. “At least not the kind of girl someone like you would be interested in.”

“And what kind of girl would someone like me be interested in?” I feel my brow crumple at his tone. He sounds angry.

I tell the truth, refusing to acknowledge the burn in my gut when I say it. “Someone pretty,” I say, finally looking up at him. He’s still standing in the doorway where I left him, my backpack still in his hand. The way he’s looking at me makes me nervous.

I close the book and slide it back into its hole on the shelf. Standing, I wipe my hands on the legs of my jeans. “Should we get started?”

“Yeah,” he says, shouldering my backpack, his jaw tight. “Let’s go downstairs.”

“But…” I shake my head. He’s acting weird, and I don’t understand why. “Your mom said it was okay for me to be up here.”

“Well, I said it’s not,” he barks at me before turning on his heel. Seconds later, I hear him on the stairs, leaving me no choice but to follow.