He laughs and leans his shoulder against the bookcase. His whole presence, from his casual smile to his relaxed posture, oozes laid-backness. “I didn’t read it. I don’t know who would.” He points to the books that surround him. “The only time the classics ever get checked out is when they’re required for English.”
“Uh.” I hold up the book in my hands with raised eyebrows.
He tilts his head sideways to read the title. “A Tale of Two Cities. Oh, you like classics. Sorry.”
I smile. “No. It’s okay. I just like books in general. Today I felt like hurting my brain with archaic language and deep thoughts. What about you? If you didn’t read it, why are you returning it?”
“I’m an aide in the library during sixth period.”
“Nice.” That would be my dream class. “How did you manage that?”
“I got hurt and couldn’t do PE.” He smiles. “If they had given me a more exciting class, everyone would start faking injuries.”
By the time he gets to the last word of the sentence, my “fake-injury list” is already at five. “Wait, so you’re telling me this is like a prison sentence for you?”
“More like a torture chamber.”
I gasp. “I’m deeply offended.”
“It’s just this place is so quiet and these books all start to look the same after a while.”
“Charles Dickens is turning over in his grave right now,” I tell him.
He forces a serious expression, straightens up, and nods. “Noted. I will not criticize your personal friends when you are within hearing range.” He shifts the books in his hands then looks at one of the spines. “Well, I’d better get back to work. The librarian”—he checks over his shoulder—“is a Nazi.”
My eyes go wide. “She is?”
He lowers his brow. “Not literally.”
“Oh. Right.”
He gives me a half smile that only half hides the confused look in his eyes. “Okay, bye.”
As soon as he’s gone, I pull out my cell phone and text Laila: It’s hard to play Normal. Oh, and I’ve found your eventual replacement.
Thanks a lot. Who is she?
It’s a he. And for a Norm, he seems pretty cool. Definitely best friend material.
I’m irreplaceable. Gotta go, Mr. C is giving me the eye. I think he’s reading my mind. Better concentrate on blocking it.
Trevor walks past the row, his stack of books half as tall, stops midstep, and backs up. “You really are ditching class.”
I smile, feeling like the rebel I’m not. “Yep.”
He shakes his head and keeps walking.
I pull out my notebook, turn to a blank page, and write, The ghost of Charles Dickens told me that after he turned over in his grave, he couldn’t go back to sleep. He’s decided to leave eternal rest, reinhabit his decaying body, and exact revenge on you for disturbing his slumber. You’ve been warned.
I rip out the page and fold it in half twice, making sure the corners are perfectly lined up. I haven’t had to make a friend since kindergarten, and apparently my tactics haven’t changed much. I write his name on the outside of the paper. Now, how to give it to him.
CHAPTER 9
ap-PA-RA-tus: n. any organization of activities aimed toward a set goal At lunch, I make it a point to sit more than an arm’s length from Laila.
She laughs. “You’re not still mad at me for yesterday, are you?”
“No, I love it when you throw me off the stage to make me talk to a guy I hate.”
“You do not hate him.”
“You’re right. That would require too much energy. I have no feelings toward him whatsoever.”
“You should tell that to your face, because it was looking at him pretty dreamily in the parking lot yesterday. Duke’s charm is already working its magic.”
She’s right, but I’m trying to talk myself out of it. Duke and I have absolutely nothing in common. “No,” I say defensively. “I’m immune.”
“Nobody is.”
Students talk in concentrated clumps on the grass surrounding the stage, and my eyes are drawn to a pair of guys fighting a hazy ninja. A teacher walks over, picks up the hologram simulator, and pockets it, the ninja disappearing. The guys moan their objection. I take a big breath and look back at Laila. “I’m not acting out enough.”
Most of the time Laila can follow my erratic subject shifts, but this time she says, “Uh … what?”
“I’ve been thinking about books where the main character’s parents are going through a divorce. A big theme is rebellion. I think I should give it a try.”
She laughs. “Addie and rebellion. Those two words don’t fit together.”
At first I’m tempted to be offended by the comment, but she’s right. I’m not rebellious. Not even a little bit. But considering the insane amount of tension still present between my mom and me, I’m pretty sure I can channel rebellion right now. “I can totally do it.”
“You do know you’re speaking of fiction, right? Your novels aren’t supposed to be study guides for human behavior.”
I shrug off her comment. “I have at least a six-month window where my parents will blame themselves instead of me for anything I do wrong. I was thinking of a blue streak in my hair.”
Her eyes light up as though she’s suddenly on board. “Really? Because that would be so awesome.”