Won't Let Go Page 6

  Since I’m only a small percent sure of what I’m looking for, I decide to forgo help, for now. “I’m just going to look around,” I reply. “If I need help, I’ll be sure to ask.” I could use a few moments of peace and quiet. To think.

  She pushes her glasses up again, then smoothes her hand across her graying black hair that’s pulled back into something reminiscent of a bun, with a little more style. What do they call that, a chignon?

  “Well, alright then, but if you need help please don’t hesitate.”

  I flick my chin in a nod. “Will do.”

  As I work my way through the stacks, I find my mind wandering. Back in California, I would have never been caught dead in a library unless it was forced. Like when we had study hall and the odd time I had to check out books for homework. But it was always painful. The sheer thought of spending time in one, studying, was enough to make me cringe. Bryce was even more anti-library than I was. I don’t think he ever passed through the doors of the school library. Instead, he’d talk someone else into getting his books for him. Darcy and Rachel treated the room, and the people who went in, as if it were a disease, like leprosy. They always joked about it. To them learning was secondary, at least, to causing trouble and being popular. High school was a big joke. One that could be conquered by shedding tears over a bad grade, faking a doctor’s note, or paying the diseased geeks—who spent hours in the library, just for fun—for test answers.

  I was lucky to be born with enough smarts that school came rather easily. Sure, I had to crack a book here and there, but I didn’t have to try too hard. And I sure didn’t have to cry to the teachers, get my dad to write notes, retake tests, or cheat.

  The expanse of this library is laid out over two floors. Shelves upon shelves of thick books, holding so much information, and I hope, answers. I trail my fingers against the leather bindings of books in the poetry section. Names like Dante, Eliot, Frost, Shakespeare, Poe and Yeats jump out at me. A guilty pleasure I’m ashamed, almost, to admit. There’s just something about poetry that catches my attention. Maybe it’s how a few stanzas can turn an entire moment around, giving you something intense to think about.

  I pluck Whitman from the shelf. It’s heavy, thick, the hard cover worn down, the binding creased and weathered. I crack it open to a random page. The paper is delicate and soft beneath my fingertips. I bring the book closer to my nose, inhaling the scent of its archaic prose. It’s comforting, and my eyes scan the words and read the lines.

  After a few minutes, I close the book, slip it back onto the shelf and walk away. Poetry has its strong points, soothing words, and eloquent language. It’s easy to get lost in it. But I must not forget why I’m here. The periodical section hopefully holds the answers.

  That doesn’t stop me from reading the titles of the books I pass by, weaving in and out of the countless shelves. Like swinging on the swing or washing away my troubles in the shower, with each turn further and further into the tangle of shelves, my mind eases, clears.

  I’m so lost in my own head that when I turn another corner I collide with something.

  I leap back a step, rubbing my head.

  “Sorry?”

  When the stars dissipate and my eyes readjust to their surroundings, I notice a tall boy standing before me. He’s gangly. The tip of his brown hair covered head nearly reaches the highest shelf of books.

  “No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say as a scorching blush spreads over my cheeks.

  “Well in that case, I’m not sorry.” He chuckles. “But apology accepted.” He rubs his right hand against his blue jeans and then extends it. “I’m Dawsyn.”

  He has to be about my age. His tone, his slightly baggy jeans and graphic T-shirt fit in with what kids at my old school wore. I reach out. “I’m Alex,” I say, looking down at our now clasped hands. His skin is warm, and his grip is firm as he gives a tight squeeze before pulling back. Trying not to be obvious, I brush my own hand against my jeans. Sweaty germs are the worst kind.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says. He grabs a book from a small metal cart to his left, scans the binding, and then he places it on the shelf. “Can I help you find anything?”

  I had turned down help from the librarian without much thought, but for some reason, I have no problem saying, “Uh, I’m looking for the periodicals?”

  Dawsyn clucks his tongue as he pushes his cart forward a few feet. “Periodicals you say. You sure you don’t want some girly fiction novel?” He grabs another book from the cart, flips it over in his hands, sets it back down and then reaches for another.

  “Nope, I need the periodicals. Know where I can find them?”

  Another book from the cart squeezes onto the shelf about half way up. “They’re up on the second floor, next to the art section.”

  I give Dawsyn a nod and push past him and his cart full of books. When I reach the end of the row, I take a left.

  “Other way,” he calls. “Here, wait up and I’ll show you personally.”

  His steps are fast, jeans brushing together making a rubbing sound as he approaches me. Even the chain holding his wallet in place jingles. You’d be able to hear him coming from a mile away, that’s for sure.

  I turn the other direction and fall easily into step with him as he takes me down another long, narrow hallway-like enclosure. The silence between us doesn’t feel awkward to me, but with a few quick glances in his direction, I can tell Dawsyn thinks otherwise. His mouth opens and closes as though he’s going to start a sentence but thinks better of it.

  “So do you, uh, work here?” I must say, Willard Grove is full of nice, if not slightly strange people. Allison wasted no time handing over her number, and Dawsyn stopped his work to give me a personal tour.

  He scoffs. “Work at a library? What am I, some kind of geek?”

  “I don’t know, are you?” I ask with a grin, noting the fact that he was putting books from a cart back onto the shelf. Rather obvious, I think.

  “Far from it. But yes, I do...work here.” He shakes his head. His hand reaches up and scrapes through his short brown hair. “Community service,” he adds.

  I nod with approval. I know a thing or two about community service. After the graffiti incident, when I pretty much got caught red-handed, I had to clean a stretch of highway. I felt like a convict, plastic bag, garbage spear and florescent orange vest. It was enough to keep me straight. Heck, smelling like a trashcan was more than I could handle, too.

  A shiver spreads over my body just thinking about it.

  “So, not a geek but a delinquent. Even better. Maybe I should be finding the periodicals myself. I wouldn’t want to become a known associate.”

  “You’re safe. I don’t think they’d think that, you being new in town and all.”

  I grab the railing of a grand staircase and follow Dawsyn. He takes the steps two at a time. I have to scramble to keep up. “Is it really that obvious?”

  “There are less than two-hundred kids at the high school, most of them I’ve known all my life. So, yeah, it’s that obvious. And not many people come to the library, especially during spring break.”

  I groan inwardly as I reach the top of the stairs. I hate being new. Worse, I hate small towns. It’s like I have a new girl stamp on my forehead I can’t seem to wash off.

  “So, what exactly are you looking for?” Dawsyn veers off to the right.

  “I need some information...about the house I live in,” I say as I follow him down another row of books.

  Abruptly, he stops at the end of the long corridor. I step beside him. In front of us, lining the back wall of the library’s second floor are countless cabinets, each numbered with a block of years. Dawsyn motions with his hand at the metal lined wall. “And why’s that?”

  Though I can’t tell him the whole truth, that a ghostboy I’ve named Oakley lives in my room, I could tell him what little I know, in hopes he can help. But I choose not to. “It’s an old house, probably has some really
great history.”

  Dawsyn rocks back on his heels and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Uh huh. Well, here you are.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What, you don’t believe me?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s spring break, you just moved here. I’m sure there must be better things to do than research some house you live in.”

  “Well, since I don’t know anybody, yeah, it sounds like the perfect thing to do.”

  I take a step towards the gun-metal gray cabinets, and my fingertips graze the small metal plaques on each one. I yank open a drawer; inside are thick books, bindings printed with more dates.

  “So what house do you live in again?”

  I sigh, pulling out one of the heavy books. I press it against my chest and walk the few feet to a desk. Dawsyn quickly follows, taking a seat right across from me.

  “Addam’s Family House on Elm Street,” I reply. I crack the book open. It's dated five years ago. I leaf through the pages of newsprint, one by one. The mass of the book makes it hard to turn the pages without them threatening to crinkle, but I continue, searching the headlines of every article on the front and back of the pages.

  “Sure, I know the place. I’m surprised they haven’t bulldozed it to the ground. I can’t believe they let someone move in there.”

  I have to chuckle, it’s exactly what I thought when I first saw it. “So, what can you tell me?” Maybe having Dawsyn around won’t be a colossal waste of time, maybe he can tell me something right now, instead of me having to look through countless pages of newspapers.

  “Not much. They gave out the best Halloween candy.”

  Scratch that. Having Dawsyn around is going to be a colossal waste of time. “Halloween candy?” I roll my eyes.

  “Yeah, the best. They gave out full size candy bars, if you were brave enough to walk up the steps and ring the doorbell that is. That house has always been nothing but spooky.”

  As I flip the pages faster, forcing myself to read at hyper speed, I wonder why no one in this town seems to know anything about the house. A few years back isn’t that long ago. Anything that would hit the headlines, I’m sure would have this town remembering. News, I’m thinking, is all anyone has to talk about. But then again, I could be wrong. In L.A. yesterday’s news was just that—yesterday's.

  Of course we remember the big stuff. The important stuff. But if it doesn’t make front page it gets forgotten before the ink is dry, or the pages have been recycled.

  When I’ve turned the last page, I close the cover with a thud. Dust seeps out creating a plume of allergens. I wave my hand in the air, forcing the particles away from my face and nose, but no dice. Before I know it, they’ve penetrated my barriers and a sneeze tickles my nose. I try to force it back, to no avail. Suddenly, in quick succession, three sneezes shove their way out.

  “Gesundheit times three,” Dawsyn says, adding, “That was quite a show. I thought you were going to fall over in your chair.”

  “Thanks.” I push my chair back, grab the offending book and walk back to the cabinets.

  “You really are desperate to find something, aren’t you?”

  Dawsyn is standing right next to me. The warmth of his breath still lingers on my skin. I bite my lower lip and nod. He nudges me aside and yanks open a drawer, one from three years ago.

  “I’m not sure if this is what you’re looking for, and I can’t tell you anything besides what’s here, but it might help.” Dawsyn pulls a book from the cabinet. He holds it out, and we exchange the books. He puts the one I had back into its drawer while I carry the other one to the table.

  When Dawsyn takes his seat, I mumble, “Thanks,” even though I’m not sure yet what I’m thanking him for.

  I lift open the cover, this time carefully setting it down flush with the table. Another sneezing fit is so not an option.

  “We could grab coffee? That might be fun. I’m off now anyways.”

  I open my mouth to respond, only instead of speaking, I let my jaw go slack. A headline pops off the page in bold black type. From my peripheral I see Dawsyn go to say something more, only I quickly hold my hand up, and my mouth elicits a, “Shush.”

  My heart picks up speed, and my body grows warm all over. Even my hands shake. I can’t believe what I’m reading. It’s unbelievable. And when I reach the end of the article, I turn the page, hoping for more, some other morsel of information.

  And I get it in another article, this time with a picture grabbing my attention, spurring the most frantic thoughts.

  I pick up the book and push back against the chair so fast and hard it topples over. “I need a copier,” I say.

  “A what?”

  “A photocopier, I need one now!” My head swirls with a million emotions I can’t even begin to analyze or understand.

  Dawsyn stands and points to a small door I hadn’t noticed before. “There’s one in there.”

  I practically run towards the door and push it open. It’s a small office with a desk, phone, filing cabinets and an ancient looking monster of a copier. I waste no time heaving the book onto the glass, slamming the lid down and pressing the huge idiot proof green button.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  I bounce on my heels as I wait for my page to spit from the monster’s mouth. When it does, I grab the book, turn the page, slam it back down and press the copy button again. Not surprisingly, dust particles fly from the book and float around me. Another sneeze tickles the back of my throat. Swallowing thickly, I tell myself not to let the sneeze break the barriers of my mouth.

  Nervously, Dawsyn speaks up, “I, uh, take it you found what you were looking for?”

  A quick glance in his direction shows him leaning against the door jam. “Yeah, something like that,” I respond as the second paper pushes its way out of the machine. The ink is slightly smudged, but I don’t care. I snatch up the two pages and shove them into my back pocket and head for the door, leaving behind the book. As I push past Dawsyn, I say, “Thanks for the help. I've gotta jet.” Which really is an understatement. I’ve got to get out of here and do it —like yesterday.

  I should have waited for a response from Dawsyn. Instead, I rush through the labyrinth of shelves, find my way to the stairs and gallop down them. When I reach the bottom, I break out into a run and race for the door as if the building is on fire.

  The articles have given me all the answers I need.

  Oakley isn’t dead!

  He’s alive.

  Chapter Nine

  As I walk towards the tall building, glass windows reaching up to the sky, I still can’t believe I’m here. The papers I printed off from the library are burning a hole in my pocket, their words pulling me in a dozen different directions. But going to Willard Grove Memorial Hospital, seemed the most important. I have to know if what was written all those years ago is true.

  I need to know whether somewhere in this hospital Oakley’s body lies comatose, but most importantly, alive.

  The sliding glass doors part with a whoosh as I step from the now murky cloud covered sky into the main lobby of the hospital. Men and women flitter around, some in scrubs, others in street clothes, all with a place to be. It’s the smell I notice, second to the flurry of activity. It’s one that’s hard to forget. Hospitals stink. The sterility of it burns my nose, dries my eyes. It’s death and blood that no amount of bleach can ever really cover up.

  I stride towards a huge desk right smack in the middle of all the chaos. Black and white tiles are spread out over the floor and windows should let copious amounts of light in. However with the gloomy sky overhead, there is an eerie glow on everything, darkening the white walls, the green colored chairs that seem to line every flat surface and the desk. The light oak begs me to approach it, calling me forward as if it knows why I’m here. Can furniture really do all that?

  It must, because I find my steps speeding up with anticipation.

  A tiny woman—whose presence is overwhelmed by th
e size of the desk—is on the phone. She’s talking in hushed whispers and every second or third word she snaps her pink gum. Impatiently, I wait, leaning up against the wood. My fingers trace the lines of the grain as my heart beats. With each passing second, my annoyance grows and my heart gallops a little bit faster.

  “Excuse me,” I finally say to the girl.

  She turns slightly in her chair, giving me a sidelong glance before continuing on with her hushed conversation and snapping her gum in timed intervals, word, word word, snap, word, word, word, snap.

  It’s enough to drive a person insane. Enough to prompt me to raise my tone a few octaves and say, again, “Excuse me.”

  The woman whispers into the phone a string of words I can’t hear and hangs up. “Can I help you?” she says tersely, as if her job is not to help people. As if I’ve just interrupted the most important conversation of her life. If only she knew she was dragging out what could be one of the most important moments of my life.

  Upon leaving the library, I said the name over and over again in my head, trying with all my might to commit it to memory, so when I had to say it aloud it would come naturally. But when I open my mouth to speak the name I can picture in my mind, it gets stuck. The girl lets out a sigh and drums her fingers against the wood of the desk. I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat, pushing it down, if only to join the knots and butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. “Em—Embry Winston. I’d like to know what room he’s in, please.”

  The girl scoots her chair forward, giving me a look at her nametag. Beverly. If this was any other day, I’d tell Dad about her, and her lack of customer service skills. Instead, I push the thought away and concentrate on the key strokes Beverly punches into the computer.

  After a few seconds, she looks up. “He’s on the third floor, room 305—” I’m already walking away when I hear her call after me, “Are you family? It says—”