It did not take weeks. Giovanni was right. 

I’m standing in front of 104 with my backpack slung over my shoulder and my camera in my hand. It’s almost three, so classes should be ending at any moment. Then, the halls will flood with people rushing to get home and to their clubs. To their volunteer work and part-time jobs. To their friends’ houses and hangout spots. 

I frown at my hangout spot until it makes my face hurt. Big yellow caution tape is strewn across the door both ways to make an X, a more official-looking notice taped up on the door. My stomach drops down into my socks. They’re really doing it. They’re really taking it away. 

With no other options, I sulk over to the library. I don’t want to go home yet. Dad’s not going to be there, and Armin has to stay late with the rest of the council, so I might as well wait for him. I sigh and pull open one of the heavy glass doors, drag my feet into the yellow lighting and lingering smell of old paper. My shoes squeak against the linoleum tiles, long lights hanging from the ceiling. 

The stacks are on the left, hundreds of books waiting for someone to come pretend they’re reading them, shelves waiting to be made out against, stairs going up to fiction heaven. The study spaces are still on the right, one row of closed-off desks and then more throughout the center. Small tables, larger tables, all of them made in that dark wood like you see in the movies. 

I can feel someone staring at me as I slowly walk through the entryway. It’s pretty much empty in here aside from a pair of girls in the corner next to the window with a view of the parking lot. 

Ms. Cooper, the librarian, is missing in action, and at the main desk instead is a head of dark hair hiding behind a book with a bright pink cover. The book rises higher when I look over, and I feel compelled to see who’s hiding behind the desk. I squint when I get close enough to make out the title No Longer Human on the book. Oh, I know this guy. 

It’s none other than Mr. Anderson’s nephew glaring at me over the pages. He has his knees pressed against the edge of the desk and the heels of his Vans pressed into the chair underneath him. The chair swivels so he’s facing me head-on, and he lays the book pages down on the counter to keep his place. Rather than pulling out his headphones like a normal person, he holds the volume button down on his phone for a while, lifts his thumb, and presses it once more. 

“Can I help you?” he asks and the look on his face gives me a very unpleasant case of déjà vu. 

“Where’s Ms. Cooper?” I ask and look around again. 

“She’s busy. Can I help you?” He brings down one of his knees. 

I hum, eyes trailing across his blazer. He went to town on it: pins, patches, “Lyle” sewn just under the school emblem in green thread. 

I flick my eyes back up to ask if that’s his name and get stuck on his hair styled in thick waves, short around the sides and a little too long on top so it falls over his face like messy bangs. That washed-out green color has been replaced with a deeper, more blue-green like the water in the lake on the other side of town. It’s reminiscent of his eyes too. 

Maybe-Lyle blinks slowly as if I’m holding him up with my uninhibited staring, and he turns back to the desk. 

I clear my throat and even that sounds unnatural. That was totally my cue to leave, but now that I remember I was supposed to be talking, all of these perfect conversation starters pop up in my mind like telling him his blazer is cool, or confirming his name, or asking if he’s feeling any better since the last time we crossed paths. At least with that, I can apologize for being an overstepping asshole and he can apologize for being a standoffish jerk. 

I open my mouth to speak and the words I want are suplexed down my throat by the idiot gremlin inside of me to make way for a new stupid question. 

“They let you do that to your blazer?” 

“What’s it to you?” Maybe-Lyle scowls and looks me up and down. 

I suck my teeth. “That’s not what I meant.”

Maybe-Lyle stares at me long enough to make me squirm before he turns back to the book and gives it a face as if it told him something he doesn’t want to hear. He lets out a long breath. 

“Sorry,” he mutters at the book before he cuts his eyes at me and waits for a response. 

I stall, shift around while I try to figure out what I’m going to say next. Play it all cool and unbothered? Maybe be the nice guy and agree to forgive and forget? I open my mouth and close it again, try to swallow whatever stupid thing is sitting on my tongue, and it hangs on just to shoot out when I open my mouth again. 

“Thanks.” 

That’s it. That’s what I say. 

I can’t say I blame the guy for how hard he rolls his eyes. He gets up and closes the book like he’s going to leave me standing here alone biting my traitor of a tongue, and I step in front of the counter flap he needs to lift to come from behind the desk.

“Move,” he says with a pout. He folds his arms and stomps his foot when he says, “I was trying to be nice and—”

“Look, I’m sorry.” I cut him off. “I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything. I just—I’m sorry. Let’s start over. Can we do that?” 

There’s a pause between us, and by the way Maybe-Lyle’s face softens and he looks through me like I’m made of the same glass as the windows behind me, I think maybe I can swing this and at least leave on decent terms.