6
THE HEAVEN WE CHASE INVITES DEPRESSION
On Monday at lunch, I found Emma in the costume room to return her dress. She was smoothing a bolt of fabric over the huge counter-height table, so I hung the dress up. Then I presented her with a thank-you card I’d made from card stock, scraps of fabric, a glue stick, and a real paper clip I’d bent to look like a hanger holding a ruffly dress.
“So crafty!” She hugged the card to her chest. “Maybe I’ll make this one next.”
With Blythe studying through every lunch, I’d spent most passing periods and lunches with Emma, talking life, boots, and design. Being with her was a vacation from thinking about Charlie and my mom and how much I missed Dana Point.
“Let me know if you need a model,” I said as I sifted through the costumes on one rack. It was a mix of A Midsummer Night’s Dream romantic and 1950s poodle skirts and sweater sets.
“Speaking of, I have a new one.” She pulled out a short black dress with a skirt of silver and black alternating ruffles. Like all her dresses, it had one long sleeve and one cap sleeve, and I wanted to ask about the sleeve lengths, but artists can be sensitive about stylistic choices.
“It’s amazing,” I said, gently lifting the hem.
“Your McQueen was the inspiration.” She flipped the skirt into the air. “Where did you get that, anyway?” I told her about the beachy vintage stores I used to frequent as I skimmed my hands over the detailed stitching on the skirt.
“Well, there may not be a McQueen waiting for you in San Francisco, but there are some awesome vintage shops. We should check them some weekend.”
I agreed, trying to hold on to the warm feeling that vintage shops gave me, but there was a tickle of worry in my chest. I shouldn’t get attached to this place. “Emma? Do you know how to find out about someone’s history? Like, beyond what’s on the Web?”
The warning bell rang, and we grabbed our bags and headed out of fine arts and toward the quad. At first, Emma didn’t answer, and I told myself I should be having this conversation with Blythe anyhow.
“Well . . .” She paused. “Kai could help you.” I sucked in a breath. She flipped her glasses down over her eyes, not noticing my nerves. “He works in the library. Let’s head over there.” I nodded, my heart already pounding at the thought of speaking to him in something other than French. Even at lunch, we’d only just nodded and said, “Hey.” And as yet there had been no tour. We gathered our things and headed toward the library.
Emma bumped my shoulder. “What top secret intel do you need?”
“I haven’t even told Blythe yet,” I glanced around, like Blythe might overhear, but she was probably already in class.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Emma said quickly, and I felt a stab of guilt.
“It might be nothing.” I bit my lip and dug my thumbs into my skirt. “But there’s this guy we live with? Charlie? His name was on these documents right next to my Mom’s, as if they were married. But when I asked, he said they were platonic. But it seems . . .” I wasn’t sure what, exactly, it seemed. “Suspect.” I pushed my hair behind my ears, containing it.
“You live at number six Magnolia, right?”
I stopped walking. “Yeah.”
“I’m not a stalker.” She laughed. “My grandmother is the president of this beautification organization. Yours is the oldest house in Thornewood.”
“Your grandmother isn’t . . .” I cringed. “Mrs. McMichaels?” I couldn’t imagine Emma being related to a topiary lover like her.
“Yeah.” Her eyes widened at my expression. “So you’ve met her. She’s intense. But she does good work. Oops, I mean good volunteering.”
I laughed. “So, what does this beautification society do?” And what did they want with my mom? And our crumbly mansion?
“Everything.” Emma swung her hair out of her eyes. “Grandmamma oversees the rose garden, the street trees, the permits. She keeps this place perfect.”
“So that’s what I need to look up. I mean, I just want to know why we’re here, and how Charlie knows my mom, but no one will give me a straight answer.”
“I could poke around. See if they have any permits filed?” Her eyes twinkled behind her cat-eye glasses, and I feel the twist of fate that we met on that first disastrous day at Rolly.
“Thank you.” I’d barely met her, and I’d thanked her more in a few days than I had my friends back home in a year.
“So, do you still need to go to the library?” I tensed, not knowing what to say. After a week of close observation, I was pretty sure Kai and Emma were just friends. But I was still working up the nerve to ask about their status.
“Yeah,” I said, wondering if I could find a way to ask him. “I just can’t stop thinking about why we’re here. I may not find anything, but . . .”
“Kai’s your guy for library machinations.” She took my arm. “I’ll go with you.”
“That’s okay,” I said, gently pulling my arm away. “It will be boring. I’ll meet you after.” She shrugged, and even as another pinch of guilt twisted my stomach, I waved and walked quickly through the breezeway toward the library.
The entrance to the library was on the second floor. It had a wide landing hovering above a two-story space lined with windows overlooking the quad. I had a bird’s-eye view. The labyrinth of mahogany stacks of muted hardbacks wound into rows of deep tables where students studied, laptops and papers scattered around them. Beyond the desks were deep leather couches, and beyond them, rows of silver computer desks. I scanned the space, first for Blythe, then for Kai.
Blythe was nowhere in sight, but I saw Kai. He was inside the stacks, a book cart at his side. Each time he shelved a book, he adjusted the nearby bindings so they lined up evenly. I watched, biting my lower lip at how careful he was.
Before I could think about it, I swept down the stairs, through the book-theft detector, and to the end of his row. He looked up, raising his eyebrows.
“Looking for a book?” He turned back to the stacks, sliding a finger along the row to check for evenness.
“No.” I tried not to chew my lower lip, since his looked so shiny and pink and unchewed. “I’m actually looking for . . . someone’s history?”
“Hmmm.” He placed another book on the shelf and threw me that crooked smile it seemed as if he saved for me. “Did you try . . . Google?”
My cheeks flared. “Yes.” I opened my mouth to explain, to tell him that Charlie’s name belonged to a famous musician, to a man named Bird. But my thoughts suddenly seemed like nonsense, and I wondered if I’d really looked him up, or if I’d dreamed it. And while I was thinking my nonsense, Kai was staring at me with that intense blue gaze, and . . . I lifted my hand to my mouth and brushed my thumbnail over my lower lip. “The heaven we chase invites the race, the race to tears, the race to insanity—” I yanked my thumb away from my face. “Google didn’t help.”