“Oh.” He pushed the cart out of the way and walked over to me. He opened his mouth, an inquisitive look on his face, like he was going to ask about my poeting—about my little word disorder. But he didn’t. “I’ll show you the databases. They can search paid content. Even government stuff, like births and deaths.”
He led the way to the bank of computers and sat down. “What do you want to find out?”
I lifted my eyes and swallowed. Was there any way this might sound normal? “Well . . . remember the Mustang?”
“How could I forget our first break-in?” Kai logged into a portal for Rolly staff and students.
I tried to look like my insides were not turning into a pile of spaghetti straps. “I want to find out a little bit about the guy who owns it. Charlie Parker. But there’s another Charlie Parker, and . . .” I trailed off, and Kai turned to look at me, his hands still on the keyboard.
He searched my face for a moment, carefully, the way he’d reshelved the books. “Charlie lives with you, right? But he’s not your dad?”
“No.” My thumb twitched, but I held my hands together tightly. “My dad died a few weeks ago.” I hadn’t meant to say that. I really hadn’t.
“Oh.” Kai sat back, his face slack. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears stung my eyes. I wished I hadn’t told him. As if my poeting weren’t weird enough for one lunch hour. Now everyone at this school would know I was weird and dad-less. “Thanks,” I said, because that’s what you say. You have to thank people for feeling sorry for you. I waited for him to ask how it happened. Or if my dad had been sick long. Or if it was unexpected. Why does everyone ask those questions? It’s not my job to reassure them about the relative safety of their lifestyle.
But Kai didn’t ask any of those questions. “I meant I’m sorry I was so nosy.” He shifted closer to me. “Are you okay?”
I didn’t trust words, so I nodded.
He pressed his lips together and leaned toward the screen. “Okay. You know search basics.” He typed in Kai Thompson, putting quotes around his name. A dozen articles popped up. Future Physician of America, volunteer for Doctors Without Borders, center-half for Rolly’s winning soccer team. I took the cursor from him to pause on one: “as the only Rolls Edward High School junior to make the all-star team, Kai Thompson is a front-runner for a scholarship to UCLA, known for—” He put his hand over mine and shifted the mouse away.
I kept my hand perfectly still beneath his. For a moment, I couldn’t concentrate on why we were even sitting there because: he was touching me.
“Now let’s try Charles Parker.” He moved his hand away to type, and I took a deep breath. I didn’t know if I was more nervous finding out more about Charlie, or being so close to Kai. But even using quotes, even using location, the databases knew what Google did: the other Charles Parker. Kai sat back in his seat, his cheeks a little pink. “We need a narrowing term. Like his profession. Or a family member’s name?”
I hesitated then typed in Maryann Braxton + Charles Parker. The first hit was a real estate listing for our house—number 6 Magnolia. Sold: 2009. Owners: Mick Braxton and Charles Parker.
“What?” I stared at the names. Charlie owned the house with my dad? In 2009? Why would they buy a house together? My dad was a mediator, not the contractor star of House Flippers. I clicked further. Beneath was a mess of encrypted gibberish from Thornewood city records.
“Is that him?” Kai scanned the screen.
“Yeah.” I hesitated, thinking about what I knew. They’d been friends. Maybe my dad helped him with money or something? A loan? “Keep scrolling.”
Kai scrolled, finding repetitive listings. Then he stopped. Intent to Modify Zoning. The city document read: Business Permit Application, and a stamp on it said denied. It was dated just last year. I pressed my fingers into the desktop until it hurt. “Mover-librarians don’t know anything about city permits, do they?”
“This one does.” Kai glanced at me, a hint of his lopsided smile playing over his lips. He pointed to a zoning square on the document. “Zone C is for commercial properties. Like my dad’s warehouse. They want to change the house from residential to commercial.” All I knew was that Charlie had a “plan” for the house—one that we were unwilling accomplices to. Maybe it included turning the house into a commercial property? Or maybe it included marrying my mom.
I printed the documents—the title with Charlie’s name and the Zone C application. With this, I could finally talk to Blythe about Charlie. I realized as I held the paper, warm from the printer, that I’d been hesitating to tell her about the house documents because I was afraid that with nothing to show her, she wouldn’t believe me. Or she’d think I’d read them wrong. Blythe was an evidence-based-beliefs type of human.
Kai looked over my shoulder at the pages. “Are you going to ask him about this?”
I pressed my lips together. “I’m going to consult with Blythe. Then, yes.”
“Must be nice to be part of a permanent team,” he said as the first warning bell rang. I’d spent the entire time here, and had eaten nothing. I glanced over at him. He was wearing that real smile again. Worth the hunger pains. “Walk you to class?” he asked.
I smiled and followed him to the circulation desk, where he grabbed his backpack. We started up the steps together, the air between us a little empty without a project.
“Thank you,” I said. “I wouldn’t have found all that without you.” I wondered what I could say that would keep his attention. But all I had was the truth. “And I’m sorry if that was too much reality.”
Kai hummed a few bars of a song I thought I recognized. I watched him, waiting for an explanation. He gave me a new smile, a small, shy smile like a piece of string cut too short. “That’s ‘The Reasons Why,’ by the Cure.” He shrugged. “According to them, reality is likely a highly interpretative state.”
I tried to keep a straight face. “The Cure has all the answers.”
“They’re my favorite band.” Kai pulled his Hacky Sack out and dropped it to balance on his foot. “They wrote some amazing poetry.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and gave him the side-eye, “but song lyrics aren’t poetry.”
He froze, the ball balanced on his shoe. “I beg to differ. Evidence piece number one: poems were often sung in ancient times.”
“Is that true?” I tilted my head, wanting to grab my phone to look it up.
“Yes.” He tossed the ball in the air and caught it. “Evidence piece number two: poetry’s been used through the ages to court women. And I just used a song lyric to flirt with you.”