“Have fun,” I tell Ellie, yawning as we pull open the doors to Saint Ambrose on Friday morning. She has an early orchestra rehearsal, so I had to wake up at six-thirty instead of seven to drive her to school, and I’m already missing that half hour of sleep.
“I won’t,” Ellie sighs, swinging her flute case. “Most of the violinists are new, and they sound like dying cats.” We reach the auditorium and she asks, “Want to listen?”
“After that lead-in? No thanks. I’m going to the library.” I could use the extra time before class starts to go over my notes about Mr. Larkin.
“Suit yourself,” Ellie says, and I wave before heading for the stairs, relishing the fact that I don’t have to push through throngs of students to get there.
The library has always been my favorite place at Saint Ambrose. It’s on the top floor of the main building, painted a bright white that never seems to fade. One of the walls is nothing but windows, streaming sunlight into the reading area and turning the scarred wooden furniture the color of
honey. It’s right next to the Saint Ambrose Sentinel office, and when I was in eighth grade I used to alternate between the two as writing spaces.
I’m expecting the library to be empty, but the first thing I see when I step inside is that my favorite table already has an occupant: Charlotte Holbrook, frowning in concentration as she writes something down in her notebook.
I pause in the doorway, debating a change in plan. I didn’t miss the dirty look Charlotte shot me yesterday while I was talking to Tripp in the stacks, and I’m pretty sure she’s mad that I found him at her party after she’d told me not to. But then she glances up at me, and I don’t want to look like I’m leaving because of her, so…
“Hey,” I say, and flash my best attempt at a carefree smile as I take a seat at the opposite end of the table. “How’s it going?”
Her lips thin, and all I get in return is a curt nod. Looks like our brief bout of camaraderie is over. Note to self: Charlotte doesn’t like being disobeyed.
I take out my Mr. Larkin folders, and we sit in silence until my phone rings, earning me a cold look from Charlotte even though it’s not quiet hours. I meet her gaze evenly, thinking, I can talk if I want, and swipe to answer without fully registering that it’s a Providence phone number. “Hi, this is Brynn.”
A rich baritone fills my ear. “Brynn, this is Jonathan Bartley-Reed from the Eliot School returning your call.”
“Oh, hi,” I say, flustered. I shouldn’t have picked up. I want to ask Jonathan Bartley-Reed about Mr. Larkin’s time at the Eliot School, but I can’t do that with Charlotte watching me like a resentful hawk. “Thanks so much for getting back to me,” I say.
“Please forgive the delay. I’ve been inundated since the start of the new year,” he says with a deep chuckle. “How can I help you?”
“Um.” I’ll just take the call in the hallway, I think, standing so quickly that I bang my knee hard against the table. I let out an involuntary grunt of pain and drop back into my chair, holding my knee, as Charlotte smirks.
“Is everything all right?” Jonathan Bartley-Reed asks solicitously.
“Yeah, I was just…Sorry. I hit something. Anyway, I was hoping to talk to you about a former employee of yours. About his…” Charlotte is still staring at me, making it impossible to think. “Flower preferences.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re doing a memorial garden for William Larkin at Saint Ambrose, and—”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Bartley-Reed interrupts. “Are you a student?” “Yes, but—”
“All right,” he says, his tone turning patronizing. “While it’s always a pleasure to hear from students, I’m afraid I’m not the correct person to speak with for a school project. I’ll pass your name along to one of William’s former colleagues, and they’ll follow up about your memorial garden. Have a good day.” Then he hangs up on me.
“Thank you so much,” I say to the empty line, because no way am I letting Charlotte know I’ve just been dismissed. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” I pause for a few beats. “That’s so incredibly helpful…. What’s that?…Oh, of course, I’d be happy to call back then…. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you too,” I finish, finally lowering my phone.
Charlotte looks like she’s not buying it for a second. “Well, that went much better in the second half, didn’t it?” she says.
My temper rises, but I manage to keep my voice calm when I ask, “Do you have a problem with me, Charlotte?”
“Yes,” she says, which is more bluntness than I expected from her. “I think you should stay away from Tripp.”
“I’m not sure why that’s your business.” “Because he’s my friend.”
“Mine too,” I say, even though I’m not 100 percent sure that’s true.
“He doesn’t need the complication of a relationship right now,” Charlotte says.
“A relationship? I’m not interested in a relationship with Tripp.”
I’m not 100 percent sure that’s true either. Even though it should be, considering everything I don’t know about what Tripp did four years ago. Still, an image flashes through my mind of him leaning against the
bookshelf yesterday, blue eyes crinkled at the corners while he teased me. His blazer neatly pressed but his tie a little askew, in a way that made me want to reach up and fix it. Or maybe use it to tug him closer. I’m undecided on what the best course of action would have been.
Charlotte rolls her eyes, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “If you can’t be honest, then there’s no point in talking about any of this, is there?” she asks. Which sounds like her cue to start ignoring me again, but her gaze remains locked on mine, challenging.
“You don’t even know me,” I say.
“I know Tripp,” she says, tossing her hair. “And I know guys.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I hate to break it to you, Charlotte, but having a single relationship with your middle-school sweetheart doesn’t make you an expert.” I feel angry and off balance suddenly, wishing I could have this conversation with someone who’s not simultaneously judging me and belittling me, and frustration turns my words sharp. “It actually makes you kind of sheltered. So maybe don’t try to give advice when you’re incapable of making a move without Shane.”
As soon as the words spring from my mouth, I regret them. I can’t tell Charlotte to mind her own business when it comes to Tripp, and then bring up Shane like that. But before I can apologize, she surprises me by standing up, walking the length of the table, and perching on top of it beside my stack of books. Her beautiful face is utterly expressionless as she asks, “Do you know what it’s like to have boys treat you like you’re some kind of prize?”
“Um.” I hesitate, not sure if she actually wants a response, until silence stretches between us long enough that I’m forced to admit, “No. I do not.”
“The first boy I ever had a crush on told me I looked like a fairy princess,” she says. “He never wanted to talk to me, though. Just stared at me like I was some kind of object. It’s been like that my entire life—or worse, because sometimes the attention gets really creepy. I think I was eleven when the Upper School boys started catcalling me.”
“Really?” I ask, horrified. “That’s gross.”
“I know,” Charlotte says. “It’s dehumanizing. Shane’s always been different, though. He barely noticed me at first. I was the one who had to chase him.” She almost giggles, her eyes bright and shining with devotion. “It was a nice change of pace, and so was the fact that he treated me—treats me—like an actual person. So if being with him makes me kind of sheltered, you know what? Good. Bring it on.”
“Charlotte,” I say cautiously. I’m not sure what prompted this burst of confidence, or what she expects me to say in return. “I’m sorry that guys are…awful, sometimes. And I shouldn’t have brought Shane up like that. It’s not my business. Look, I’d really like for you and me to…” What’s the phrase I’m searching for here? “Get along.”
Charlotte gives me a serene smile. “We’ll get along fine as long as you don’t mess with my boys.”
Her boys? “Plural?” I sputter. “I thought we were talking about Shane.” “Tripp’s important to me too,” Charlotte says, and even though this is
one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had, it’s still nice to know that Tripp has clearly never tried to hit on her. “And he’s not as strong as he seems. He needs someone to look out for him.”
Who appointed you? I think, but I know there’s no point in saying it. Or continuing this conversation. “Understood,” I say, shuffling the papers in front of me. “I’ve got a ton of work to do, though, so…”
Charlotte takes the hint and hops off the table. “And I’m going to make a Starbucks run before class starts,” she says. Then she frowns at my scattered notes. “Why do you have that?”
I follow her gaze to a defaced poster of Mr. Larkin that I’ve been keeping in my files. “Oh, um…I passed it in the hallway on my way here, and felt bad about leaving it up,” I lie, hastily closing my notebook before she catches sight of anything related to Motive. “I can’t understand why anyone would do something like that.”
“Can’t you?” Charlotte says.
I blink at her. “What, you can?” Then my stomach drops, thinking about the conversation we just had. “Charlotte, was Mr. Larkin somebody who treated you…Did he…”
“Oh no,” Charlotte says decisively. “Nothing like that.” She returns to her chair and gathers her books, and I breathe a sigh of relief until she adds, “There’s more than one way to be awful, you know.”
“Huh?” I ask, but she’s already turned for the door.
My eyes drop to Mr. Larkin’s lemon tie, still visible beneath the red slashes on the garden committee poster, as I think about everything I’ve heard or seen over the past week. The man was a void. That son of a bitch got what he deserved. There’s more than one way to be awful. And I wonder, with another uncomfortable twist of my stomach, whether I ever really knew my favorite teacher at all.
