Best Job In The World
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It's one of those awesome Saturday mornings—the kind where the sun shines in small patches on my face and the wind whips the remaining brown leaves around in a dance. My breath swirls in front of me as I walk. I'm bundled in my moderately-thick parka. I refuse to dig out the sub-zero one until January. On a whim, I stop off for a cup of to-go coffee from ‘B&B's’ on my way to work.
Work. That's the thing I like most about Saturdays. I have the best job in the entire world. Every weekend, I get to work at the library near our apartment.
Some people might think it’s lame. To me? It's an awesome escape—an artist's dream. Every patron is a sketch waiting to happen. Every book is a possibility, a story about someone's life that's more interesting than my own. My boss even lets me bring my sketchbook. If I get all of my work done and it's slow, I can sit among the stacks and draw. It's a place where prudish art teachers don’t stifle my creativity.
I'm on my way out of the shop, my coffee already burning my hand through the cardboard collar, when I spot him. The guy from yesterday. The one Shaz and I dubbed ‘Angry Popcorn Guy’.
He hasn’t noticed me, so I’m free to take him in. He's something to look at. There are sculpted edges to those cheekbones that I missed before. I’d draw him in charcoal.
Today he's dressed in skinny jeans and bright red chucks. A worn leather jacket hangs on him; the arms run too-long past his wrists like it's not quite his size. He hasn't bothered to zip it up. Maybe he's too cool for warmth? He's leaning against the wall, a book resting on his raised knee.
Now that we're outside ‘B&B's’, it's obvious. He's not my boy. His hair isn't the same. His lips are fuller, almost pouty, like a girl's. The eyes are similar but, it isn't him.
I'd be an idiot if I didn't recognize this guy’s level of hotness. What would it be like to sketch this boy? I'm not even sure how I'd tackle that strong jaw of his. Maybe only a profile? I automatically reach for my sketchbook and realize I don't have it. Darn. There won't even be any drawing at work today. At least, not with my own tools.
It’s not like it matters. This guy, for all his good looks, acted like a major asshat yesterday. He's not likely to want to sit for me. I'm not sure I want to put up with him, either.
I'm about to cross the street and avoid him when he glances up. His face distorts. "It's you. Weird girl from the coffee shop. Are you stalking me or something?" He slams his book shut.
Nice to see you again, too. I sneer when I look at him. "That would require a lot of planning on my part. I mean I have no idea who you are or where you live."
"I suppose so." He says this like he doesn't believe me. Like it’s absolutely plausible I would follow him around. He grunts and picks up his book once more.
"Whatever," I mutter and turn to go to work. Before I leave, my gaze falls on the Hawthorne tree from yesterday—the one that cut me. The one with the eyes. His eyes.
I'm about to examine the trunk when Angry Popcorn Guy snarls, "Are you going to stick around here and annoy me all day? Because if so I'm picking another spot."
"You know what? You can have this entire street. You can have the whole freaking block." Leaving the tree behind, I rush away, relieved when I finally step through the library doors.
It doesn't take long to get my things stashed in the backroom. I visit the head librarian for my instructions. There aren't many. Today, the place is crammed with students from the various universities. It's past midterms, but some of them are getting a jump on their end-of-semester papers. I just need to re-shelve as always, and make myself available for questions.
After I get the rundown on my duties, I grab the cart full of books set aside for re-stocking, scanning the spines for clues about my first stop. History. Great. Not my favorite section to work in lately. There's a problem with the overhead light—something about the wiring—and they've been trying to repair it for a couple of weeks. From the look of things, it’s still not fixed. They’ve installed temporary fluorescents, but they don’t do the job. Most of the stacks are shrouded in shadow where the row dead-ends.
Jemma...
Every muscle in my body tenses. My hands lock around the cart. Just like last night, I hear his voice in my head. It can't be. He isn't here.
God, someone's going to have me committed if I don't snap out of this. Focusing on the cart, I scan the book spines, searching for the one book I know belongs in this aisle. Most of the titles are a combination of newer hardbacks, popular fiction and the like.
The history book is a tome. Seriously. At least five thousand pages. I read the cover: The Book of Trees. Not what I expected a book this size to be about. I shake my head. How ironic that The Book Of Trees actually killed a ton of trees during the publication process.
Jemma...pick it up....
Goosebumps skate across my skin.
Jemma...
"This is stupid. I don't have to pick up that book." Then I realize I'm already holding The Book Of Trees. "But I didn't..."
A glance in either direction verifies no one's around to hear crazy Jemma Stringer talking to herself. Gripping the book, I shove it into the spot on the shelf and reach for the cart again.
"Don't you want to go to him?"
I jump. Standing next to me, on the dead end side of the aisle, is a woman I've never seen before. She seems like she's Mom's age. She'd almost pass as normal, except for the patches of spidery black veins dancing across her face.
"How did you get down this aisle?" I search for some new entrance I've missed, taking a step back.
"He wants to see you."
She couldn't mean...the boy? Not possible. I draw in as much air as I can, but it sticks in my throat. "He does? Who's he?"
She takes a step closer and extends her hand. Black spiders seem to crawl under her skin as it changes, shifting, turning into something else. A crackling sound fills the aisle, accompanied by the smell of smoky wood. Tree limbs shoot out from her fingertips, stretching out toward me, leaving all traces of her humanity behind. They creak and crack as they grow out from within her body.
"Oh, God." I cover my mouth and bite my tongue. Fear trips through me, intermingled with excitement. "I don't understand."
The woman smiles as her other hand changes, elongates into twisted pieces of wood that remind me of a forest around a wicked witch's castle. "Yes, you do. He's come for you, Jemma. He wants you with him. Just like before."
A haze falls over me and the pull is back, as though my heart itself is guiding me. I need to go to him. Right away. He's waiting for me. Just like my hands were drawn to pick up my sketchbooks last night, my body strains forward, to go with this woman.
"Just take my hand, young one." She smiles. Her teeth fall out of her mouth, hitting the carpet, and littering the ground at her feet like snow.
I reach out. Peace fills me. I'll be with him again. At last.