Page 11 of A Sublime Casualt
The Wakefield Public Libraryholds the thick scent of coffee and perfectly aged paperbacks that instantly have the power to inebriate me. The walls are each painted a loud citrus color, lime green, tangerine, ruby red grapefruit, and lemon yellow. The space itself is expansive and impressive in both girth and width. This is by far my favorite library out of all that I have visited, and I will admit it’s the very reason I stayed in Wakefield. A string of children’s art is the first to greet the patrons.Winners from the summer art contest revealed!The sign boastfully reads. First place is a picture of a girl curled up on her bed reading a book titledNovel Living. Her cartoon hair is long and wild like squiggly snakes, and it takes up most of the page. Each strand morphs into a novel of its own. But my favorite picture is by Kaitlin Romalati, age 10, Wakefield Elementary 3rdgrade. A depiction of a night scene, a little girl is tucked in her bed, a book titledSome Day My Prince Will Comelies over her comforter, a picture of a rose on the cover, and the bubble above her head reveals she is dreaming of a castle, a white knight offering her a single ruby rose. I think that’s the real reason people who are obsessed with reading do it. They long for a better life, and they want to believe the best for their future. There is so much hope locked between the pages of a book. Life doesn’t always offer you that. People who read voraciously have a mental edge above the rest of society. As cliché as it sounds, they are truly living a thousand lives. With movies, you don’t get to cast the characters, fill in the visual gaps with your own imagination. You don’t really feel what they feel because you’re not them. But in a book, you wear the white dress, breathe the castle air, and you look right into the prince’s eyes. Theo’s bold blue orbs flash before me. You live the dream each time you turn the page. And oddly enough, at this juncture of my life, I seem to be living the dream in and out of my books. Sometimes real life can outshine fiction.
Three women sit at the counter, each busy in her own world, one checking books back in, one assisting a customer, the third on her phone. I scan the gold nameplates they wear like badges of honor. I might be living in this place part-time, but I don’t really know the librarians all that well. They ask if I need help, and I’m quick to wave them away with a polite excuse. I check out most of my books online and read them on Gabby’s Kindle. The books my soul is truly hungry for I do so while I’m in here. I’ve read just about every crime novel in this place.
Ashley Engleflashes the badge on the end. Her bone straight hair knifes into her nameplate like a blonde spear between her first name and last. She’s the one on the phone. Figures. Probably keeping tabs on her latest obsession. She flicks a glance my way.
“Can I help you?” It comes out curt, caustic, and instead of answering, I head straight for the computers without hesitating.
There are no rules that say you need to respond to everyone. Hell, there are, and I screwed up, but that’s not going to stop me from doing what I came to do, talk to Peavey and Devyn. I log on to the fibro related symptoms chat symposium. It was Devyn’s idea actually. We came up with it three days before. The plan was that I would run, and the two of them would end up somewhere together. It turns out, foster care doesn’t make promises. They’re both in Midland, though, at the same high school no less, so things worked out in that respect. Peavey is staying with the Earl family. They have two boys, so he has brothers. It’s probably a nice change-up for him. Endless video games versus swapping the latest Kardashian news. I bet he’s relieved. Mr. Earl is a professional photographer, mostly weddings and school yearbook stuff. His wife is the lunch lady at a local elementary school who sometimes brings home leftovers but cooks a mean pizza nonetheless according my brother. They foster to help make ends meet. Devyn is staying with Kira Rodgers, a heavyset woman with severe diabetes. She used to specialize in fostering toddlers, but they were too much for her. Her daughter and infant granddaughter live with them. The house is small with paper-thin walls, and the baby cries all night, so Devyn is a zombie, stealing sleep in bathroom stalls in between classes. I hate that for her. I’ve thought about trumping up a false charge against the woman just to get my sister out of it. But I can’t risk separating her and Peavey. Murder has its consequences. I guess this is mine.
I log in as Annie-get-your-gun. Ironic and poetic in and of itself. Devyn’s brainchild was born through the fact her friend’s mother had fibromyalgia and would visit ubiquitous message boards where there were thousands of members. Peavey noticed some of the threads were dead, and that if we chose one and stuck to it, we could bury messages in them. But we never stay on the same thread. There are enough of them here. A-Z is in the table above. Each week of the year takes on the next letter in the alphabet. The letter A being the first week of January. Each week of the year we move up a letter. The twenty-seventh week of the year, second week of July, we start over with the letter A. It’s served us well so far. In the beginning, there was some confusion over weeks that were split in the middle by the end of one month and the beginning of the next, but we’ve ironed out all the kinks by now. Second week of November, letter Q. I click over and scan down to the bottom. Sure enough, Its_me_arnold has left a message. The first part of the message looks like spam. I’ve lost weight with this new diet pill, and now I make a million dollars by sealing envelopes at home. It goes on a few more lines until the text gets cut off and you need to click into it to read more. That was Peavey’s idea. He didn’t like the thought of our personal business being front and center. And good thing, because it could have been a problem. There’s no internal link embedded, so our content doesn’t get flagged as spam and deleted. So far, the mods haven’t said anything. And since there are other lively threads for them to manage, they most likely never will. Once we finish posting, we head straight to another post to bury the thread.
Peavey chose the name Its_me_arnold as a play on my last name, Benedict. Peavey and Devyn share the surname of Hunter, but it’s safer not to go there. Life is safer without mention or remembrance of it. Devyn chose dessertprincess because she likens the rural area she’s living in to a desert, but she spelled it the wrong way. It’s fine, though. It’s far more accurate this way. Peavey let me know privately she’s eating her emotions. I don’t care. I’m just glad she’s eating. Devyn and Peavey post together but alternate in logging in to their alter egos.
Its_me_arnold—gibberish, gibberish—missing you. D says a cheerleader broke her ankle and as an alternate she’s in. She’s ridiculously happy about it too. I’ve won two tickets to see Jeremy Newton at the Rock House in December. It’s his only show in the area and we are psyched. I’m taking D of course. Mr. E says he’s happy for me and he will play Uber. D says she wants to hear more funny stories from the frontlines. It makes us happy to know you’re doing well. Please don’t ever stop writing because sometimes we’re afraid you will. We’re afraid you’ll want to disappear forever and we won’t see you again. Just between you and me, it’s not getting easier. You’re a part of us. The Three Musketeers, remember? Just a few more years and we can put this all behind us. Lots of love.
A lone tear rolls down my cheek as I read the words over and over like a mantra. Devyn must be a beautiful cheerleader. My God, what I wouldn’t do to see it. It pains me that I won’t. The stories from the frontlines are the little life struggles I share about working at the Hideaway. They know I’m a waitress but not where. I thought it would be dangerous to arm them with too much information. I’m probably right. I’m hoping Peavey is right, too. A few more years and we can put this nightmare behind us. But I want them to go to college. Full scholarship I’m hoping. And then, first chance we get, we’ll move close to one another. They can keep their identities. I’ll have a different one. I can never be me again. I’m not so sure that’s such a bad thing.
I write back and tell them about the all-you-can-eat pancakes I ate with a friend. I don’t dare make it sound like a date. And I would never alarm them by filling them in on his occupation. They’d think I’d lost my mind, if they don’t already. I tell Devyn that I know she will be the best cheerleader on that field. She will. I tell Peavey that on the night of the concert I’ll be listening to Jeremy Newton’s music and that I’ll be there in spirit. I can’t wait. In large, bold-capped and underlined letters, I saylove you. And send.
“Can I help you find something?” a female voice chirps from behind and I jump in my seat. My eyes twitch as the page refreshes and I’m quick to exit before turning around.
It’s her. She’s so close I can count her teeth. Spying little bitch.
“Um”—my throat closes off for a moment—“actually yes.” A breath escapes me as I press on a smile. “Do you have an erotica section?”
“Excuse me?” Her hand clutches her neck, looking for those invisible pearls no doubt. I gather my things and rise.
Oh, how fast I’ve gone from pissed to giddy.
“I’m dating again.” I cinch Gabby’s discarded backpack over my shoulder. As silly as it sounds, I feel more studious with it. “It’s been so long, I’d do anything for a few pointers, you know?”
She tips her head back. Her blonde hair is straight as toothpicks, but she’s pretty. Not stunning. No, she’s actually rather plain. Good skin, broad nose, her eyes are little too close together—a pretty shade of navy blue. She has the personality of a wet paper plate. I don’t need to spend six years with her to know this. She and Theo would have had cute kids, though. But Theo and just about anyone would have cute kids. I try to imagine it for a moment—Theo and me and our hauntingly beautiful children. We both have finger-deep dimples, but I’m not sure you can pass those down. But those eyes of his… I’d much rather our kids look like him.
“I see.” She shakes her head as if it all makes sense now, and my gaze drags down over her body. Thin. Far too thin to have any real fun with. She’s wearing light tan corduroys and a long red cardigan. If we had a Target nearby, she could work there, too. I hate that I just judged her body so cruelly. But women are often so very cruel to one another when a primal sense of jealousy is piqued. I’m not sure which I’m more upset about—the fact she slept with Theo for six years straight or the fact she knew Lizzy. Probably both. I wonder what she would think about my little Lizzy secret? I’m guessing she’d track down her old friend Neil. “I’m sorry. We don’t carry those kinds of books. I mean, we do have romance, and there are a few authors who take the steam all the way to hell, if you know what I mean.” She leans in and gives a low husky laugh. Great. Just when I was starting to nurture my hatred for her, she gets cute and sweet on me. “I can help you fish something out if you want.”
“Sure.” I follow her over the expanse literary terrain. She has a pleasant gait. Sure, there’s no wiggle or no jiggle, but men usually prefer the Jackies to the Marilyns when it comes to the marrying kind. But she and Theo aren’t married, so I guess that says something, too. I wonder if that makes me the Marilyn in the equation. I rather like that. “Sinead O’Mallory is one I like to read.”
“Ah! A dark confession,” I tease. So it begins.
She pulls a hardback off the shelf with a picture of a sultry brunette in a flowing pink dress. A scruffy pirate is kneeling beside her with a sinister gleam in his eyes as his hand disappears under her hemline.
“The Pirate’s Treasure,” I muse. “It’s historical, though, right? I’m a thoroughly modern Millie, if you know what I mean.” I give a subtle wink. It’s all so easy to toy with Ashley it almost feels unfair.
“Oh, I totally get it.” She puts the book back and frowns at the aisle. “That’s pretty much all I read, though. Believe me, it can get real steamy. I need something to take the edge off every now and again, and these books always fit the bill.”
“Are yousingle?” I pat my chest as if she just confessed to having hepatitis.
“For now.” She gives a sly smile. Two lines for lips. How did Theo possibly work with those? “I had my eye on someone, and it didn’t work out the way I was hoping.” Her demeanor darkens as she glances past me. Then, as if someone switched on a light, she brightens. “A part of me is still pining for my ex, though.” She smirks at the idea, and I freeze. “He’s open to it, of course. I mean, we have a history together.”
And just like that, my stomach sinks to the pit of my shoes.
“Did he say that?” Every alarm in my body screams at me.Shut up, Phoebe. Shut the hell up.“I mean, it sounds like he’s still interested, especially with the history. That’s a good thing if you are, too. They say there’s nothing quite like a second chance romance.”
She flashes a wide, toothy grin. Picket fence smile, my mother would say. She was missing six teeth.
“I have a feeling you’re right. And it’s no fun being alone, believe me. My life was so full, and then it was empty.” Her affect softens with pain. I could see Lizzy there in her eyes, twin versions of that poster I’ve memorized. “But then I was the one who emptied it, so I guess there’s no one to blame but me.” Her shoulders give a hard bounce.
“So you broke it off with your ex?” I’m disappointed in you, Theo. You should have cut cardboard goody two-shoes out a long time ago. I bet she never let him play the part of the naughty pirate. Something tells me that no matter how hard she tries, she cannot get the edge off.