Page 20 of Finders Keepers

The library’s also changed since I was last here, which I think was a few months before I left for college.

There’s still a wide spiral staircase leading up to the second floor at the center of the main level, but the area surrounding it has been fully reimagined.

It’s now open and sunlit, the floors smooth and shiny instead of covered in threadbare carpet tiles.

It’s also a lot noisier than I remember it being.

“?‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’?”

In the center of the space is a gathering of teenagers standing in front of an audience of senior citizens, probably bussed in from a local retirement community considering how many there are, plus one or two kids their own age who are likely here out of friendly obligation.

The actors are each wearing one or two accessories to denote their characters, but otherwise it’s as low-budget a production as it gets.

A flyer taped to a nearby pillar helpfully explains that I have stumbled upon the library’s Summer Teen Drama Club rendition of “Selections from Hamlet .”

Quentin left to procure a new library card and is still chatting genially with the desk staff, so I lean against the wall and watch from afar for a moment longer.

The kids overacting their hearts out are a bit younger, but they remind me of the students I had in my freshman classes at Malbyrne.

That patented mixture of over-assuredness and insecurity that spikes around that age, making teenagers somehow both the cringiest and coolest people you’ll ever meet.

The thought that I almost certainly won’t be going back to a college classroom in August hits me anew. It was relatively easy until now to push it to the back of my mind, summer being my usual time off anyway. But seeing these teens here now makes me recall reality, and my heart aches.

I may not have won awards for my teaching, but I did manage to keep the attention of a bunch of hungover eighteen-year-olds at 8:30 in the morning—no mean feat.

“Do you remember,” Quentin whispers, suddenly beside me, “when we read A Midsummer Night’s Dream aloud in sophomore English?”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “How could I forget? You had a fantastic Bottom. Were! Were a fantastic Bottom.” Oh god. I stumble for more and land on, “The ass. The guy with the ass head.”

Man. This not-being-able-to-talk-without-making-a-fool-of-myself thing sucks. If I could die from embarrassment, I’m pretty sure I would’ve done it like six times over by now.

Quentin grins, clearly wanting to comment on what I’ve said but deciding it’s too easy of a joke. “You ready to head up?”

It’s tempting to stick around for another few minutes, to support these kids who are admirably spending their summer being cute little drama club dorks instead of getting into mischief.

But I also don’t want to keep being reminded of how much I’ll miss my students, even if they did sometimes whine about their grades and leave inappropriate comments on my teaching evaluations.

Also, if we’re busy looking through the Fountain files, I am less likely to accidentally compliment Quentin’s ass again. Or be thinking about his ass at all.

“Let’s go.”

We travel up the winding staircase and head to where the special collections room is still tucked in the library’s back corner as if it’s in its own secret world.

The door is closed, adding to the feeling that there’s something particularly valuable or sacred within.

A sign taped onto it assures us that it’s open, though, so Quentin reaches for the handle and turns it.

The familiar scent of a place filled with old paper hits my nose, and I breathe it in with relish.

I scan the room, which is almost exactly the same as I remember it, right down to the scowling face staring back at us from the desk in the corner.

Mrs. MacDonald sits completely still, like a creepy animatronic waiting her turn to speak in a theme park show. If her eyes weren’t open, I would assume she was asleep.

Unless…

“Oh my god, is she dead?” Quentin whispers, voicing my exact thought.

“I’m never dying!”

We both jump in response to the sudden exclamation. I hold a hand to my chest, trying to keep my heart from making a run for it. “Mrs. MacDonald,” I say. “Hello. Good to see you, um, well.”

“Who says I’m well?” she snaps.

“Sorry to hear that you aren’t?” I try.

“Who says I’m not?”

My eyebrows dive as I attempt to figure out what exactly I’m supposed to say here. I land on, “Either way, it’s good to see you.”

“I don’t know if you remember us,” Quentin chimes in. “We came here a lot back in 2008, when we were researching Julius Fountain.”

Mrs. MacDonald stares for a long time. Long enough that I’m worried she has actually passed away in this very moment. Then she slowly extends a knobby finger in Quentin’s direction.

“The gum boy,” she says accusingly. “I thought I banned you.”

Oh. Right. Quentin is technically not allowed in here. Not since the Trident Tropical Twist Incident. I suppose that’s another reason we didn’t concern ourselves much with the house itself—lack of access to research materials after about mid-July.

“Wow, what a memory you have!” Quentin says, flashing her his most charming smile. If I had any lingering doubt about it being an intentional trick, it’s laid to rest as I watch him summon it. “That was almost twenty years ago. I mean, I can barely remember—”

“I remember it like yesterday.” She narrows her eyes as she says it, and it somehow sounds like a threat. “And you, young man, are not allowed in my special collections room.”

Quentin’s responding laugh is a nervous one—filed under The time he stapled our second-grade teacher’s calendar together and she threatened him with lunch detention .

“Mrs. MacDonald…” he starts, but I cut him off.

The old archivist has always had a soft spot for me.

Or as soft of a spot as the woman possibly can.

“I think what my friend is trying to say is that he is incredibly sorry for his reprehensible actions as a youth and hopes you can find it in your heart to give him another chance now that he has grown up and learned from his past transgressions.”

“Yes,” Quentin says with a nod. “Thank you, Nina. That’s exactly what I’m trying to say.”

Mrs. MacDonald deliberates for a few seconds that feel eternal, then grumbles, “Fine.”

“I promise I won’t disappoint you,” Quentin says earnestly.

“I even catch you looking like you might start chewing and you’re out of here,” she warns. “Both of you.”

“Understood,” we reply in unison.

“Now, what do you want?”

“The Julius Fountain papers,” I say. “If you have a way to search the catalog, I’m happy to give you the exact record group—”

“We don’t do that here,” she says, and is off into the stacks of bankers boxes before I can finish.

Quentin says, “Sorry. I forgot about the gum thing.”

“So did I. Although I don’t know how. That was super gross. Why did you even do that?”

“The trash can was too far away and I thought I’d just stick it under the table until I got up again. But then I forgot to grab it. It wasn’t like…I didn’t make a habit of it or anything.”

“Still extremely gross.”

“It was far from the grossest thing I did as a kid, believe me.”

“Ew.” I give him a light shove. “That in no way helps your case. What did I ever see in you?”

I say it without thinking, and Quentin’s smile shrinks and his brows come together as the words register.

“Did you see something in me, Nina?” he asks. And there’s no teasing in his tone, no flirtation. Just a sort of confusion and…curiosity?

“I…Well, no, I just meant…” I am not about to confess to having had a crush on Quentin Bell when we were fifteen. Why would I? So he can laugh at how stupid I was to think we meant something to each other?

Thankfully Mrs. MacDonald saves me with her reemergence from the stacks, hunched over and pulling a yellowed box inch by inch toward her by its handle. It drags along the old, rough carpet, making a sound like someone loudly and prolongedly shushing us.

“Let me help you with that,” Quentin says, moving forward.

Mrs. MacDonald stops for a moment, out of breath. “No. You sit. I’ll be there when I’m there.”

“Really—” His outstretched hand is actually slapped away as he tries to take the box.

“I said sit ,” she commands as if we’re overexcited beagles instead of two adults attempting to do historical research.

And, I don’t know, maybe there’s some part of us that is beagle-esque, because damned if we don’t both immediately go to the table in the center of the room and take a seat on perpendicular sides of it.

“I feel really bad that she’s doing this,” Quentin mumbles. “Like, every single instinct I have tells me to intervene, but to be honest I’m kind of really scared of her.”

“She’s terrifying,” I confirm.

Mrs. MacDonald hoists the box onto the table in slow motion before dropping it between us with a thud. “I’ll go get the second one,” she says, turning away and shuffling back toward the stacks.

“Are you sure we can’t help?” I ask.

“Did you go to library school?” she barks. As if an MLS degree is required to move boxes from shelf to table.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But I do have a PhD in history, with a minor field in archival studies. If that counts.”

“You do, do you? Huh.” The slightest hint of a smile curves her thin, dry lips. Or maybe that’s a sneer. But she does sound somewhat impressed. “All right. Come with me.”

Quentin and I exchange raised eyebrows as I stand, then follow Mrs. MacDonald into the aisles of shelves holding the library’s special collections.

I glance back at Quentin before turning the corner and find him leaning back in his chair, balancing on its rear legs in the exact way that earned him six stitches in the back of his head when we were eleven.

Something that definitely hasn’t changed about Quentin Bell is that he has never once in his life learned a lesson.