↠Monday, December 9, After School

So, maybe I had underestimated the time it would take for me to get to work?

I always knew I would have to walk, but I guess I took too much time trying not to slip on the ice that seemed to magically form in just a week.

Because, about halfway there, I looked down at my phone and realized I was going to be late if I didn't seriously pick up the pace.

In a desperate attempt to heed to the receptionist's words, I took off running. I should've realized that was probably the worst thing to do, but I most absolutely did not want to be late on my first day. 

I was running, and then sliding, and then falling, and then lying in a snowbank wondering what had just happened.

Huffing angrily, I climbed back to my feet, nearly slipping again. I didn't waste my time dusting the snow off of me, instead continuing my run--making sure to watch where I stepped from then on.

So, covered in snow, and just barely on time, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

The receptionist was already at her desk, sipping a hot Starbucks coffee. There was still steam coming out of the top, so I guessed it was fresh, but who buys a coffee at 4:30? Especially when you should be at work?

I brushed it off--unlike the snow that was sprinkled my hair. She looked over at me, not even bothering to say a word. She pointed, clearly bored, toward Mrs. Veretti's office.

I noticed she had a framed picture of a little Yorkie on her desk. "Thank you."

I then walked up to Mrs. Veretti's office. The door was closed, so I knocked gently, not wanting to disturb her. A scratchy voice told me to come inside. I slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

"Mr. Rhodes," she said, glancing down at her wristwatch. "You're on time. Barely."

"I-I know," I said not-so-smoothly. "But I'm here...! What should I do first?"

She narrowed her pale green eyes. She demanded, "Tell me what you know about the Dewey Decimal System."

"Well, it's how, um, non-fiction books are organized usually."

She narrowed her eyes even further. I was left to wonder if she could even see me at this point.

"T-The books are all given numbers based on what they're about, right? And, like, every 100 is a different subject."

"Do you know what numbers are what subjects?" she asked next, apparently not satisfied with my answer.

"Um, n-no."

"Disappointing."

I was already determined to memorize it before my next shift.

I didn't have a feeling of "I don't to lose this job" or even "I REALLY don't want to lose this job", I was plagued by constant thoughts of "I can't stand to lose this job".

So, if there was some sort of skill she thought I should have, I would learn it. No matter how ridiculous, strange, or complicated it was...!

"Well, Rhodes, there's a cart of non-fiction books just outside this door. Your first task is to put them back on their proper shelves."

"H-How am I supposed to--?"

"Unless," she said sharply, and I cut myself off, "you can't handle that?"

"I'll do it!" I said, immediately trapping myself in a situation I had no way to get out of.

Or so I thought.

I knew for a fact she wouldn't like it if I pulled out my phone to look it up. However, there was a poster on the wall that was exactly what I needed. I guessed it was for people who were looking for a specific non-fiction book, but didn't know where to look.

So, repeatedly glancing back at the poster, I set to work. I was very aware that anytime there was no customers--which, to be honest, was most of the time--the receptionist's eyes were locked on me. I pretended not to notice.

The only thing that broke my focus was Mrs. Veretti stepping out of her office. I watched her curiously as she walked directly to Ms. Nash. As she turned to look at me, I quickly grabbed one of the books and got back to work.

"Religious books are--" I muttered to myself, glancing at the poster, "--in the 200s."

"I know, I know," a slightly-snobbish-sounding middle aged woman said behind me. I immediately recognized the receptionist's voice. "Back in my day, we never applied for jobs we didn't have the experience for."

It occurred to me very quickly they were talking about me. Maybe not directly, but they were definitely talking about me.

I tried my best to ignore. Oh, I really did. 

But then they kept talking.

"Well, you know I only hired him because of what you said," Mrs. Veretti said. I could almost hear her rolling her eyes.

"Really?" Ms. Nash was laughing.

And suddenly--just like that--I was dying to know what she said. Why did I get hired over anyone else?

There was an obnoxiously loud slurping noise, and I guessed the receptionist was finishing her coffee.

"Oh, you should've seen his face when he came in for his interview. When that girl ran out crying, and then you called him in." The receptionist was laughing even harder now, barely able to speak. "I don't think I've ever seen someone so pale...!"

I felt my face growing redder by the second.

I was almost rushing now, trying desperately to get all the books put away so I didn't have to listen to them talk anymore.

It seemed like they had moved off of the subject of "me", but they're new topic was barely any better.

"You know, Cindi, sometimes I'm really jealous of you," Mrs. Veretti said.

Assuming that Cindi was the receptionist's name, I didn't even pause.

"There's a lot of reasons one might be, Judy, so why are you?" Ms. Nash said in what I guessed was a "joking" tone.

"You never married. I married, had kids. I felt my biological clock ticking, and I gave in. Biggest mistake of my life."

"Well, it's not like you have to worry about any of that anymore. Your kids have families of their own, and your husband is..."

"Hmph. I know. You still have the body of a young woman. You know, I still have stretch marks from--

--oh my God would you please just stop talking I swear this is not what I wanted to hear someone please end me now--

Fighting the ever-growing urge to cover my ears, I quickly shoved the last book onto the shelf and hurried up to the two women. They quickly stopped their conversation--thankfully-- when they saw me approaching.

"Mrs. Veretti, I finished putting all of the books away. What do you want me to do next?" I said in the most "I-definitely-didn't-hear-anything-you-were-talking-about" way that I could. 

Mrs. Veretti was clearly annoyed by me interrupting her conversation. She scoffed slightly. "You can... Ooh, yesterday a woman came in here with her kids and the snotty brats drew all over one of the tables with crayons. Cleaning supplies are over there. Good luck."

She vaguely pointed to the back corner of the library. Maybe I'd be far enough way that I wouldn't be able to hear them. I wasn't.

I found a door that was labeled "Supplies" and quickly opened it. I wasn't 100% sure what I should use, but I grabbed something that looked like it should work and started scrubbing.

Slightly afraid I would scrub the table's paint off, I was gentle at first. But I quickly realized that wasn't going to get rid of the crayon.

I honestly don't know how long I was trying to clean the table, but when I finished, it was significantly darker outside than it had been when I started. 

For good measure, I decided to clean all the other tables as well.

When I returned to Mrs. Veretti, she was back in her office. I stepped inside slowly, "Missus?"

She turned to look at me, adjusting her glasses. "Oh. You've finally finished. Well, it's almost seven. Why don't you just take off? Ten minutes won't hurt me."

"Oh..!" I blinked, "Really?"

"Yes, really!" she snapped, "Get out of here."

I didn't hesitate, quickly leaving. It was definitely colder outside as well. But what did I expect? 2 and a half hours in winter changed a lot of things...

I really did not want to think about Ms. Nash or Mrs. Veretti, so I was a bit lost in thought trying to keep myself preoccupied. Anytime I stopped thinking, my work day crept back into my mind. And I had quite a walk back home.

Naturally, it wasn't very long until I was thinking about Beckett.

I had texted him last week, and he never responded. That I remembered. But he hadn't been at school that next Monday either. When I asked him about it on Tuesday, he said that he was sick. Food poisoning from Thanksgiving, he said. That was also his excuse for not texting me.

There was no way I believed that. How could anyone believe that? 

So, there surely had to be a real reason? The same reason he kept giving me all his OTHER excuses. Everything had to be connected somehow...

A reason suddenly hit me like a truck, and I froze in the middle of the sidewalk. Slowly, stiffly, I pulled out my phone. Staring down at it, ignoring the grey cloud of breath coming out of my mouth, I texted the boy in question. My fingers seemed to move achingly slowly, and I had a doubt in my mind that I was wrong. 

But I pushed send anyway.

you: "Hey, Beckett. Can you meet me after school tomorrow? There's something I need to talk to you about."
7:39 PM

New Friend: "um sure"
New Friend: "see you tomorrow then"
New Friend: "i guess"
7:40 PM

My reason made sense. It linked everything together, every weird or strange thing Beckett did or said or didn't do or didn't say.

I could only hope that I was right.