five

“Hey!” Thalia greeted, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Everyone around the table shot her wary glances, for they were always wary when it came to Thalia Thornton. She wasn’t exactly the most welcoming or accepting girl in the world, and frankly, I was pretty sure that she intimidated them. But she was my roommate, so I had learned that her figurative bark was much worse than her bite…unless of course she happened to hate your guts because you dumped her, in which case her bite was worse. I had once witnessed and abetted Thalia not only slash her ex’s tires, but also spray paint the word “BITCH” in bright pink letters on his car. He was a senior at the time, thus giving him on/off-campus driving privileges. Right now, however, I didn’t think she had come over to wreck the Y Clique.

“Hi,” I returned, eyeing her just as skeptically as my peers.

“Okay, so, like, Oliver texted me—”

“When did you two start texting?”

She brushed her hand over the matter like that particular detail was less than trivial. “—and he said that you two were, like, going to the library today? But not the BA one?”

“Yeah,” I nodded slowly, cautious as to what I said in the presence of others.

“So, like, where are you going?”

“To the public library…”

Thalia blinked and then said, “What’s that?”

I was about to answer her, but then Hadley decided to jump into this private conversation. Hadley was big on jumping into private conversations. She was the nosiest out of all of us. “Who’s Oliver?”

“A friend,” I quickly replied, not wanting to dwell on the subject.

Thalia scoffed. “Have you seriously not told them about him?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Thalia deducted.

“Thalia, don’t,” I warned, knowing that it was already too late. A seed had been planned her mind of what she wanted to say, and like a bombing being set off, it was only a matter of seconds before she exploded.

Just as I suspected, I was too late: “Emily’s boyfriend, duh.” Whenever Thalia was near the Y Clique (myself excluded), she always said “duh” a lot. Each member of the forced group was at least twice as smart as Thalia, but she always felt superior to them, because this was still high school, and in this context, she was superior. And since she was fully aware of her superiority, Thalia felt the need to “duh” the Y Clique, just as a reminder that she was the better one. It was just Thalia being Thalia. She couldn’t help it.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said sharply, “he’s a boy space friend.”

“Same difference.” Thalia rolled her eyes as she remembered why she was here in the first place with a, “Oh, right, so, Oliver texted me and he wanted me to remind you. He thinks you’re going to flake or something.”

“When have I ever flaked on him?” I inquired.

“That’s what I keep telling him! But, like, whatever. So you are going, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Okay. Cool. Well, shouldn’t you, I don’t know, head there now-ish?”

“Probably,” I assessed, my eyes flicking over to a clock that hung high on the wall. I still had a good twenty minutes to get to the library. Presuming that I didn’t get lost on the way—which I didn’t plan on doing—I would be fine on the time front.

“Awesome,” Thalia whipped out her phone and began to tap, “I’ll tell Ollie.”

“Ollie?”

“Cute, isn’t it? He calls me Thal,” she shared. I decided at that moment that the two needed to meet. Their relationship was simply flourishing too much for me to handle, and I had a strong hunch that if Oliver were to meet Thalia in person, he wouldn’t take a liking to her, and vice versa. “Oh, and he says that he’s already there. You should meet him on the sixth level.” Six levels in a single library… That was my idea of pornographic.

“We’ll discuss your growing friendship with Ollie when I get back,” I declared, standing from the table. All eyes were on me as I gathered up my stuff and threw a scarf haphazardly around my neck, just in case. Thalia also stood, for she wasn’t a fan of hanging around the Y Clique when I wasn’t there—like I was about to be in approximately a minute and a half.

“We’re not friends,” Thalia said, swinging her bag over a shoulder, “and are you actually going to meet him looking like that?”

“You’re texting and Facebook track record with him begs to differ, and how else would I meet him? This is how I look, Thal.” I finished placing my last binder into my backpack and nodded softly at Felicity. Oh, Felicity. Ever the silent observer with a heart of gold… She was by far my favorite out of the three girls, though I would never admit it. Hadley was too brash and opinionated, and Nancy was just…Nancy. But Felicity, well, I liked Felicity. There was no particular reason for me to like her, but there also wasn’t a reason for me to dislike her, either. I was pretty sure that she was my favorite mainly because she wasn’t Hadley or Nancy, but she did have some redeeming qualities of her own, too. I couldn’t think of any off of the top of my head, but I knew she had some.

“I text a lot of guys that I’m not friends with,” shrugged Thalia.

I hung a strap of my backpack over a single shoulder and then wiggled my other arm through the other strap, because if I were going to be walking, the symmetry of it all would ensure that my back didn’t break. “Do you share nicknames with these guys?”

“Some…” she replied wistfully. Well, as wistfully as Thalia Thornton could be on a Wednesday afternoon. “Now, get the hell out of here and go meet your boy toy!”

“Oliver,” I corrected, “you mean Oliver.”

With one more “Yeah, whatever” from Thalia, I then bid my farewells to the girls, hoping that they would forget all about this little encounter and about Oliver. I wasn’t ready to share him. Not yet, at least.

Thalia and I left the Dining Hall (sometimes the girls and I hung out there in the afternoons—it was always empty; we liked empty) at the same time, but when we came to the outer layer of the doors, we went our separate ways. I headed onto the sidewalk, away from the campus, and Thalia headed to the dorms. It was a little unnerving to go off campus on a weekday, because normally it just wasn’t done. I tended to stay at Barnes during the week and then explore (well, venture to The Bookstore and back) on the weekends. But today I had promised to meet Oliver Dobson on apparently the sixth level of the public library. And since I wasn’t one for breaking promises, that was exactly what I intended to do.

My feet carried me all the way to Main Street, and from there I took a few turns as per Oliver’s instructions, until I ended up right in front of a great stone structure. It was far bigger than Barnes’ library, and the sheer size of it was what really amazed me. Never had I seen such a vast place dedicated solely to books. It was amazing and thrilling and as I neared the steps that led to the entrance, I could’ve sworn there were butterflies in my stomach. Not because I was meeting Oliver—it was just Oliver—but because I would soon be in the presence of so much esteemed literature and other people who appreciated that said literature. One did not come to a library if she or he hated books—it just wasn’t done.

I marched up the front steps and then moved to open one of the heavy red doors that I assumed was the entrance for the library. But before I could reach out and tug on the handle, the door swung out. I slid out of the way and then watched as a girl and a pristinely aging woman exited, deep in conversation. They stopped right on the stoop, preventing me from entering.

Woman: “She’s not helping you!”

Girl: “I don’t really care! Can I just have my phone back now?”

Woman: “You’ll get it back when your test grades don’t share the percentages of milks!”

Girl: “That was one time! And it’s just because I forgot to write my last name, geez!”

Woman: “And that’s the problem! You need to pay better attention!”

Girl: “Maybe if I had my phone back, I’d be more motivated to pay attention!”

Woman: “Or you’d be more distracted! I think we’re going to cancel with Wendy and find somebody new.”

Girl: “But I like Wendy!”

Woman: “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not. What’s important is whether or not she’s helping you!”

Girl: “She is!”

Woman: “Your recent grades suggest otherwise.”

Girl: “Ugh!”

Woman: “Hmmph!”

Me: “Uh, excuse me, I just, uh, need to get in…to the, um, library…”

The woman and girl moved aside, making room for me. As I left them, I heard the aftermath of their discussion:

Woman: “I bet she isn’t failing any of her classes.”

Girl: “I bet she also has her phone.”

I didn’t get to the hear what the result was with Wendy and whatnot, but as I came to a stop on what I assumed to be the first level of the library, I honestly didn’t care. Because all around me were books. And librarians. And people who liked books. It was my equivalent to Disney World. Everywhere I looked, I saw shelves and stacks and tables of books. Like Disney, it was overwhelming but beyond exciting. Alas, I couldn’t spend the next day here because I had school in the morning and I wasn’t really here for the books (well, not right now, at least). I was here for Oliver.

Directly before me were stairs. But it wasn’t just a single flight. No, these particular stairs ascended far past a single floor. I had to strain my neck just to catch a glimpse of the top, and even then, I wasn’t so sure that that was the end of the stairwell. They just seemed to rise infinitely, and as I embarked on my way, I began to count the levels, marked by landings every twenty or so steps. There were three of these landings, and on either side of the stairs, they opened up into entrances for the other levels of the library. I peered into a few, and they looked identical, save for the occasional extra seating area or specialty in genre (i.e.: Young Adult, Mystery, Romance, Historical, etc.).

When I finally reached the top of the stairs, I entered onto the fifth level. I had passed four others, lined with books and booklovers, and now I was on what I assumed to be the top floor. There were a sea of computers to my right and an information desk to my left. I headed over to the woman working behind the desk and waited patiently for her to notice me. She was typing away, too enthralled in her keyboard to even detect and blazing fire.

I awkwardly cleared my throat and then whispered a pitiful, “Uh…excuse me?” The lady continued typing, so I tried again, a bit louder: “Ma’am?”

At that, she finally looked up and her fingers stopped dancing over the keys. She slid her glasses onto the top of her head and then said, “Oh. Hello. How can I help you, sweetie?”

“I was, uh, just wondering where the sixth level was,” I replied, ignoring her disparaging tone.

“The sixth level?” she repeated warily.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re not suicidal, are you?”

I muttered out a flustered, “No, ma’am, uh, of course not. I’m just—I’m meeting someone there.”

“Kids these days,” she mumbled under her breath with a shake of her head. “Go over to the elevator and press the up button. It’ll take you there.”

I thanked her softly and then began my search for the elevator. Which I shortly found after returning to the top of the stairs: it was in front of them. As the woman behind the counter had directed, I boarded the machine and then pressed the “UP” button. Suddenly, the doors whooshed close and the floor beneath me propelled upwards for approximately ten seconds. Then the doors pulled back, and I was no longer in the library. Instead, I was on a green rooftop. It wasn’t really a garden because there wasn’t a flower in sight, but there were trees and grass and benches, thus creating the “green” part. Surrounding the roof was a metal railing, and I had a hunch that the morbid mention of whether or not I was suicidal had something to do with how easy it would be to jump. But all of that didn’t matter, for what (or rather who) my eyes zoomed in on was the boy sitting on a bench, immediately opposite me.

“Finally!” he exclaimed, standing from his seat as he neared me. “I was beginning to worry that you were standing me up!”

“It’s a big library,” I explained, meeting him halfway. “By the way, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you said that we were going to a library.”

“Once you’ve seen one library, you’ve seen them all,” he shrugged with ease. “Besides, this is my favorite part of the library.”

“It reminds me of when Troy and Gabriella danced in the rain,” I noted.

He shot me a skeptical look. “I mean, it’s not raining…but if you want we can dance, I guess?”

I laughed and then said, “I was referencing HSM: The Third.”

Again, he just blinked with a confused glance.

“Well, someone hasn’t brushed up on his High School Musical knowledge in a while,” I remarked with a laugh.

At the mention of HSM, realization dawned on the boy. “High School Musical reference. Got it. Actually, I still don’t got it, so can we just stick to the literary references? Being at a library and all, that is.”

“Sure,” I grinned.

Impulsively, he grabbed my hand and then led me back over to the bench that he had occupied just moments before. We both sat down, and along with our sitting came a slightly awkward lull in conversation. But it didn’t last long, for Oliver Dobson always seemed to have something to say:

“Emily Albert, I know this is a loaded question, but what is your favorite book?”

“Uh, as in what time period?”

“Any.”

 “Can it be contemporary and mainstream?”

“It could be Miley Cyrus’s autobiography, and I’d accept that as an answer.”

I refrained from mentioning that I had, indeed, read Miles To Go back in sixth grade, because one nod to Disney in a discussion was enough to last a lifetime. And while Miley’s biography was terribly uplifting and moving, I said, “Looking For Alaska,” and then looked down at my hands, because I knew Oliver was judging me. Whether it was in a good light or a bad one, Oliver had a strong opinion about what I had just said. Because though John Green was fabulously brilliant, he was probably expecting something different from me. I had read books and books and books, some of which were published far beyond my lifetime, yet my favorite book was something produced in the last decade. Oliver definitely had something to say about that.

In fact, he said: “Because you can relate to Miles?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I drawled after contemplating it for a moment. “But I think that I like the story more. While I like that I can relate to the school and to Miles, it’s just the adventure and enigma of Alaska and everything else that I just love.”

“I’d venture to claim that it’s his best book.” The male pronoun in his declaration was John Green. Not Miles. Miles didn’t write a book. Miles was just a character in a book, written by John Green.

“It is,” I verified. “Now, I suppose you’re expecting me to ask what your favorite book is?”

Oliver smiled sheepishly with a shrug, and then he said, “It would be the polite thing to do…”

“Okay, Oliver Dobson, what is your favorite book?”

He didn’t even take a second to think about it: “Gatsby.”

“Gatsby?” I repeated, incredulous.

He nodded.

“But Gatsby is so…” I couldn’t find a proper adjective to express what I wanted to about the novel.

“If you finish that sentence with anything less than ‘spectacular, old sport,’ then every English teacher in a five mile radius will come and stab you with a red pen,” Oliver told me as if he was reciting the weather forecast.

“I won’t deny that Gatsby is great…”

“But?”

“But, I think that Fitzgerald is overrated.”

He let out a deep inhale and then said, “Good thing Gatsby only became my favorite book a few weeks ago.”

“You’re one of those people?” I all but gasped.

“If by that you mean a boy who changes his favorite book—to quote Ms. Perry—like a girl changes clothes, then yes, yes I am.” I waited for more of an explanation. And soon, it came: “I’m reading Gatsby for the third time, though now in the context of class, and I like it more this time.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I think writing essays and overanalyzing it and all that stuff just makes it more real, you know?” I did know. I had had the same experience with a lot of the books I read. My first impression of them was when I chose to read them, and then the second time around was because it was required in order to advance my academic future. Reading a book in class was different than reading it on your own, because you had other peoples’ inputs, and you weren’t stuck ruminating something in only the contexts of your mind. In some ways, it was better to read a book with your class, but in other ways, it wasn’t. There was always that one overly dense kid that just didn’t get it, and there was nothing more aggravating than that kid.

After an elongated pause, I nodded my head and then added, “But when I read Gatsby at school, there was one girl who couldn’t get over how Gatsby and Daisy didn’t ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after.”

“Did you smack her?” Oliver asked without missing a beat. I shook my head slowly. “Because I would’ve. There’s a girl in my class now who won’t shut up about how much she ‘ships’ Daisy and Gatsby. Like, I’m pretty sure she’s going to cry when we get to the end. Why can’t people accept that happily ever after isn’t always the best ending?”

“I don’t know, Oliver. I don’t know.” I looked over at the stationary elevator, just staying there in its unwavering way. No one was coming in, and no one was coming out. The doors were shut, and though there was the possibility that they could open at any moment, it still felt like we were alone.

My eyes traveled over to Oliver, and for a moment, I studied his face. It was a nice face. Not the type of face you would see on billboards for anything less than acne prevention products, but that wasn’t to say that his face wasn’t nice. It wasn’t overly angular in anyway, but it wasn’t totally Pillsbury Doughboy, either. He had good teeth, but they weren’t the type that had spent years encaged in metal wires and lethal rubber bands. My teeth had gone through the hardships of braces and spacers and palette expanders and rubber bands and everything my orthodontist’s office had to offer. But Oliver’s teeth were more natural, and while they were straight, they didn’t look too straight or too perfect. I would have to assume that his teeth were a genetic trait. Maybe I’d ask him about it one day.

Around his teeth were thin lips. They were a light pink color, contrasting his starkly pale skin, which possessed more color in it than a piece of paper, but not by much. Then above his mouth was a nose, as average as noses could be, with a sprinkle of light freckles that I hadn’t really noticed before. They were barely visible, practically blending into his skin, but as I sat next to him in such close proximity, I could make out the faint patterns of scattered spots. I had always liked freckles. Probably because I didn’t have any, and one always longed for what one didn’t have. But Oliver had freckles, no matter how faint they were, and for now, I was content with just looking at them.

And right over his freckles were his glasses. Well, his eyes, which I associated with his glasses, because I had never seen him without them. To me, his glasses were part of his eyes and part of the whole makeup of his face. They were wide and bulky and black and they stood out so much in relation to his skin tone. But his glasses also worked. I couldn’t imagine him with another frame, or even with contacts. His glasses had a character of their own and acted as the eternal shield for his eyes. Which, admittedly, I hadn’t paid much mind to up until now. In fact, I hadn’t even known what color they were, because I was too engrossed in his glasses. But now I could see his eyes, and like the rest of his face, they were nice.

They weren’t a definite blue or green or brown, but rather a mixture of all three. The colors swirled into almost a kaleidoscope effect, and before I had the chance to really study them, I looked away, because Oliver began to look into my eyes, and I realized that staring at him was wholly weird. So to make up for my social faux pas, I asked a seemingly random and distracted question: “Oliver Dobson, how would you like to meet your good friend Thalia—‘Thal’—Thornton?”

“We’re not friends,” he replied simply.

“Funny,” I remarked. “She said the same thing.”