Between These Lines (A Young Adult Novel) (6 page)

“You’re
redoing the house in . . .
 
Napoleon?” I asked, trying to take the edge off the mood surrounding me.
This, however, garnered a chuckle from Mr. Gracen, and a look of remorse from
my mother.

“
Neapolitan
,”
she corrected me. “17
^th
Century France, paintings, vases . . .” her
eyes were wide, as if this bit of hinting should somehow register and click in
the back of my brain.
 
I nodded,
pretending the light bulb had gone off, though it was clear I was nothing more
than a perfect display of stupidity.

“Well,
it was nice meeting you, Marc.”

He
smiled back as his eyes drank me in from head to toe. “Lovely daughter you
have, Ellen. Just
lovely
.”

My
mother had already begun to busy herself with the contents of her portfolio,
and I swallowed uncomfortably, feeling Mr. Gracen’s eyes still on me.

“All
set,” she chimed, standing up and straightening the front of her gray suit.
“I’ll try not to be too late, sweetie. Must get back to work now, we have lots
of ground to cover. Make sure you do your homework.” She leaned in for an air
kiss against my cheek then disappeared into the kitchen with Mr. Gracen
following behind, his keys jingling in his hand.

When
the kitchen door closed and Mr. Gracen’s little black car finally purred its
way down my driveway, I found myself absorbing the familiar, lonely silence
that fell around me. I decided to check the voicemail for any messages that
might be waiting. There were three—all from my dad.

“Ellen,
I’ll be late tonight. I’m bogged down with claims. I promise I’ll make it up to
you and Evie. We’ll go out for dinner this week. Call me when you get in.”

Beep.

“It’s
me again, still buried under papers. Miss you . . .”

Beep.

“Ellen,
where are you? Evie should be coming home soon and you haven’t called.”

I
listened to the recorded voice that followed, detailing the time each call was
left and what my options were. My mother had been here when my dad called. She
was home for all of them and never bothered to answer, or call him back. I
deleted all three messages and suppressed the sigh building inside my chest.

Chapter Nine

Chase

“Eat a bit
more, honey,” Aunt Claudie insisted, as she waved the basket of homemade rolls
beneath my nose. If it were up to her she would pin me down and stuff each
delectable morsel into my mouth for me. “Don’t you have an appetite tonight?”

“Really,
I’m full, Aunt Claudie. It was delicious.” On a normal night I could eat
everything she made and then some, but my appetite was practically nonexistent.
I was too anxious to eat, like a kid being forced to eat lunch five minutes
before his birthday party.

“Actually,
I’m going to head over to the library,” I stood up and pushed my chair in. “I
have a paper to start.”

“Homework,
homework, that’s all you do,” she muttered. “Weren’t you just working on a
paper last week? I swear they overload you at that fancy school of yours.”

Anxious,
I cleared my plate and crumpled napkin from the table, and brought them to the
sink. Last week’s paper just happened to be the Sylvia Plath piece I had
already finished only I didn’t let on that I would be re-writing that very
paper tonight, nor did I mention I would be sharing the grade.

“This
is extra credit.”

With
a sigh and a smile, Aunt Claudie seemed to buy it. “I still think they overwork
you kids. You’re always up in your room typing and printing something off on
that computer of yours. Well, I’m not complaining. I’m very proud of you.” She
leaned over and pressed her soft lips to my cheek.

With
a winning smile, I returned the peck, “I must have inherited your brains.”
 

“Oh,
you butter me up!” Aunt Claudie turned a nice shade of pink. “Just don’t stay
out too late. It’s a school night.”

I
sat in the parking lot a good fifteen minutes by the time I worked up enough
nerve to walk in. The truth was I didn’t expect Evie to show up. I figured I
would save myself the embarrassment by finding out in my car instead of at a
table inside, and hopefully avoid the get-up-and-leave-because-she-ditched-you
exit I mentally prepared myself for. But before long, she crossed the parking
lot, holding true to her word, and my stomach somersaulted as I watched her
wrestle with the heavy door and her books.

She
sat at one of the wooden tables by the back window that overlooked a deep
field.

Though
there was nothing but black on the other side of the glass this time of day, Evie
stared out onto a horizon she could barely make out. She picked at her nails,
her hands resting atop some notebooks she had laid out across the table, and I
wondered if she thought I’d be the one to pull a no-show. She looked up and
smiled warmly the moment she noticed me, and all the anxiety stored up inside
me vanished.

“I
only had one Sylvia Plath book,” she whispered apologetically, in respect of
the others studying nearby, and held up her dog-eared tome, waving it a little.

I
chuckled, reached into my backpack and produced an identical copy.

She
smiled. “I see yours is just as worn.”

“Not
as worn as these,” and I proceeded to pull out five more, all bent and soft,
and fanned them out onto the table in front of her.

“Well,
I see we have ample research material.” Evie surveyed the bounty. “I can’t
imagine finding much more than this on the shelf.”

“Nope,
we won’t. I think I own more copies than the library.”

“I
didn’t quite figure you for a poetic kind of guy.” Her head tilted to the side
gently, as if trying to understand the connection between a suicidal poet to a
guy like me.

I
lowered myself onto the wooden chair opposite her and played with the cover of
The
Bell

Jar.
There was a feeling in
the pit of my stomach that resembled what I had felt at lunch yesterday, only
magnified—and without the agitation I felt in the presence of her
friends.

Maybe
that’s why it was different now. There was no audience. I could put my
nervousness aside and enjoy her company, without the sensation of inquisitive
eyes dissecting me.

“You
didn’t think I would show up, did you?”

“The
thought crossed my mind.”

“I
wondered the same about you.”

I
shifted in my seat, finding myself unable to look away from her, and yet,
unable to look anywhere else, then I leaned across the table. “But I’m here.”

Her
eyes brightened and held me in such a way that I nearly lost track of
everything going on around us. Finally, she cleared her throat, and I realized
she was blushing.

“So
I thought we might use a timeline for the paper,” I said as I dug my notebook
out from under the pile. “We could begin with her earlier work, building up to
the prose right before her death, and then analyze them. What do you think?”

“A
timeline sounds good. I like the angle. We can track her deterioration through
her work.”

I
pulled the paper I had finished last week from its plastic sheath and set it in
front of her.

I
was beginning to feel excited about this. I had never worked on a paper with
anyone before and could already see the advantage of brainstorming with a
partner. “I actually started a bit so we can use what I already have . . .”

Her
eyebrows cinched toward each other as she gingerly picked up the paper.

“This
hardly looks like ‘a bit’, Chase. How long have you been working on this?”

I
bit the inside of my cheek and debated. “It’s nothing. It took no time at all,
given I’m a diehard fan, well, you know.”

She
shook her head at the typed page. “You’ve covered a lot of ground. At least let
me do my share of the research. It wouldn’t be right to use what you already
have as my own.”

Evie
began leafing through the copies I had brought. Each paper, each line she read
to herself entranced her. “I’ve never read
April 18
^th
before.
It’s so sad.”

My
breath caught in my lungs.

“Why
did you come to lunch with me?” she asked quietly.

“Because
you asked.”

I
watched her swallow a couple times.

“Was
there another reason?”

I
set the book I had been holding down onto the table and looked into her eyes.
“I wanted to.”

A
tiny smile formed at the corner of her mouth. But the moment was interrupted by
a gentle peal of music from her purse. With quick reflexes she grabbed the
phone and placed it in her lap, trying to silence it.

“Aren’t
you going to get that?” I motioned with my head at the stifled ringtone beneath
the table.

She
looked at me and shook her head. “I’ll let it go to voicemail.”

A
huge sigh from across the room forced us to look up, where a boy from school
bent over a large table strewn with books. With a shift of his arm, a pile of
papers cascaded to the floor in a jumbled avalanche.

Still
busy with her phone, Evie looked back at me. “I better get this after all,
sorry,” and she quietly excused herself, and headed for the vestibule. Cell
phone usage was discouraged at the library since it interfered with the
computer system, and I couldn’t help notice the late shift volunteer follow
Evie with a hard stare.

My
palms were slick with perspiration. I really needed to talk myself out of
feeling nervous around her, so I got up and wandered toward the stacks in pursuit
of anything Plath, though I knew better than to think I’d discover more than
what was already waiting at our table.

The
boy at the next cubicle was bent over his work, engulfed in furious scribbles
and note taking. His scattered mess caught my eye, and I leaned down to pick up
a paper he had missed beneath his chair. He wiped the hair out of his face
before looking up at me, and when he did, I recognized him immediately. His
name escaped me for the moment, but I knew he was one of the smart kids. Quiet.
A loner like me, but often regarded by the group Evie hung out with.

Well,
used
rather. He was known for whipping up A-worthy papers in a flash for
a reasonable price.

“Thanks,”
he said, and took the paper I held out to him.

“Quite
a project there,” I remarked, showing off my powerful observation skills.

“You
have
no
idea.”

The
name on the paper suddenly burned itself into my brain.
Shane Whitley.
As
my eyes crept to the boy’s face, I found myself furious to see he was doing
Shane’s paper for him.

Headmaster’s
nephew or not, Shane allowed himself to sink as low as anyone else bent on
cheating the system. What killed me was Evie and I could be alone at the
library, but Shane was still very much present.

“Well,
good luck.” I said tersely, “Must really be worth all the hassle.”

“Oh,
it’ll be worth it,” he stretched his arms high above his head and wiggled his
fingers.

The
nonfiction aisle was two rows away and I was feeling antsy for wasting time.
I
should have left that paper on the floor and let Shane fail.

With
overt annoyance, I seethed through gritted teeth, “Pays well, huh?”

“You
could say that,” he grinned, bragging a bit.

Recollection
whacked itself over my head as his name came to mind.
Ty Dunhammer.
He
was known for supplying on campus, but no one could pinpoint where he was
getting it from.
 
I took notice of
his annoying post nasal drip and watched in disgust as he swiped his nose with
the back of a shaky hand. I assumed the red-rimmed eyes he turned toward me
were from working so hard on a paper to an undeserving jerk who should be
earning his own grade, but it hit me.

Shane
paid well. And it wasn’t with anything green. If I was correct to guess, it
would be white, powdery and extremely illegal. It also meant I just discovered
Ty’s source. Shane.

I
looked up to see Evie give a little wave. She mouthed out
“sorry”
and
pointed to her phone. How much did she know about Shane and his world of lies?
I felt the need to protect her, and edged my way around the kid at the table,
eager to get away from his bloodshot eyes.

“Everything
alright?” I asked Evie moments later.

Evie
sat down across from me and picked up the book of poems she had been reading
before her phone went off.

“Yeah,
fine,” but the book soon found its way onto the table again. “No, not really,
it was my dad. He’s working late and my mom isn’t home yet to pick me up. Looks
like I’m stuck taking the bus.”