mouth ones. “It’s just—All this running… and the videotape and the Secret Service… and everyone’s got guns… This is the President , Beecher! What’re we doing ?” she asks, her laugh coming faster.
Before I know it, I’m chuckling with her. It starts slowly, with just a hiccup, then quickly starts to gallop. She’s absolutely right. To be lost like this… what the hell are we doing?
My belly lurches, catapulting a gasp of a laugh that only makes her laugh harder. She bends forward, holding her side and shooting me another new look I’ve never seen before. It barely lasts a second—an appreciative grin that reveals a single dimple in her left cheek—
Poomp.
Half bent over, I look down and see that the dictionary that was hidden beneath my lab coat has slipped out, slapping against the stacks’ 1950s linoleum floor.
Clementine stares down at the old book. Her laughter’s gone.
Mine too. Reality’s back. And so is her fear.
“Clemmi, listen to me—whatever we found in that room—whatever they’re doing with this book—” She looks my way, her eyes wide. I take a deep breath. “I can fix this.”
She nods, swaying just slightly. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I think I do.” I scan the empty stacks and again study the record group numbers, determined to get us back on track. “Yeah. I do.”
She studies me carefully, silence settling around us. Behind me, one of the motion sensor lights blinks off from inaction. I wait for the look she gave me before—the appreciative nod with the single dimple. It doesn’t come. Instead, she stands up straight, turning her head, like she’s studying me from a brand-new angle. She’s no longer swaying. No longer moving. She’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what she’s seeing.
But I’ll take it.
“My father’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.
“What? No…”
“Beecher, you know who my dad is, don’t you?”
“Let’s just—”
“If you know…” Her eyes well with tears and, like that half-second when she thought I wasn’t looking before, the girl who’s always prepared… she’s not prepared for this. “… how could you not tell me?”
She’s right. Completely right. But to just blurt it here…
“Beecher…”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just my name. But in those two stupid syllables, I hear everything in between. For twenty-nine years, Clementine Kaye has lived with empty spaces. And from what I know, she’s lived with them better than me. In seventh grade, I remember being paralyzed when Mrs. Krupitsky had the class make Father’s Day cards, thinking that’s the day we always go to his grave. Next to me, young Clementine was already happily writing away, turning it into a Mother’s Day card without even a second thought. But today, in those two syllables of my name, those empty spaces are back again, and I hear them loud and clear.
“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.
Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who—”
“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President—”
“But he’s alive, right?”
“Yeah, sure—I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”
“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s—it’s not what I expected, but I think—I think—I think—this is better than being dead, isn’t it?—it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but—There are worse things in life, right?”
“Clementine, are
Before I know it, I’m chuckling with her. It starts slowly, with just a hiccup, then quickly starts to gallop. She’s absolutely right. To be lost like this… what the hell are we doing?
My belly lurches, catapulting a gasp of a laugh that only makes her laugh harder. She bends forward, holding her side and shooting me another new look I’ve never seen before. It barely lasts a second—an appreciative grin that reveals a single dimple in her left cheek—
Poomp.
Half bent over, I look down and see that the dictionary that was hidden beneath my lab coat has slipped out, slapping against the stacks’ 1950s linoleum floor.
Clementine stares down at the old book. Her laughter’s gone.
Mine too. Reality’s back. And so is her fear.
“Clemmi, listen to me—whatever we found in that room—whatever they’re doing with this book—” She looks my way, her eyes wide. I take a deep breath. “I can fix this.”
She nods, swaying just slightly. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure. I think I do.” I scan the empty stacks and again study the record group numbers, determined to get us back on track. “Yeah. I do.”
She studies me carefully, silence settling around us. Behind me, one of the motion sensor lights blinks off from inaction. I wait for the look she gave me before—the appreciative nod with the single dimple. It doesn’t come. Instead, she stands up straight, turning her head, like she’s studying me from a brand-new angle. She’s no longer swaying. No longer moving. She’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what she’s seeing.
But I’ll take it.
“My father’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.
“What? No…”
“Beecher, you know who my dad is, don’t you?”
“Let’s just—”
“If you know…” Her eyes well with tears and, like that half-second when she thought I wasn’t looking before, the girl who’s always prepared… she’s not prepared for this. “… how could you not tell me?”
She’s right. Completely right. But to just blurt it here…
“Beecher…”
She doesn’t say anything else. Just my name. But in those two stupid syllables, I hear everything in between. For twenty-nine years, Clementine Kaye has lived with empty spaces. And from what I know, she’s lived with them better than me. In seventh grade, I remember being paralyzed when Mrs. Krupitsky had the class make Father’s Day cards, thinking that’s the day we always go to his grave. Next to me, young Clementine was already happily writing away, turning it into a Mother’s Day card without even a second thought. But today, in those two syllables of my name, those empty spaces are back again, and I hear them loud and clear.
“Nico Hadrian,” I blurt.
Her eyes jump back and forth, fighting to process. I wait for her to lean on the end of the metal shelves for support, but her body stays stiff. She’s trying to will herself back to calm. It’s not working. “N-Nico? Y’mean, like the guy who—”
“Him. Mm-hmm. Nico Hadrian.” I nod, hoping to soften the blow. But there’s no other way to say it. “The man who tried to shoot President—”
“But he’s alive, right?”
“Yeah, sure—I mean, I think he’s in a mental hospital…”
“But he’s alive. My dad’s alive.” She reaches for the metal shelf on her left, but never grabs it. “It’s—it’s not what I expected, but I think—I think—I think—this is better than being dead, isn’t it?—it’s better,” she insists, blinking over and over, brushing away the tears. “I was so scared he’d be dead.” Her eyes stare straight ahead, like she can’t even see I’m there. “I didn’t think he’d be this, but—There are worse things in life, right?”
“Clementine, are
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