Afterthought : A Sententia Short Story (9781483527260) Page 4

  It wasn’t that I was too lazy to fold them myself. I wasn’t too lazy to do anything, and I did countless things I didn’t enjoy on a daily basis, by choice. Like push-ups, and drinking black coffee. The first was for convenience, the second for simplicity. And because I didn’t like milk. My aunt said what I liked was torturing myself.

  But the clothes, that was different. It was the order. If I had to fold the clothes or even look at them in the dresser, I could tell you immediately if they were in the same order as the last laundry day, and the one before that, and probably every laundry day since I was fourteen and half years old.

  It drove me crazy.

  I didn’t want to care, but I couldn’t not see it. On my worst days, I thought it would be an even bigger gift to give up my Sententia abilities. What would I really be losing? One was a secret away from getting me killed and the other was slowly driving me insane. People always seemed to think the “photographic memory” was just the greatest. How easy it must make my life. Those people drove me fucking crazy too.

  But if I was being honest, probably I’d be worse without it, even though with the infinite memory came the borderline OCD. More than borderline. If I was being honest. It was why I wore basically the same thing all the time—so I wouldn’t have to think about it or look at what I pulled out of the drawers. It was why I hated a mess and why every stack of books in my room, whatever was in it, was arranged in order by the last four digits of each ISBN. To everyone else, it looked random, which was the goal.

  Change meant some kind of mess was coming.

  And that was why I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  In the kitchen, I made breakfast while I continued to obsess. Uncle Jeff was gone, so I couldn’t talk while he listened, and Aunt Mel was already downstairs. She’d left a muffin for me though, so I ate that while I fixed eggs and toast, poured some juice. I sometimes wondered if my mother would have left muffins, or made my breakfast. My aunt probably would have told me, though I’d never ask her a question like that. When I’d gotten old enough, my dad and I had made breakfast together, but even back then Aunt Mel had always brought us muffins.

  My mother, and what she would or would not have been like, was an old concern, its edges dulled by the accumulated years of my pulling it out and tucking it away, forever unsolved. It was far less shiny than the problem of the new student. What I couldn’t work out was why the secrecy. Why Constance Stewart’s presence and the hint dropping that she knew would do this to me, and that I had way too much pride to ask for more details about.

  No one showed up at Northbrook or Webber by accident. Or by surprise. It was part of my job to make sure that didn’t happen. Sententia family trees grew in my memory and I tended and watered them with care. Aunt Mel was better at seeing the connections, but I knew all the names and dates. If I thought long enough, I could match all the relations. And that was the thing—there were no missing relations. Everyone I expected at Northbrook was already here.

  But there would have been no reason for my involvement, or Dr. Stewart’s keen interest, unless the student was Sententia. Except if we didn’t know about him, he didn’t know about himself. So who was he?

  To figure it out, I had to find him.

  “Or her,” Aunt Mel reminded me. “I don’t know why you’re so convinced it’s a him.”

  Probably because I’d sworn off girls for the past year and I didn’t like to think about them. My aunt interrupted my thinking about them by asking, “What came in yesterday’s shipment?” while she turned another page in the newspaper she was skimming.

  “Just books.”

  She made a noncommittal sound and turned another page. I sipped coffee while I scanned a paper of my own. Owning a bookstore was good cover for all the national and international news we consumed like sustenance. Reading them in print like we did was borderline archaic, but it seemed natural in the old-fashioned atmosphere of Penrose Books. Plus both our gifts worked better with a page than a screen. Students didn’t really notice what we were doing—or some of them knew—and our regular customers thought our voracity for the printed page was charming.

  I knew what my aunt’s question, and her ambivalent response, had meant. We weren’t expecting anything but books, but there wasn’t a schedule of Perceptum deliveries either. We hadn’t had one in a while, so it felt like time. The Historian job was a slow adventure. Rarely did we have a project with urgency, but the hunt was constant and unpredictable. I was born to do it. Also, I loved it.

  Not all of us did. My father tolerated it and my aunt fell somewhere in between. It always amused me that Uncle Jeff had been the one to join the military when my aunt was the secret weapon they were missing. She was a natural code breaker. But she was also a Penrose. So she used her gift to uncover secrets of a different kind, searching for patterns in newspapers and beating in record time any game based on a Latin Square contained in their pages.

  We weren’t the only Historians, but we were the first and oldest. The family blood came with pressure. Aunt Melinda and I were the only ones left. Realistically, I was the last. I knew it, and felt it, and was determined to live up to it.

  I should have wanted to leave by now, go to college, get away. Everyone else did, at least as far as Brattleboro or Keene. Not that either was far, but they were different. Bigger. And I did want to go to college, somewhere good that would make Aunt Mel and Uncle Jeff, and Uncle Dan, proud. That would have made my dad proud. There were so many things I wanted to study—physics, history, political science—and no reason I had to choose.

  Because my life was here. I was already living it. The only thing I’d ever wanted to do I was doing. I was good at it. What was wrong with knowing what you wanted at eighteen?

  Nothing. Except my morning routine had done nothing to ease the feeling that something was about to go wrong.

  And my biggest mystery yet was waiting somewhere on campus.

  My biggest temptation, and the biggest pain in my ass, was standing in front of me.

  “Hey, Carter.”

  “Hey, Alex.”

  Alexis Morrow. God, she looked good, leaning over the counter in a thin, low cut sweater the color of pearls. A sip of water in the desert. It took more willpower than I had to focus on her eyes, so I avoided looking at her all together. The year of no dating, no anything but running and work, was wearing on me. Alexis, too, was wearing me down. She was gorgeous, abundantly willing, and it wasn’t that I didn’t like her. I just didn’t like her enough. I didn’t feel it, and anyway, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. Also, she was sometimes too much a bitch.

  But not right at that moment. Right then, without her friends around or anyone even paying attention to us, she was just Alex. Field hockey practice must have been canceled for the afternoon; it was the quietest time at the store, and not Alex’s usual. Maybe this was the thing that was about to go wrong, because for a fleeting moment, the idea of hooking up with her wasn’t feeling quite as wrong as I knew it was.

  She idly ran a finger over some of the old marks in our ancient counter top. It had been in this exact spot since the store opened and, like a lot of things, was scarred by time. “Think you can help me find a book?”

  I glanced up at her face, trying to determine if she really needed a book. Not that it mattered. I closed the ledger I’d been pretending to write in and set down my pencil. “I’m sure I could,” I told her. It was, after all, my job.

  Her eyes darted toward the staircase where a pair of women were rounding the landing to the second floor. So it wasn’t a book she was looking for. Just privacy. “I’m not sure yet,” she said hastily. “I’m still deciding between two research topics. But later?”

  Sure. I smiled at her, because that was my job too. And I did love my job. “I’ll help you find your seat then.”

  I lifted the counter hatch and stepped through, offering her my elbow like the true gentleman I wasn’t. Her hand on my arm, I escorted her to the lounge area. The few other
students were watching us now, the ones who weren’t Alex’s friends probably already whispering, but I didn’t care. Gossip was nothing new. Better it was about me and Alexis than someone less innocent than either of us.

  “M’lady, your court.” I bowed slightly as I released her onto the couch where her two friends waited. They laughed and fidgeted, making space for their queen. To her, I said, “Just let me know when you decide what you need,” before I walked away.

  “I know what she needs,” one of the others called. I shouldn’t have smiled, but I did.

  While I sat behind the counter waiting for something to happen, I wondered about Alex and why she hadn’t given up yet. Why, when she could have anyone, she wanted me. Maybe that was why, because I refused. Because she didn’t know what I was really like, or had been anyway. Or possibly it was because I was poor enough her father would disapprove. Not that I was poor, exactly. We made enough of a living on the bookstore that my Historian stipend went into savings. But “enough of a living” wasn’t really much.

  Maybe it was the opposite. Despite that I was a small-town bookseller, I was still Dan Astor’s nephew of a sort, and the closest thing he’d probably ever have to a son. Maybe Mr. Morrow approved of me more than anyone. That was an interesting thought. Alexis always wanted what her father wanted.

  Or maybe it was because unlike most everyone, I didn’t expect anything of her. And the reasons I liked her had nothing to do with her family and only a little to do with her looks. None of those reasons were enough to make me want to date her.

  But then who did I want to date? Really date, not just. Not just that. I wouldn’t be that guy again, which is why I had to stop glancing at the lounge to see when Alex needed “help.” Going upstairs with her would only make things worse. Make me worse. I hadn’t spent all this time by myself just to go backwards.

  After so long now, a year or more, I felt like I was waiting for the girl who’d make me want to be better.

  “Did someone just go upstairs?” I stepped from the back room in time to see a slim figure and swish of long, dark hair vanish up the central staircase. Jillian was ducking under the counter.

  “I just got here,” she replied. It didn’t mean yes or no. From the way she was biting her lip, I knew she had more to say but wouldn’t. I loved Jill, legitimately, but her inability to just spit things out frustrated me the way only family could.

  I knew I shouldn’t have left the desk, but the afternoon shipment was my job. I’d had to track down Aunt Mel to pass it off to her so I could go back to the floor. She was better at organizing the Perceptum papers we’d just gotten anyway. Sooner or later every student walked through our doors, and I wanted to be there whenever the new one did. Dr. Stewart had picked up course books during her visit, the contents of which suggested the student was a junior, though he—or she—was taking sophomore science and a senior lit elective. I should have asked Alexis. She’d know. Her goddamn sweater had me not thinking straight.

  “Shit.” I ducked back into the stairwell. It could almost have been Alexis I thought I’d seen, but not quite. There was something less calculated in the girl’s movement. Plus one more glance at the lounge told me Alex was still there. Today could have been the day I followed her, not regretting it until it was already too late. Instead, I snuck up the rear stairs to see who else I’d find.

  I admit it. I stepped over the chain across the door between the stairwell and the stacks so I wouldn’t make a sound and took slow, light steps down the aisle like an absolute creeper. I knew every board and creak of this old building as well as the paths around the Academy. If she’d seen me first, I wasn’t sure how I’d have explained myself. But the mystery was what I loved most, which was exactly why Constance Stewart had dangled it in front of me. I’d never gotten to play detective in person before. The chance to observe the girl was too tempting not to go for it. More tempting even than Alexis.

  Maybe that explained why my heart was beating too fast.

  Or maybe somehow I just knew.

  When I first saw her, really saw her, I’d never been more thankful for a photographic memory. She stood still, oblivious to my intrusion, holding a century-old book of poetry as if she didn’t just respect it but revered it, as if the words and the perfect leather spine spoke only to her. Dark hair spilled down her back and over one shoulder, partially obscuring a profile I was sure I might beg to see someday turn and look at me like she did that book.

  I swear she’s the one, I thought. And I realized I meant not the one I was supposed to find, which I actually hoped she wasn’t, but The One. For me. I didn’t know why I thought that. I’d not wanted to think it. The closest I’d come to thinking it before was she’s the one for right now. That’s not the same thing.

  Maybe this was the girl I was waiting for.

  I had to talk to her.

  If I said what I was trying not to think, I’d scare her, or give the impression I was an asshole—or worse, crazy. So I said the first thing in mind that wasn’t I might just have fallen in love with you.

  “That’s one of our best editions; you must have a great eye.” Which was better than the alternative, but still probably something an asshole would say. Damn. And I’d scared her anyway. She shrieked, a sound of surprise so adorable it was all I could do not to laugh. So I smiled instead. Things got better from there.

  While I talked to her—Lainey, short for Elaine—I tried to believe I had that crazy first thought for the same reason I’d almost been ready to find another girl up here: because she was gorgeous and I was lonely. Those two things were true. But they weren’t the reason.

  Lainey wasn’t exactly the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She was something more. The beautiful girl I was most ever attracted to, maybe. The One I had no right or even reason to think that about. But everything I’d never felt for any other girl, this girl, this shy girl clutching an antique book like a shield—I felt it. I felt almost knocked over by it and I didn’t even know her. I didn’t even know why.

  And then she said it. She was the girl I was looking for, and that meant she wasn’t just a girl I desperately wanted to get to know—she was my job. I’d never hated or loved my job more.

  “I just started, actually. Apparently I’m a Legacy, but I didn’t know that until three days ago.”

  Didn’t know she was Legacy? It was just so…unlikely. I played it cool.

  “A Legacy? Really? Who’s your Sponsor?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know.”

  She had to be kidding, or wrong. A Legacy with no Sponsor? That wasn’t unlikely; it was impossible.

  I leaned on the shelf to my right, trying to make it seem like I was relaxed, just curious. “You’re on Legacy, but you don’t know your Sponsor?”

  From her mouth tumbled the unbelievable details. An anonymous Legacy. I didn’t even know that was allowed, let alone there was one set up. She was a mystery, a real mystery, and I wanted more than anything to solve it. To solve her and this crazy feeling I had, that only intensified the more she spoke. With every word, she became more interesting. I told her so, because as much as I had to work with her, I couldn’t help but flirt with her too. I wanted to, and so rarely did I do what I wanted anymore.

  “Well Lainey, I think you just became the most interesting girl at Northbrook.”

  I was rewarded with another flush of her cheeks, one that lit up her features and captivated me. Poetry wasn’t an interest of mine, though I remembered enough of it, but I wondered if there was possibly a phrase in that book she held that could describe her.

  She was just about to say something when from the store room below, my aunt’s voice interrupted us again. “Cartwright! I hear you upstairs! I need your help sorting the new collection of—”

  Genealogies, probably, she was about to say, or something else that didn’t exactly have to do with running a bookstore. The box crashed to the floor, drowning out Aunt Mel’s next words that the mystery Legacy blushing across from
me probably shouldn’t have heard. But that wasn’t really why I knocked the box over.

  No. What I’d needed was an excuse. Because I was freaked out. I had to get away from Lainey—from this hazel-eyed girl with no parents and pink cheeks and raven hair I had the strongest urge to touch—and regroup. Also, I had to talk to Dr. Stewart. An anonymous Legacy and a breathtaking girl? This assignment was sure to be a mess, one that had become exponentially more appealing.

  Frightening, too, but I wanted to be frightened.

  After the store closed, I went back to First Editions and took her book of poems for myself. I read it that night, memorizing every word.

  None of them came close to what I wanted to say.

  Secrets, lies, and looming deaths—all things Lainey Young deals with on her typical day of high school. In her senior year at Northbrook, she has even more to worry about. Things like classes, college, and especially her boyfriend, Carter Penrose. Because hanging over everything is the brief vision she glimpsed of their future—the one she has no choice but to find a way to change.

  To her surprise, she finds one worry she can cross off her list—namely Senator Daniel Astor. After a shocking discovery when they finally meet, Lainey realizes maybe she was wrong to distrust the Senator. She relaxes even further when he seems to accept her refusal to work for the Perceptum after graduation. But with her secrets mounting and time to solve them running out, there’s a final secret Lainey hasn’t learned:

  Daniel Astor doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever.

  Visit www.thesentenia.com to learn more!

  Are you ready to be Lost in Thought?

  Lainey Young has a secret: she’s going crazy. Everyone else thinks she has severe migraines from stress and exhaustion. What she really has are visions of how people died—or are going to die. Not that she tells anyone that. At age sixteen, she prefers keeping her crazy to herself. When doctors insist she needs a new and stable environment to recover, Lainey’s game to spend two years at a private New England boarding school. She doesn’t really think it will cure her problem, and she’s half right. There is no cure, but as she discovers, she’s not actually crazy.