Now he regarded me through narrowed eyes. “Miz Hayes, please watch where you’re goin’. You nearly bowled me over.”
I rubbed my aching nose. “Sorry, Jefferson.”
“Rush, rush. All you Yankees rush. It gives me a headache. Even with all that rushin’, nothing gets done. Who gets the books on the shelf around here? Me, that’s who. Who—”
His bulk thoroughly blocked my path. Frustrated, I interrupted his pity party. “Move.”
Shocked, Jefferson stepped aside. “Pardon you, young lady.”
Lasha stood behind the checkout desk reprimanding a student worker. “If you put the books in the wrong place, you might as well as burn ’em, because we sure as hell are never going to find them.”
The student, a thin junior, ducked his head to hide a defiant smirk.
“I don’t care if it takes you all day. Take that cart up, and do it right.”
The student scurried away. Lasha scrutinized him with beady disgust. “I thought they taught them numbers and letters at Martin; it appears I was sadly mistaken.” She looked at me. “Romania.”
“Lasha, can I speak to you in private?”
“Sure thing,” she said. Jefferson stood two feet behind me, watching our exchange. “Georgia, watch the desk.”
“That’s not in my job description,” the cataloger blustered. “It’s not my responsibility to watch the desk.”
“It’s only for a few minutes, and if you get into any trouble, ask one of the student workers.” She slid past him. “Are you coming, Latvia?”
Lasha shut her office door behind us. The office was the size of closet and half of the limited space was taken up by a metal desk. She sat behind the desk in a office chair she’d bought with her own money. “What’s up?”
I sat in one of the two arm chairs in the room. My knees butted up against the front of her desk as I told her about Olivia, and Mark’s involvement with the accident. She expressed sympathy, and I thanked her. “Of course, I am worried about Olivia, but I’m also concerned about Mark. I was wondering if I could take the rest of the day off.”
Lasha waved away my request. “I think this constitutes an emergency situation. Just go ahead and leave. Looker will have to come in earlier.” Looker was Lasha’s nickname for Bobby. He reveled in it. “We’re understaffed today, as it is. Dixie and a half-handful of students aren’t going to cut it.”
“He’ll love that.”
“That’s why you can call him.” Before I could protest, she rose and slipped out of the office, throwing over her shoulder, “Use my phone.”
I called Bobby’s home, but no one answered. I tried his cell.
“Bobby—”
“No to whatever you are about to ask me. No. The answer’s no.”
“Bobby, I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent.”
“Like yesterday was urgent?”
“It’s Mark,” I blurted.
“What happened?”
I ran through the same story I’d spilled to Lasha, a tad more dramatically—Bobby’s tougher to sell.
After I finished, Bobby asked, “Is Olivia okay?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Last I heard, she was unconscious.”
I heard hushed conversation on Bobby’s side of the line. “Who are you talking to?”
More muffled voices, one of which sounded suspiciously female. “Bree,” he finally answered.
“Olivia’s Bree?”
“I’m showing her around Stripling.”
“Uh-huh. You work fast, mi hermano, I’ll give you that.”
“Listen, Bree just called the Blockens on her cell. She’s heading to the hospital to meet them.” Dramatic pause. “I’ll come in.”
“Thanks, Bobby, you’re the best. I swear to God, you’re an angel. If I had any musical talent, I’d write a ballad about your greatness.”
“Charming. There’s a but.”
“A but?” Suspicion arose.
“Oh, yeah. Library orientation. All freshman English classes.”
In the third week of August, the freshmen would arrive on campus. The new students have a few carefree days before the upperclassmen arrive lurking for prey, and the administration slams them into classrooms with overburdened faculty. By the second week, early post-adolescent synapses zap and the freshmen realize that college wasn’t ultimate recess, but school. During this time of painful discovery, the English professors farm out their freshman classes to the reference staff (i.e., Bobby and me) to teach the students how to use the library.
“Bobby, no.”
He said, “Take it, or leave it.”
“Arrgh. Okay, I’ll take it.”
“Great. Tell Lasha I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Oh, and India, you might want to get on the Internet and look up the latest trends for teenyboppers. I think you can really grab them early if you pepper some of their lingo into your presentation.”
I hung up the phone.
After telling Lasha that Bobby was on his way, I returned to the workroom to retrieve Mark. He’d propped himself against the loading doors. Theodore purred in his arms. A small cluster of female students, a few of them library workers, surrounded them.
Erin, a willowy redhead, cooed. “He’s adorable.”
I hoped she referred to the cat, but she watched Mark from under her eyelashes.
I mumbled a greeting, then took Mark’s arm. “Ready to go?”
Mark bit his lip and nodded. I told the students that I had a family emergency and Bobby would be coming in early.
“Bobby, huh?” Erin said with orchestrated disinterest. Everything about her screamed seasoned. I’d seen Bobby check her out when he thought no one was looking and vice versa. I’d have to keep an eye on them this year. I don’t know if I could stand this job if Bobby got sacked for behavior unbecoming a librarian.
Once we were in my car, I called Mom and told her I was bringing Mark to her house.
“Why? What happened? Is Mark okay?”
“He’s fine. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Gotta go.” I snapped the phone shut.
During the short ride to our parents’ house, Mark sat silent, Theodore cradled in his lap. At each stop sign, I glanced at him, wondering if the day’s event would be enough to send him back over the edge.
Chapter Eight
I turned the car into my parents’ driveway. They lived in a brick, L-shaped ranch with dark purple shutters and bright red front door that they bought after my dad’s accident. While trimming a sycamore tree on the property of Stripling Presbyterian Church where my mother was pastor, my father fell from his self-made rigging and broke his back. He was paralyzed from the waist down.
Roses and black-eyed Mexican sunflowers bloomed in full glory along the wooden ramp that led to the front door. Wearing a pair of overall jean shorts and a pink tie-dyed T-shirt, my mother waited impatiently on the ramp. She’d separated her long hair into thick gray pigtails.
“India, I don’t appreciate you hanging up on me. I was worried sick about Mark, and then I had to worry about you on top of that.” She said as I wrestled the car door open. Mark exited easily.
“And Mark, where have you been? Why the cryptic phone call? Honestly, both of you. Carmen would have at least called to tell me what was going on. I was waiting and worrying, afraid to leave for the church because you might—” She stopped abruptly. “Is that blood on your shirt? And you’re wet.”
Mark wrenched away and set Theo down on the driveway.
“What happened?” Mom demanded. She directed this to me.
I slammed the car door shut. “I’d tell you if you’d give me a chance.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. Is that your blood Mark? Are you hurt?”
She started toward my brother again, but he scooped up Theodore and sprinted into the house, a good move on his part.
“Just tell me if he’s hurt,” Mom said. This time I heard real fear in her voice.
“He’s not hurt, but Olivia is.” That shut her up and gave me a chance to tell her what had happened. “I’m going to head over to the hospital to see how she is.”