Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,19

of school in the middle of the day, or students who come in tardy. His silence is easily bought with a breakfast sandwich, but I don’t have a peace offering today.

I grab my bookbag from the passenger seat as we hurry out of my car and make our way into the school through the breezeway. Homeroom’s already started and the hallways are almost entirely empty.

“Speaking of Garrett Taylor,” Quinn says, cocking their head up at one of the TVs in the lobby playing the morning announcement. Garrett Taylor is on-screen, and behind him is the theme for this year’s Homecoming dance.

GARDEN OF MEMORIES.

“And I’m announcing, along with these other fine students, I’ll be running for Homecoming King! And if I win, I’m taking Rosie Thorne to Homecoming with me! So c’mon, friends, help me make true love happen!”

I nearly drop my books out of my locker. “I never said yes to that!”

“Or better yet,” he adds, and leans in toward the camera, “write her in as my queen.”

I stare at the TV, my mouth agape, as I run through my conversation with him last night. Under no circumstances did I tell him that I’d go to Homecoming with him. There has to be some mistake. He can’t honestly think—why would he—why would he think I—

Quinn slides up beside me and says, “You said no, huh.”

I did, but I have the sinking feeling it no longer matters.

ONE MOMENT I’M ENJOYING a blissful nonexistence in a dreamless sleep, and the next a fifty-pound German shepherd somersaults onto my bed. She sticks her cold nose against the back of my neck—and starts nibbling on my hair.

“Oi, oi, not the hair,” I mumble, batting her away.

Sansa replies by flopping over on top of me.

“Gerroff.”

“Wuff!”

I give up and sigh into my pillow. “I hate you, you know that?”

She whines, knowing that I mean the exact opposite. I roll over and rub her around the ears, because she really is a good doggo—despite almost nailing me in the testicles a moment ago—and I know I don’t tell her that enough.

“Okay, you got me. I’m alive,” I tell her softly, and Sansa dutifully slides off me. I sit up, but everything hurts since I haven’t moved in who knows how long, and my migraine isn’t any better. I brush my hair out of my face—and my fingers tangle into it. It’s longer than I’ve ever had it: around my shoulders, and I can’t remember the last time I washed it. It hangs in greasy strands, but I just pull up the hood of my hoodie and hide it.

Sansa slides to the edge of my bed and puddles off it like she’s made of slime. I rub my eyes. “Did Elias not let you out?” I ask, and when I realize I’m expecting her to answer me, I grab my gray sweatpants from the floor and slip them on.

“All right,” I tell her, rubbing her behind the ears. There are few things I can’t say no to, and Sansa is one of them. “Let’s go.”

She perks up and goes bounding out of the room and down the hall to the stairs, where she takes a flying leap down the steps.

I shuffle after her. By the lighting out in the hall, it’s perhaps late afternoon. I open the back door and she tears out into the yard. A murder of crows breaks into flight above us, settling somewhere in the trees.

“Elias, I’m up,” I call. No response; he must’ve gone to the store. I grab a LaCroix from the fridge and glance into the living room. The sofa, and the still-damp spot in the center, reminds me of the events last night.

And of the girl.

Elias said I had to work with her to fix up the library, so I make my way to the library to see just how much work I won’t do.

The library door is heavy and made of some sort of dark wood—mahogany or oak—and is carved with flourishes of vines. I hit it with my toe, and to my surprise the hinges give easily, and it creaks open. The library is quiet. A thin layer of dust coats the shelves, and most of the books are faded, their spines broken. Starfield, Star Wars, Star Trek, on top of old Anne McCaffreys and Douglas Adamses and a myriad of other ancient sci-fi authors. They’re in no particular order, and there are more books in cardboard boxes stacked against the bookcases. There are at least thirty of