Bookish and the Beast - Ashley Poston Page 0,34

to my desk beside the poster of a kitten reaching toward a moon with the inspiring saying, Reach for the stars! I sometimes toy with the idea of scratching out REACH FOR and replacing it with LOOK TO, because honestly it would make the poster one hundred percent better.

But there’s someone in my seat when I get there.

Garrett Taylor is leaned back and sprawled out on my chair, legs up on my desk. When he sees me, he quickly rights himself and smiles around a red lollipop in his mouth. “Rosie! Good to see you this morning,” he says, and points to the cup of Starbucks at the edge of the desk. “I brought you some coffee. Two sugars and a cream, right?”

“Um—I actually take it black.”

“Like your heart, that’s so poetic.” Then he leans forward, before I can even begin to dissect his negging, and says, “I was just thinking, you know, since Homecoming is coming up in a few weeks, we have to start figuring out what we’re going to wear.”

I hesitate. Where is the teacher? Usually Mr. Rantz isn’t this late to class. And everyone else is staring at me, because of course they haven’t forgotten Garrett’s proclamation over the morning announcements last week. “I, um, don’t think—”

“I was thinking that since you love Starfield so much, we could both go in blue. I know just the perfect shade.”

“I’d rather not—”

He interrupts me again, as if he didn’t even realize I was talking. “What kind of flowers you like? You seem like the sunflower type, or maybe a daisy? I mean, a rose would be too easy, right?”

“I actually like roses—”

“We’ll figure it out. We’ve got some time. I can’t wait. Even though you won’t be Homecoming Queen, you’ll be my queen.”

Laughter twitters throughout the classroom. A few classmates glance over to me, a mocking grin on their faces. Embarrassment begins to burn my cheeks.

Mr. Rantz comes blustering into the room, finally. Garrett returns to his seat on the other side of the classroom, fist-bumping one of his friends along the way. “Everyone, open your textbooks to chapter three,” the teacher says, and I’m only too happily oblige, propping my textbook up so I can hide my embarrassment.

One thing’s for sure—Quinn has to win Homecoming. I’ll do whatever I can in my power to make that happen.

I refuse to give Garrett the satisfaction.

* * *

—

AT LEAST AFTER SCHOOL I CAN HIDE in a library and not talk to anyone.

As I’ve done every afternoon since I began working at the castle-house, my fingers skim along the bindings of the books until I find the first one—the one I ruined. It’s water-damaged beyond repair, every page warped, the binding falling apart. I really did a number on it. Only five hundred were published in 1987, three years before the first episode aired. I put it back, then turn to my task for the day—a set of books located perilously on the top bookshelf.

And there isn’t a ladder.

So I push one of the wingback chairs over to the bookshelf and climb onto it. I can almost reach them. My fingers brush against the bottom of their spines, where their imprint logo sits. Just a little farther.

Just a bit—

The door creaks open and for a moment there is Sond standing in the doorway, his platinum-blond hair pulled up into a bun. But then I blink and he’s Vance, looking about as happy to be here as I am to see him, because here I am stretched halfway up a bookshelf, standing precariously on a rather old and probably very expensive chair. I try to reel myself back, scramble down—

My foot slips and I go down—hard. I flip off the chair and land flat on my back.

I groan.

And suddenly Vance is at my side, crouching next to me. “Are you okay?”

I hiss in pain as he gently takes me under the arm and helps me sit up. “I…don’t think anything’s broken?” Though something definitely doesn’t feel right.

“Does anything hurt?” he goes on. “Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I—”

I realize exactly why things feel off, and I stare at him and the three fingers he’s holding up in front of my face. That’s what’s wrong. “You’re being nice to me.”

He quickly lets go of me. Reels himself back. And like shutters on a window, the worry on his face closes off into pinched annoyance. He clears his throat. “You—you simply aren’t that graceful. And if you got hurt,