Chapter 27
Mrs Bryant is usually only good for about twenty minutes of missed class unless you have a fever, but I head to the clinic anyway. She takes my temperature and offers me some Sprite.
“Did you hear what happened?” I say, sipping the cool drink. My swinging leg bangs against the cot. “It was worse than the nightmare I had last night.”
She clucks her tongue, tsk, tsk, tsk. “I was there. I wanted to throttle those hecklers myself. So rude.” Her skirt makes a rustling noise against her stockings as she lowers herself to sit beside me. “It wasn’t as bad as you think it was,” she says. “Most of the comments I heard were supportive. You just don’t remember those because the ugly ones were louder.”
I raise my head. “Really?”
“Really.” Her pen glides over the clipboard. “Now drink that down. You’ve got five minutes before I send you back to class.”
It’s too late to change for PE, so I skip the locker room and head straight to the gym. The girls are playing half-court basketball, so there’s two games going on at once. Coach runs down the court blowing her whistle to call a foul, and the players line up for a free throw. She sees me enter and points to the bench. “Reynolds, join your buddy on the sideline.”
Amelia is dressed in a long skirt that hides her pink cast. A red sock covers her toes, nearly matching the red boot on her other foot. How can anyone always be so coordinated? It’s the first time I’ve seen her without a swarm of guardian bees buzzing at her heels.
I step carefully toward her. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“My speech was a disaster.”
She slides her eyes over, but doesn’t face me. “Darcie. Please. Just stop. You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”
“What are you talking about?” I shift sideways, but she turns her head away.
“Just…trust me. Let it go.” She stands on her good leg and half hobbles, half scoots down the bleacher away from me.
“That doesn’t work for me.” I call, but she doesn’t answer.
On my way to the cafeteria, people are reacting in all different ways to the speech, which actually makes me feel a little better. Most kids just stare or whisper. Only the Peaks are brave enough to say things out loud.
“Why are you defending him?”
“If Amelia says he’s guilty. He’s guilty.”
Stuart waits for me at the entrance, fiddling with his lunchbox. “I tried to get to you, but Mrs. Bryant was having none of it,” he says. “I like her, but she doesn’t play games. No is no.”
“I’m okay.” I force a smile. “Feedback hasn’t been completely horrible. Just…let’s go around the other way. I don’t want to walk past them.”
Grasping my elbow, he steers me through the tables, blocking me from the view of the Peaks as best as he can. They’re not paying any attention anyway, hovering around Amelia, talking in low voices.
“What are they doing?” I stretch my neck out. “I was expecting to be bombarded with rude comments, but the quiet is way worse—it’s unnerving.”
He shrugs. “They’re probably playing mind games. Let’s just eat.”
There’s an empty table against the wall, so we sit there, separate from the rest of the Coders.
“So…I talked to Amelia at PE,” I say, digging out the ham sandwich from my lunch box.
Stuart’s chin drops to his chest. “She actually spoke to you?”
“I know. I was surprised, too. She warned me to back down.”
“Warned you? What’d she say, exactly?” He takes a bite of his pimento cheese on wheat. I don’t know how he can eat that stuff.
I pick at the crust of my bread, not really hungry anymore. “Something like, ‘Just stop. You don’t understand what you’re getting into.’”
“What does that mean? It sounds more like a threat than a warning.” He chews, then takes another bite. “Could this have something to do with her mother’s connection to Grover?”
Frowning, I glance at the clock on the wall, then back at him. “Yeah.” I say, “That’s just what I was thinking. If Amy and Grover knew each other back then, there must be proof somewhere.” I set my sandwich down. “What about the school library?”
Stuart blinks. “I’m not tracking.”
“Aren’t there old yearbooks in there?” I peel off a piece of ham and stuff it into my mouth. “What if we looked through them to see if we can find Grover and Amy? Maybe there’s something there. It’s a long shot, but could pay off.”
“We’re going to need a pass to get into the library. Do you think Ms. Kendrick would let us skip class?”
“Leave that to me.” I say. “Just follow my lead.”
Stuart and I hang back until the cafeteria is mostly empty. In the hallway, kids bunch up around the lockers, talking loudly. A group of Peak boys spots us and moves in.
“Hey Darcie, awesome presentation.” It’s the boy from my math class. The one who guards Amelia like he’s secret service. “You do realize you’re defending a criminal, right?”
I glare at him and push past before he can say anything else. By the time we reach civics class, thanks to the Peaks in the hallway, I don’t have to pretend that I’m too stressed for class. Ms. Kendrick winces when she sees me. “How are you holding up, Darcie?”
“Not great,” I say. “Any chance you could write us a pass for the library? I don’t think we’re ready to deal with class today.”
She looks us over. “That’s not a bad idea. Honestly, it might help if you two aren’t in here right now. I’d like to see how everyone is reacting, and they may speak more freely if you’re not sitting right in front of them.” She digs in her pocket, producing a pad of passes and a pen. “Here you go,” she says, ripping one off and handing it to me. “And just so you know. More people are for you than against you.”
Sunlight streams through the skylight in the library’s ceiling, highlighting dust particles shimmering in the air. The room smells of musty books and disinfectant. Our school librarian might be close to a hundred years old. She sits behind the checkout counter with earbuds stuffed in her ears, nodding her head to a beat that only she can hear. Off to the left, sixth graders work inside the computer lab on digital assessments. Other than that, it’s just us.
I slide the pass across the counter. “Hi Mrs. Duncan. We’re doing some research on—”
She holds up her hand, tugging an earpiece free. “Sorry. What did you say?” Her voice sounds like it could use some WD-40.
I clear my throat. “We’re doing some research on community members who grew up in Silver Pines. We were wondering if there were any old yearbooks or records of past students that we could look at—maybe see if we recognize any names.”
“Oh! That sounds like something I’d love to help with!”
My eyes flick toward Stuart.
He turns on the charm, leaning on the counter and crossing his feet at the ankles. “I bet you have a lot of stories to tell,” he says. “We’ll be sure to let you know if we need any help.”
“Actually,” I jab Stuart in the side. “Is there any chance that the library has old yearbooks—maybe from the early 2000s—that we could look at?”
Mrs. Duncan squints at me over her glasses. “The school board won’t let me keep yearbooks.” She waves a hand toward the shelves. “Not enough room.” She picks up a bottle of Lysol and squirts the nearest table, muttering under her breath, “They’d rather have three hundred books about dragon slayers than preserve local history.”
“Oh.” We turn to leave.
“But,” she swipes at the table with a cloth that looks like it’s as age-worn as she is. “There’s always my personal collection.”
“What do you mean?” Stuart takes a step forward.
“I don’t have every single year, but most years I bought one. Especially years where I had my favorites.” She shuffles toward her office. “Didn’t buy one last year, I’ll tell you. Almost didn’t come back.”
We follow her into the office, but don’t get very far. Where the library is pristine, a real-life advertisement for cleaning products, the office is a hoarder’s paradise, like every lost item in Silver Pines wandered in one day and decided to stay.
I give Stuart a sideways glance.
“Early two thousands, you say? I’m sure I have those years. Loved those kids.” She bends at the waist, sorting through piles of who knows what and mumbling something about how technology is making kids stupid. “Help me with this, will you?”
Stuart climbs over a lamp, two rolled-up rugs and an overhead projector, then helps Mrs. Duncan lift a pile of at least ten yearbooks.
She blows across the top, sending grime and cobwebs exploding into the air.
Stuart coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. “Thanks for that,” he says, dropping the pile onto a table half-covered in old card catalog drawers and mugs of dried-up pens.
“That should keep you busy for a while.” Mrs. Duncan pushes the mugs to the side of the table and retrieves her spray bottle. She gives it a quick cleaning and wipes across the top book on the stack. “Anyone in particular you’re looking for?” Her eyebrows raise.
“We know her first name.” I grab the top book. “It’s Amy.”
“Oh, good.” She turns away, murmuring under her breath, “Good thing it’s not a common name.”
We ignore her grumbling and start searching the pages.
“That makes me think... I haven’t heard from her in a while.” The old woman weaves around a box full of old charging cables and broken staplers and heads toward her desk. “Used to get one from her every now and again.”
“Who’s she talking about?” I whisper, eyeing the mountains of junk surrounding us. “I don’t think she’s ever thrown anything away. This place is making me itchy.”
Stuart points to a picture of a girl with curly blond hair. “Here’s one,” he says. “Amy Anderson.”
“Maybe.” I say, scratching my neck, my arm, my back. “How will we know if they knew each other? Maybe we should find him first and then see if we can find someone named Amy in the same book.”
“That makes sense. What year?”
“Think I got one every single year, except last year.” Mrs. Duncan crouches under her desk, a wad of old Christmas cards in her hand. She pulls one out. “This one goes back a ways. Such a lovely girl. Used to come in during lunch and help me shelve books.”
“Grover might be around thirty,” I say. “I’m not sure, though. If he grew up with Amelia’s mom, I guess she’d be around our parent’s age. But Dr. Davis looks older, so…”
Stuart jerks and swipes at a spider crawling up his arm, then tugs at the web in his bangs. “So twenty twenty-six minus like twenty, give or take if they’re early thirties…” He pulls a book from the middle of the pile. “Here’s two thousand four.” We scan the pages for William Daniels, while Mrs. Duncan babbles on behind us.
“There! That’s gotta be him. Yep. William Daniels.” I stare at the face. “With those big blue eyes, I’d know that face anywhere.”
“William Daniels?” Mrs. Duncan pokes her head out from under her desk. “Haven’t heard that name in years.”
“You know him?”
“I know everyone. And isn’t that funny?” She laughs, holding up a card with a cat curled by a fire.
“What?”
“I was just reading a note from Amy.”
My eyes lock onto Stuart’s. “Amy?”
“William’s sister. Of course, she’s Davis now, sad story on that one.” She flips to another card, reading the letter just above a whisper.
We lean in, trying to hear.
“…had to leave. I can’t say why. My heart is broken. I’ve lost every single person who matters to me, except for you.”
She holds the card against her chest. “That poor girl. If you ask me, it was that mother-in-law of hers. Nasty woman. Even at twelve, she was a sneaky one.”
Stuart quickly flips to the Ds in the other two classes. Sure enough, the eighth-grade class has an Amy Daniels. He points to the picture, eyes wide.
I push back my chair and crawl over a mannequin wearing a witch’s costume and a manual typewriter. “Mrs. Duncan?”
“Hmm?” She raises her head, but keeps her eyes on the letter.
“Are you saying that William and Amy were siblings?”
“Wade and Susan adopted him. That’s another sad story.”
I swallow. This woman is a walking encyclopedia of Silver Pines history. “Wade and Susan Daniels?”
“Yes, dear. Keep up.” She stands, ducking behind a discarded bulletin board filled with personal reminders: Don’t forget to water the plants! Remember to call Elizabeth! 09/02/1990—Important date!
She scoots out the door and heads back to the circulation desk, plugging back into her music.
We follow her out, waiting as she buffs the counter and prepares to shelve some books.
“Mrs. Duncan?” Stuart says it twice because the first time she doesn’t hear him.
She raises her eyes and pops out the little white buds. “Yes?”
Hello? Anybody home? “We have more questions for you.” I say, stepping in front of Stuart. “We were talking about William and Amy Daniels.”
“Were we?”
I flash Stuart a “don’t you dare” glare and keep going. “Do you know if Amy Daniels married Richard Davis?”
Her shoulders sag as she lowers herself to the stool. “Yes…they were so happy. They eloped, of course. His mother would never have allowed that marriage…Seems she got her way, regardless.”
“Are you saying Mrs. Davis broke up their marriage?” I pull out my pen and make a note in my math spiral.
“Amy never really said it, but I know that woman. She can talk a bullfrog into givin’ up his croak.” She shakes her head. “There’s another one here now. Made from the same stalk, if you ask me.”
My neck prickles, but I don’t move. “You mean Amelia?”
The old woman scrunches her eyebrows and looks over our heads at the door. “Bell’s gonna ring soon and I’ve got books to shelve.” The earbuds go back in, and it’s like we were never there.
Stuart and I stare at each other. Grover didn’t just grow up with Amy. She’s his sister. And that changes everything.