library | jmb

22

"Have you ever been to that Italian place on Center Street? Gloria's or something?" I asked.

"No."

"Because you don't like Italian food?"

"It's not my favorite."

Huh. Maybe he really didn't like it. I finished off the rest and put the empty dish down. "You should work on your history project while you're here. We finished ours on Friday."

"Yeah. Good idea." I could tell that was the last thing he was going to do. I wondered how his grades in school were. He missed so much I couldn't imagine him doing very well.

"I can help you if you want."

"Sure. You get started. I'll join you in a couple hours."

I kicked his foot with a smile. "Funny."

I walked over to the pile of books I had thrown the first night. Some were open facedown, their pages bent. I picked them up one by one, smoothing out the pages and stacking them neatly. Then I walked them over to a cart at the end of an aisle. There were several books already on the cart, waiting to be put away. Books with titles like: Ten Steps to Rehabilitation, Habits of an Addict, Brain Chemistry and Addiction. They weren't necessarily Joey's books—they could've been anyone's, but Joey had been here Friday too, obviously, waiting for the library to close. Was this the research he was doing instead of Mr. Garcia's project?

He doesn't want your pity, I reminded myself.

"I'm getting ready for bed," I told him, then turned around and headed for the bathroom, where he'd started leaving all the toiletries he'd brought. I took my time getting ready and then tucked myself into his sleeping bag.

I awoke to a sound I couldn't quite place at first. A clicking of sorts. It took me several disorienting minutes to realize it was Joey, twenty feet away from me, shivering in his sleep. Had he been holding back his shivering when he was awake for my sake? I tried to ignore it, knowing he wouldn't want me to do anything, but I felt guilty. I had the very thing he had brought to keep himself warm. I climbed out of the sleeping bag, unzipped it and crawled over to him, dragging it behind me.

When I reached his side, I draped half of it over him and kept the other half. He immediately woke up . . . or maybe he hadn't been fully asleep to begin with.

"I'm fine," he muttered.

"That seems to be your mantra. Just take half."

"I don't need it."

"Shut up and take it."

He didn't argue and finally stopped fighting it. He was cold. We weren't even touching but the temperature under the bag noticeably dropped with his icy presence.

He chuckled a little. "What?"

"Have you ever told anyone to shut up?"

"Nope. It's like you pull it out of me."

"How did it feel?" he asked.

"Good, actually."

He laughed again and I inched a little closer, knowing my body heat would warm him up even faster.

We were quiet for several breaths. Breaths that I could see like a mist above us as we both lay on our backs. We had been in the library for two full days and even though I felt like we had some sort of pact, I wondered if he would acknowledge me outside this situation. "Are we friends yet?"

"I don't have friends."

I nodded even though I was pretty sure he couldn't see me.

"But . . . you're less annoying than I imagined you'd be."

"Thanks." That was probably the closest he would ever come to giving a compliment, but I was still offended. I didn't want him to know that so I added, "You imagined me often?"

It had been a joke, but the way he went still beside me made me think that maybe there was some truth to it.

"Yes, all the time."

"I thought so," I said, pretending I didn't know he was being sarcastic.

"Is it hard for you to think someone might not like you?"

"Yes, actually."

"Why do you care what people think so much?"

I thought about that question. Why did I care? Because I liked it when people were happy. Because I didn't like to think that someone might not like me? "I don't know." I took a deep breath. "I'm going to sleep now that your teeth aren't chattering anymore."

"My teeth weren't chattering."

"They totally were. Apparently you do have some feelings as much as you try to deny them."

He didn't say anything back, so I said, "Good night."

"Night."

I inched even closer, because his body still felt cold, and tried to sleep. My mind wouldn't shut off. Five minutes passed, then ten. The second hand on the wall clock sounded like a drum beat.

I wished I didn't care what people thought about me. "Why don't you care?"

"What?"

"What people think about you?"

"Because I have no say in what other people do . . . or think."

"I guess it's hard for me to accept I don't have a little say over that. I mean, the things I do can change people's opinions."

"If my mom taught me one thing it's that you can't control anyone but yourself."

The mention of his mom brought me out of my own issues. I thought about those books sitting on the cart on the other end of the library. If he'd really given up thinking he could help her, he wouldn't have been reading those books. If he was reading those books. They might've been someone else's. Joey's mom wasn't the only drug addict in Utah. "If you're in foster care with the weed-basement parents, where is your mom? Getting help for her addiction so you can live with her again?"

He let out a breathy laugh. "She'd have to want to get better before she got help."

"Can she work?"

"She holds odd jobs off and on."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

He shrugged, his shoulder brushing mine, we were so close. "It's been a while."

"I'm sorry. That sucks."

"Could be worse."

"Could be better."

"It always could."

"Wow. So much positivity."

"Yes, you know my reputation, the poster child for optimism. It must be an only child thing."

I smiled. "I'm sorry," I said again, because I didn't know what else to say.

"It's life."

But it wasn't. Well, it wasn't everyone's life. I wished it weren't his.

I rolled onto my side, facing him. I knew I was close but I hadn't anticipated that the movement would close the rest of the distance between us. I pretended like it was purposeful and put my hand on his chest. "I'm still cold," I said, hoping he'd accept my closeness if it were me suffering and not the other way around. He did give up food for me, after all (or so I suspected). I was glad he couldn't see my face because he'd be able to read the truth.

He rubbed my upper arm without a word, as if that action alone would warm me.

I rested my cheek on his shoulder, wondering what had gotten into me. How had he made me so relaxed? How could I say whatever I was thinking to him? Do whatever I was feeling? Maybe because he was the only one around, I thought with a small smile.

i'm about to upload all the chapters in my drafts so get ready for a spamm