Pivot Point (Pivot Point #1)(18)

The common area in this school is a big section of grass, interspersed with trees and surrounded by stone benches. For as long as I can remember, Laila and I have been friends—ever since she stood up for me on our first day of kindergarten. I’ve never been alone at school since. Now I’m very much alone, and it feels wrong. Rather than eat lunch by myself with an audience, I search out the library.

The smell of books, a mix of dust and leather, greets me as I walk through the door, and I smile. At Lincoln High, the library is three rows of computers where we can download information onto our cards. I get all my books from the one remaining bookstore in town, which without me there will probably go out of business. But that bookstore is nothing compared to this. This library is two stories high with a wide staircase leading up to the second level. Windows line the entire upper portion all the way around, blanketing the floor with light. If I were alone I would throw my arms out and spin in a circle. Instead I walk up the stairs, running my hand along books as I go.

I find the classics section, and after perusing for a while, pull out A Tale of Two Cities, which seems appropriate, and start to read. Just when I begin to realize Dickens’s “worst of times” seem a lot worse than anything I’ve been through, I hear the sound of a crowd of people walking along the tile-floored entrance downstairs.

Crap. I must’ve missed the bell signaling lunch was over. A class is obviously meeting in the library today. I pull out my schedule from the front pocket of my backpack, hoping to find something different from what I know is printed there. PE. The two little unassuming letters make me cringe. Tomorrow seems like a better day to start PE. Nobody should be forced to do physical exercise on Mondays. The decision to ditch on my first day produces a twinge of guilt in my gut. But knowing I can claim “new kid” status for at least a week, I push down the feeling.

I scoot farther back into the aisle, certain no one will find me. Why would they? It’s the classics aisle. It has to be one of the least visited sections in a high school library. So when footsteps scuff the flooring, I’m genuinely surprised.

I look up to see Trevor intently focused on the row of books to his left. His finger trails along the bindings and then he stops and slides the book he holds in between two others.

“Hi,” I say when he turns.

His shoulders jerk back in surprise before his face fully registers recognition. “Oh, hey, Addison. What are you doing?”

“Apparently I’m ditching PE.”

“I was surprised to see you in Government this morning. I thought you said you were a junior.”

“I … uh …” Panic wells in my chest. Had my dad put me in an advanced class? What am I supposed to say? Well, yeah, my mind is at least ten times more efficient than a Normal person’s, so my dad probably wanted to challenge me as much as possible. Even if I were allowed to say that, it probably wouldn’t go over well.

“Did you test into it?”

“Yes!” I say entirely too loudly. “I mean, yes, I did.” I point to the book he just put back, trying to change the subject. “What are you returning?”

“Oh.” He looks at the spine of the book. “Nineteen Eighty-four, Orwell.”

I loved that book, but I don’t like to influence people from giving their honest opinions about a book before I tell them how they should’ve felt. “Did you like it?”

He laughs and leans his shoulder against the bookcase. His whole presence, from his casual smile to his relaxed posture, oozes laid-backness. “I didn’t read it. I don’t know who would.” He points to the books that surround him. “The only time the classics ever get checked out is when they’re required for English.”

“Uh.” I hold up the book in my hands with raised eyebrows.

He tilts his head sideways to read the title. “A Tale of Two Cities. Oh, you like classics. Sorry.”

I smile. “No. It’s okay. I just like books in general. Today I felt like hurting my brain with archaic language and deep thoughts. What about you? If you didn’t read it, why are you returning it?”

“I’m an aide in the library during sixth period.”

“Nice.” That would be my dream class. “How did you manage that?”

“I got hurt and couldn’t do PE.” He smiles. “If they had given me a more exciting class, everyone would start faking injuries.”

By the time he gets to the last word of the sentence, my “fake-injury list” is already at five. “Wait, so you’re telling me this is like a prison sentence for you?”

“More like a torture chamber.”

I gasp. “I’m deeply offended.”

“It’s just this place is so quiet and these books all start to look the same after a while.”

“Charles Dickens is turning over in his grave right now,” I tell him.

He forces a serious expression, straightens up, and nods. “Noted. I will not criticize your personal friends when you are within hearing range.” He shifts the books in his hands then looks at one of the spines. “Well, I’d better get back to work. The librarian”—he checks over his shoulder—“is a Nazi.”

My eyes go wide. “She is?”

He lowers his brow. “Not literally.”

“Oh. Right.”