The House in the Pines(26)

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— “You ever been there?”

Maya snaps back to reality. She’s on the library reading terrace, probably sunburned by now. She squints as she looks up from her father’s book at the guy who’s just interrupted her reading.

She’s seen him somewhere before but doesn’t know him. He’s older than she is, probably at least twenty. Average build and forgettable looks. His skin is pale, his dark hair lightly disheveled, and he’s smoking a cigarette in casual defiance of the no smoking sign. The smell of it fills her nose.

“I’m sorry—what?” she says.

“Lake Atitlán.” He points with his eyes at the photography book sitting beside her on the bench. She’d checked the book out earlier from the library, a collection of photos of the lake mentioned in her father’s book and its surrounding towns and volcanos.

“Have you been?” he asks her again.

She shakes her head, annoyed at being interrupted in her reading.

“You should go,” he says. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Cool,” she says flatly. “Thanks.” That’s when it clicks. “You work here,” she says. She’s seen him sitting at a computer behind the reference desk.

“Part-time,” he says, “and just for the summer. I tend not to stay anywhere too long.”

Maya’s not sure what to say to this, so she smiles tightly, then looks back down at her book, hoping he’ll get the message.

“Just last year,” he says, “I backpacked through Central America. I was in Guatemala for a while. I was at that lake. One of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.”

Maya has to agree with him. She’s never been, of course, but the lake in the photographs is indeed as beautiful as described by her father in the scene set on its shore. Her eyes drift from the page in her hand to the cover of the book on the bench.

“I went to each one of the little villages that surround it,” he says. “Most of the people are Mayan, everyone walking around in the most colorful clothes you’ve ever seen. The women weave this cloth covered with patterns and symbols that convey information to whoever knows how to read them.”

Maya looks up. She already knew this about Mayan weaving, having recently read the library’s other book on Guatemala, but here is someone who has been there.

He smiles down at her, the sun shining at his back, and now that he has her attention, she realizes that she likes his smile. It makes her feel like they’re in on a joke together. “Anyway,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to your reading. It was nice talking to you.” He turns to leave.

“What else did you see in Guatemala?”

“You really want to know?”

She smiles back at him. She can’t tell if he’s flirting with her, or if she wants him to be. But he’s piqued her interest, and there is something easy about talking to him. She moves the photography book and the marbled notebook containing her translation aside so that he can sit beside her on the bench.

“You’ve never been there?” he asks.

“No, I have, but . . .” How to explain? “I didn’t end up going out much while I was there. I was visiting family.”

The librarian seems interested in this, as if he wants to know more, but then seems to sense, and respect, her vague answer. “My best memory of Guatemala,” he says, settling back onto the bench, “is the morning I got up before dawn and biked from the hostel I was staying at to an ancient Mayan pyramid. Temple of the Jaguar, it’s called. It was still dark out when I got there and the jungle was kind of scary, but I was the only one there, so I knew if I was ever going to climb that pyramid, this was my chance.”

“Wow,” Maya says. Her voice isn’t flat anymore.

“Picture a temple as tall as a twenty-story building,” he says, “with a steep staircase going up its side. No one’s allowed to climb the staircase—that’s how dangerous it is. But I did. I climbed all the way to the top, got there just as the sun began to rise. I felt like a king from up there. I watched the whole jungle wake up. The monkeys, the birds. It was incredible.”

“Wow,” she says again, both about his story and the extent to which it differs from her own experience of Guatemala. The thought of all that freedom makes her dizzy in a good way. It also makes her wonder if it was only her mother’s fear that kept Maya from seeing more of the country. “Temple of the Jaguar,” she says. “I’ll be sure to check that out next time.”

His gaze drops to the yellowed pages on her lap. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“Oh, this . . .” She doesn’t know why her instinct is to keep it to herself. It’s not as if the book is a secret, but for a brief moment she feels as if it is—as if it’s a thing she must protect. “My father wrote this,” she says.

“Really? Your dad’s a writer?” He sounds impressed. “Would I have heard of anything he’s written?”

“No, he’s, uh—he’s dead.”

The librarian’s kind, expressive eyes fill with compassion. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

She shrugs. She never knows how to respond to that statement. Is she supposed to say it’s okay? No problem?