The Library Agreement

07

Fifth period English can be considered one of the most boring parts of anyone's day. Mr. Sanchez, the teacher, always stands at the front of the class and asks everyone about their days, trying again and again to get people to open up. On occasion, some people do. Take Leo Anderson, for instance. Last month, he announced that his mom had cancer.

But the thing about Mr. Sanchez is the fact that—even though he tries to get his students to talk about their lives repeatedly—he never really knows what to do once someone actually does.

So poor Leo had to stand there in dejected silence as our twenty-something year-old teacher gaped at him, opening his mouth just to close it again, seemingly at a loss for words.

Needless to say, people don't share in class anymore.

But that never stopped good old Mr. Sanchez from trying.

"Mister Portman," he says loudly, once he's attempted to persuade nearly everyone else in the class to share something about themselves. "You're up!"

I don't even hesitate before answering, "No, thanks."

"Oh, come on, Charlie," The man reprimands me, and he puts an emphasis on my name that suggests we're old friends.

We're not.

"I'm good, Mr. Sanchez, really." I say, my gaze darting from person to person as they begin to laugh.

"Maybe next time, then." Our teacher says flatly. "Okay, anyone else?"

Everyone shakes their head "no".

I swallow hard, starting a feel a bit embarassed for Mr. Sanchez. The guy's just trying to connect with his class—the only problem is that no one really wants to connect.

"Well." He says finally, after a few more moments of hopeful waiting. "Okay, then. Let's get started."

It's as if everyone in the room releases a breath they hadn't been aware of holding; the interrogation session of fifth period is over. Now we can go back to being bored and not having to worry about who he calls on next.

I slide my thumb against the cool surface of my phone, remembering the conversation with Hailey at lunch. It was short, but she had talked to me.

That's a plus.

And then—suddenly—the screen lights up again. My heart practically leaps into my throat when I realize who it is.

One of these days, you should tell him.

I frown, slightly befuddled. Hailey never seems to start a conversation with "hi" or "hello", or any form of greeting at all. She always cuts to the chase. I type back slowly and deliberately.

What are you talking about?

Her speech bubble is there and gone as a message flies through. The girl can type, that's for sure.

Sanchez. You should tell him about your day...or something. You know.

It takes everything I have not to laugh out loud.

Are you serious right now? Why would I?

She wastes no time in replying.

You're his favorite. He'll probably appreciate it.

I take a moment to contemplate this. Sanchez has taken a liking to me, but that's only because I'm one of the only people in his class who can write a halfway-decent essay. He told me so himself.

But being the only person to share, in front of the entire class? That would just deepen the name "teacher's pet", a label that I've been trying to get rid of since day one.

I don't know, Hailey. It's risky.

I am surprised to find that—this time—Hailey's response takes a bit longer than usual. In fact, a good two minutes have passed between the time of her last message and the newest one.

Are you, Charlie Portman, afraid of taking a risk? That's ridiculous. I say you open up. Tell him what you're really like... Just a little. Why should you care about what anyone else thinks of you, huh? Why won't you just stand up and share?

Whoa.

Did—did Hailey Richards just say that to me?

I'm not exactly sure how to respond, but luckily, she sends another message before I have to.

I just like you better when you act like yourself. I like the kid at the library. The kid who knows who F. Scott Fitzgerald is. The kid who can locate every single freaking book in the entire place.

I can hear the blood pulsing in my ears as I read. Is this happening? Is the shy, bullied girl in the back of class actually saying this to me?

The speech bubble appears again, just for a second, and then I have a new message to read.

I like that kid, Charlie.
I really like that kid.

There. That's it. There's no follow-up message.

That just happened.

Wow.

I lift my eyes to the front of the class once more, meeting Mr. Sanchez's eye, just to show that I'm listening to his lesson—even though I'm not. The second that the teacher acknowledges that my attention is on him, he goes back to the whiteboard, and I go back to my phone.

Hailey's not typing.

I turn around a little in my seat, looking towards the back of the classroom, just to catch a glimpse of her face. Her eyebrows flick upwards as our gaze meets.

It's like she's practically saying it out loud.

Your move, Portman.

I shift myself back into position, holding my phone under my desk, making sure no one else can see it.

You're a lot bolder behind a screen.

I wait. No response. Fighting the urge to turn around again, I keep going.

I'm not the kid at the library here. Not at school. You can see the kid at the library anytime between midnight at 2 A.M.

Then, suddenly remembering last night's predicament, I add,

Sometimes later, depending on the situation.

Silence. I'm not sure what else I can say. Am I supposed to thank her? Was she even complimenting me to begin with?

Pushing a long breath out of my nose, I lock up my phone and set it on my knee. I bring my eyes back up to Mr. Sanchez, who continues to lecture about sentence structure and comma placement.

It buzzes nearly two seconds later.

In that case, see you at midnight.