Final Room

07 | heather miller

CHAPTER SEVEN | HEATHER MILLER

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          At first, there's silence.

          People in the main lobby glare at us, quietly shooting daggers at her for speaking so loud in a library, out of all places, but Betty hardly seems fazed about what just happened. Though she lowers her arm, she advances in confident strides towards the reception area, where no one stands behind the counter, and we wait.

          I'm dying to explore the library and its selection of books, but the murderous looks being shot our way root me in place, even though Betty has since gone quiet and I have yet to open my mouth. I'm guessing they're also side-eyeing baby Sidney, who has done nothing wrong and is truly the best companion I could have asked for, so well-behaved I don't have to pull her back by her leash to prevent her from running off. I bring her service tag with me wherever I go to try and avoid awkward situations like that one from the bus that first day and it usually works, but occasionally I get the stink eye from nearby people.

          The smell of fried fish is getting a bit unbearable, especially in a closed room, even though most of the windows are open—like it's not about to start pouring outside, a kind of bravery I've never been subject to—and regret briefly flashes across Betty's facial expression. I open my mouth to tell her that we should have brought something less overpowering for Odette's lunch, but she rings the small bell on the counter and I miss my chance.

          Then, a dark-haired girl leaves the office behind the counter, eyebrows furrowed, and I'd have to be terribly oblivious to not notice the way Betty completely lights up at the sight of her. That doesn't soften the brunette's reaction, though; if anything, she looks more annoyed than anything else.

          "You know, it wouldn't kill you to be discreet," she tells Betty, yanking the bag right out of her hands and peeking inside. "Fried fish?"

          "We stopped for fish tacos on our way here," Betty explains, nudging me with a jab of the elbow to my ribs. I stumble forward, supporting myself on the edge of the counter so I don't fall face first against it. "Odie, meet Wendy. Wendy, that's Odie. You've heard of her, right? I might have mentioned her a couple of times."

          "Please don't call me Odie." She sets the bag aside, then raises her hands, covered by latex gloves. "I'd greet you, but we're cleaning old books at the back, and I don't want you to start sneezing all over the place. Sorry. I'm Odette. Don't listen to Betty; the nickname is abhorrent and she knows it. Coming from someone who demands people not call her Elizabeth, you'd expect her to have some tact." She tucks a loose lock of hair behind her ear, one that has escaped her messy bun. "You can go on ahead to the meeting room with the food. Store it somewhere so it doesn't bother people with the smell. I'll meet you guys once I'm done back there."

          She spins around on her heel and disappears back into the room she came from. I blink, dumbfounded with the whole interaction and how quick it was, while Betty reaches out for the bag again and drags me behind her by an arm. The other people in the building have since stopped paying attention to us and I'm grateful to fade back into my little bubble, where there's no spotlight above my head. My skin tingles where she touches me, a feeling I've only ever fallen prey to around Zach, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it.

          In the meeting room, we have the entire place for ourselves, as Betty signed her name at the front desk to reserve it, and I quietly occupy one of the multiple vacant seats. Though the chairs are pillowed, they're not soft or comfortable and I have to shift my position around a few times instead of sitting like a shrimp. Betty remains standing up, pacing around the room, doodling on the white board with markers as she waits, and I can't help but get a nervous vibe coming from her.