1. Chapter One

Chapter One

That Fancy School

What happens when your world falls apart?

How do you go on living?

As it turns out, the answer is easy. The heart keeps on beating. The brain keeps sending out electrical impulses. It feels like there’s a gaping hole in my chest, but when I look in the mirror, I’m still ordinary Anne Hill with red-rimmed eyes from crying.

When you’re young and bold, full of invincibility, it’s easy to decry Juliet’s actions. So what if your lover is dead? To kill yourself is weak and pointless. That’s what people say, but have they done it? Have they held the man they loved and felt his life slip away?

Because the pain is worse than death.

Unfortunately, I’m too well versed in survival.

After his death, Daisy worried over me like a mother hen. No chick was ever so closely watched. Professor Avery Miller even arranged for me to visit a therapist at the university’s health services. Apparently I’m supposed to give myself time to mourn. So it’s convenient that I have an entire summer I can devote to the process.

From my bedroom, I can hear the not-so-muffled sound of my parents fighting.

“Did you spend all our money on your whores?”

“You’re fucking insane, woman. I spend all my time taking care of you. When would I have time to visit the whores?”

“Yeah, and I notice that you didn’t deny it.”

“Maybe I should go see a whore. Someone who isn’t as crazy as you.”

I’m lying on my old twin bed, body flat, arms crossed over my middle. Almost as if I’m lying in a grave. Morbid thoughts for a morbid summer. After all, I can still feel the sticky residue of blood on my hands. I can still feel the hot life force of Professor William Stratford leaving his body, only cool emptiness behind.

More screams, a higher pitch. “I hate you.”

“Good. I hate you, too. I should walk out and let you die.”

“Do it.”

“I might.”

“I wish you were dead.”

The only warmth anywhere comes from Rusty, who’s curled up at my feet. I think he uses my room as a sanctuary when I’m at school. That’s a small comfort for me. It hurts to abandon him every time I leave, to see more white hair in his soulful face each time I come back.

Escaping is a solo activity.

If I tried to bring the world with me, I’d have no chance. Then again, I’m back in my old room, feeling as helpless as if I were twelve, so it didn’t work that well anyway.

A sharp shriek, and then a crash.

There’s a formula to things, even things like a daily screaming match.

This is about the time it gets violent.

When I was very small, I would run out to try and protect my mother. Even though she’d been the one to start throwing things, more likely than not. My father always took the bait. He hit her, knocking her over, bruising her. Making her sicker, which for some reason, some mental instability, she wanted to be.

Strange, how life was always so happy to illuminate things for you. It had seemed perverse, before, the idea that my mother might want, need to be sick. But now I want it, too. To make my body match the acid-fire pain of my soul.

When I defended her, I usually ended up slapped or cuffed on the side of the head. Or, once, I was stomped on. Couldn’t use my left hand for a month.

They didn’t want my interference.

And I’m too tired to give it now.

I force my aching joints into motion, like cranking a heavy, rusted moat, the chains clinking down, providing a path forward. I climb out the window, the way I’ve done a million times before. My bike has carried me up and down Port Lavaca. Olde Faithful. That’s what I would call it if I gave it a name.

It carries me now toward the town proper. I pass the diner where I’ve worked many a shift. They expected me back this summer, but I didn’t start work. It was a fleeting pleasure, confounding my parents that way. They’ve always taken money I’ve made. And I’ve always been willing to work. It confused the hell out of them, them wanting money when they know I don’t have any.

Instead I ride to my favorite place in the whole world.

The Port Lavaca Library.

It’s in an unassuming, squat building. I’ve heard it used to be the police station, which is a grim beginning for a place of wonder. And a notable commentary on our society, that learning should get the cast-offs of armed men, while they move somewhere nicer.

Doesn’t matter.

Even with its drab countenance, I still found refuge inside.

“There you are.” Ms. O’Connor pokes her head above the waist-height shelves in the children’s section. She has a clear basket of picture books propped on her hip, the same way a woman of the old farming days might carry around vegetables. “I was wondering when you’d remember to read a book. Kids these days, so focused on video games.”

She’s being funny, but it’s too hard for me to crack a smile.

Her face falls. “Your parents?”

A shrug. “They’re the same as ever.”

Dark eyes scan me from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I stayed out of trouble.”

“Double, double toil and trouble,” she says. “Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.”

Half of what she says is in Shakespeare. I understood the meaning before I’d ever cracked a play open. She’s the reason I even wanted to read them. It wasn’t in ninth grade literature that I first read Romeo and Juliet . It was Ms. O’Connor, telling me to deny thy father and refuse thy name. It was her telling me, thou art thyself, though not a Hill.

I wasn’t my family. I didn’t have to become them.

That was the promise slipped into the dusty pages of books.

She checked them out to me in tidy piles, week after week, telling me that I could be something more than a diner waitress. The lesson finally stuck, because I’m not working this summer. No reason to.

Books, books, money for books.

That was the excuse I gave myself for working so hard, even if the money went to my mother’s unnecessary medicine for made-up illnesses.

I don’t need money right now.

Because here, in the library, there is an oasis of free books.

“You’re sad,” she says. “Something is wrong.”

The man I love died. Do you have a Shakespeare quote for that? “I’m fine.”

She sighs. “You lie to me, like usual. At least I don’t see any bruises on your face. At least you aren’t walking funny, limping, holding your arms to the side.”

I used to beg her not to tell anyone.

She didn’t listen, of course. She told the police in town.

They visited our house once, during which my parents were shocked, appalled, hurt at the idea that they would ever hurt their daughter.

Then she told the social services in Tanglewood, seeing as how Port Lavaca doesn’t have them. Jurisdiction, they said. They couldn’t help.

And so she resorted to such things as bandages and Advil, her eyes furious but her hands gentle as she tended to me. It felt good to have someone who cared enough to do that.

William cared enough to do that.

Heat presses against my closed eyelids. I can’t let myself think about him.

“Did you ever love someone?” The words spill out of me.

Pages rustle. There’s a particular sound to the thick protective covers she puts on the books here. I’ve helped her do it, wiping down a new book and then carefully, carefully gluing down a clear coat, making the books last longer.

Ms. O’Connor stands from her rummage, producing a thin volume.

Macbeth .

My eyebrows rise. That’s an unconventional answer, but then Ms. O’Connor is an unconventional person. “Yes,” she says. “Of course I’ve been in love. You can’t help it, you know. It would be like trying to outrun a storm.”

I blink fast, eyes wide, trying to dry out the tears. “In that case, I got drenched.”

“Good,” she says, her voice gentle. “That’s more important than books. In fact, it’s the reason for them. Shakespeare, or whoever wrote those plays, didn’t write about love so that you wouldn’t have to live it. They wrote to put words to the inevitable pain of it, so you would know what to call it.”

“At least you admit he wrote them,” I say, an attempt at misdirection.

It’s an old argument, one that never fails to make her smile. “What do they teach you at that fancy school of yours?”

“Mostly they’re purists.”

“Of course they are,” she says, her tone gently mocking. “It’s a form of worship. The Bard as scholastic god. They would probably excommunicate anyone who said otherwise.”

Purists are the people who believe that Shakespeare himself wrote every word of every iamb, pen to parchment. However, most plays at that time were written by entire troupes, collaborations that were unconcerned with the individual.

Shakespeare himself never published a single piece of work with his own name on it, lending credence to the idea that he knew they weren’t his own. In fact, even purists must acknowledge that he borrowed heavily, sometimes even word-for-word, from source plays and other works.

I have always been a purist.

Maybe I needed a god to believe in.

She pushes the book across the counter to me. Macbeth . “I’ll scan this for you. It will give you something to read for the rest of the summer.”

My eyebrows draw together. Here is a play that has little to do with love. Instead, there is ambition and violence. And witches, of course. Three witches with omens that aren’t to be trusted, somehow. Even though they also come true. “This isn’t one of my favorites.”

“No,” she says, agreeing with me. “You liked the stories of strong women, even if Shakespeare didn’t give them full thrift. You liked arguing for them, and you’re damned good at it.”

“If I don’t do it, who will?”

“I think fancy schools aren’t kind to women, either.”

Kind? No. I was basically run out of town, under accusations of sleeping my way to the top, of letting a professor write my paper for me. Of trading my body for an academic award.

A tear slips down my cheek.

Never mind that I earned it fair and square.

Never mind that the man who supposedly wrote it is dead.

Never mind that my heart is broken.

The scanner makes a familiar beep as it runs over the barcode. “Take it.”

I sigh. “Really?”

She taps the cover, which depicts a bloody crown. “You can’t always argue for the best possible interpretation. Sometimes people are just wrong. Sometimes they’re just cruel. That’s the part of Shakespeare you never wanted to face.”

Before I can think of a response, she says, “Hold, please.”

She hurries back at the strange sound, almost like liquid, a stream of it.

There should never be liquid in a library.

I wince at the sound of Ms. O’Connor’s exasperated sigh from the back of the library. “Sir, please. The restroom is right over there.” She’s dealing with a man who’s clearly had too much to drink, judging by the slurred responses and the unmistakable sound of a zipper. I should probably help her, but my feet remain rooted to the spot.

I’ve seen enough nastiness in my life. I don’t need to clean up someone else’s mess. Not today.

I run my fingers over the glossy cover of Macbeth , tracing the embossed title. There was a time when I thought being a librarian was the most magical job in the world. Surrounded by books all day, helping people find the right story to lose themselves in. But Ms. O’Connor showed me that a librarian is so much more than a keeper of books. She’s a social worker, a nurse, a teacher, a confidante. She’s the heart of this community, and she gives so much of herself to keep it beating.

I admire her for it, but I know myself well enough to know that I can’t be that selfless. I’ve given too much of myself already, to parents who took and took without ever giving back. I needed a place where I can be selfish, where I could lose myself in the pages of a book and not worry about anyone else’s needs.

Books never ask for anything.

They offer up their pages, day after day, providing escape, providing answers. I flip open Macbeth and read the opening scene. The three witches, the weird sisters, huddled together, plotting and scheming.

When shall we three meet again?

I glance around, waiting for Ms. O’Connor to return.

A young girl, maybe eight or nine, wearing a black cape that’s frayed at the edges, a Styrofoam sword leaning against her chair. She’s hunched over one of the library’s ancient computers, her small hands gripping the mouse tightly. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed at the screen.

She glances at me briefly, her scowl deepening, before turning back to her game. Her character, a princess in a purple dress, falls off a cliff and disappears into a pit of lava. The screen flashes red, the level restarts.

I don’t know her name.

Even though I used to know everyone in this town.

The years that I’ve been gone have changed me.

It’s a surprise to find that the town has changed, too.

I wander closer so I can watch as she moves through it again, this time trying to press the right vocabulary words faster so that the princess avoids the dungeon. I must have spent hours, days, weeks of my life playing Lanternleaf Legends.

The game is heavily pixelated and laggy. Old.

Still good, though. Still useful.

I don’t help her with the vocabulary, but when she hesitates at the entrance, I help her out. “There’s an ogre in there.”

“I know,” she snaps, even though it’s clear she didn’t.

Her princess runs, teeters on the edge of the cliff, then leaps, soaring over the lava and landing safely on the other side. She doesn’t smile, but her shoulders relax slightly. We watch the little show in which the princess is crowned, allowed to pass into the next level, this one harder of course.

It’s a strange prize, the option to face an even stronger foe.

A compelling one.

The girl has a scowl on her small face. Her bad mood serves as a shield. It keeps other people away. Only now, with grown-up eyes, I can see the pain underneath. I can see the loneliness that safety creates.

I used to come here all the time when I was her age.

Possibly Ms. O’Connor bandages her, too.

My heart aches for her, and for the memories she stirs, memories of a little girl hiding in the library, finding solace in learning, trying to escape the nightmare of home.

I’m not sure I’ve ever really escaped.

The worn copy of Macbeth doesn’t give me the stir of excitement I normally have with Shakespeare. Then again, I’m not sure any of them would help. My drive is gone. I’m not sure how pages and pages of mindless, gory ambition will help. I’ve already seen first-hand what ruthless schemes create.

What do they teach you at that fancy school of yours?

Tanglewood University taught me Shakespeare thoroughly.

They taught it by having me live it.

I flip through the graying pages. Someone left notes in the margin. Another person drew what appears to be a penis on the inside cover. Ms. O’Connor didn’t catch that when it was returned. She would have used her trusty bottle of white-out to remove the offending ink.

They would probably excommunicate anyone who said otherwise.

Maybe I can use the religious fervor for a purpose.

For revenge.

Ms. O’Connor didn’t give me something to read this summer.

She gave me something to write.