I make a dismissive sound. “I wrote that already.”
“Well I haven’t.”
“Oh come on, it’s Civil War crap, it took like ten minutes.”
“It’s a five page paper, how do you do that?”
“I’ll give you my notes. Come onnnn, don’t you want to know what’s going on here? We’re clearly in the middle of some crazy mythological stuff, and we have got to figure out some way to clear our names. It’s bad enough that guys like Hyde and Chase want to beat us up, we don’t need the principal for an enemy. You think writing a bad paper for Caldwell is a problem? Umino is scary, dude.”
“Oh alright,” he sighs. “But if my dad finds out we’re doing any of this...”
“Yes!” I exclaim. How he could be so apathetic about his own origins is a mystery to me. If it was me, I’d want to know. “Okay so I’m thinking we start with property records. I mean there has to be a reason why they went to all this effort to build on that particular piece of land – ”
“Kid. Hey, kid.”
There’s a woman sitting on a bench in front of the library, presumably enjoying the shade of the awning. She can’t be comfortable in that much leather – it’s scuffed and stained and her mid-length hair is tangled and unkept. My first assumption is that she’s homeless.
“V’you got a library card?” she asks in a distinct British accent.
“Uh...yeah?” I say, taken off-guard by the question.
The woman holds up a twenty dollar bill. “Be a mate and check something out for me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“It’s a public library,” I state slowly, not sure she’s all there. “You can check it out yourself.”
“I’m not from around here,” she grins, and it’s unsettling. “That makes things complicated and I’m in a bit of a hurry. Do you want the money or not?”
Something about her pings my creep-o-meter. I’m not sure if it’s the weird request, the squiggly red tattoos running down one side of her neck, or the smell of alcohol that rolls off her. Probably all of the above.
“Yeah sorry, we’re in a hurry too, so uh...no thanks,” I say, and we shuffle past her into the library.
“Dustin Heron,” Edna Thrush says sharply.
Destin twitches. We were trying to sneak past the library’s front desk, but the old lady is like a hawk. A tiny, wrinkled hawk. Or as Destin likes to call her, a troll.
“It’s Destin, ma’am,” he say sheepishly. Destin and I have been going to the library our whole lives, and she always gets his name wrong.
“Whatever unusual name your parents decided to give you, you still owe twenty-two thirty for that late return.”
“I’ll um, I’ll have it next weekend,” he offers.
“You’ll have it now, or you’ll not go a step further. MacAlister Dupree,” she greets me with absolutely zero warmth. Edna the Troll has this thing where she only addresses people by their full names.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” I say, on guard. I’m trying to remember if I owe the library anything. I sure hope not.
Fun sidebar about how Destin got his name. Usually when people ask him about it, he tells them he’s named after a city in Florida where his family used to take vacations. The truth is a little more...pink. See, Destin’s parents were positive they were having twin girls. Like, 100% positive. They had everything all decorated, a closet full of frilly matching dresses, and names already picked out. Angela and Destiny. Their names were embroidered and stamped on everything. Serious. So you can imagine their distress when Destin turned out to be uh, not a girl. Basically they scratched the ‘y’ off most of the stuff and just decided not to waste all the baby presents – they got him some legitimate boy clothes for going out and stuff, but most of Destin’s baby clothes were still pink.
The pictures are hilarious.
Destin turns out his pockets. He has all of three dollars. “Uh...” he stalls, looking at me. I shrug. I’d left all my money at home.
“Um...uh...just a second,” he says, “be right back.” Swiftly, he exits the library and swiftly he returns. He hands the Troll a rumpled twenty dollar bill.
“You didn’t,” I mutter under my breath.
He colors, but says nothing.
“Turn in your books on time, and this won’t happen,” she says to Destin, like she’s teaching him a lesson. The old lady takes book fines a little too seriously if you ask me. All I want to do is get into the reference section and dig out some answers. It’s a shame Ms. Bea isn’t working the front desk – she’d have never even mentioned the fine. Well, she’d maybe mention it, as a reminder, but the old lady wouldn’t treat Destin like a felon, that’s for sure.
Once we’re finally given freedom to pass the front desk, we make our way to the elevator. The place is dead silent. That’s the only thing I dislike about libraries – the oppressive quiet. Well, that, and how musty the books smell. And the mean librarians. And how hard it is to find what you want most of the time.
Alright, so I’m not the world’s biggest fan of libraries. But they have their use. You can find the craziest stuff on the shelves sometimes. That’s the one big difference between going to the library and doing an internet search. Yes, the library is a lot slower, but you have a much greater chance of stumbling across stuff you’d never have thought of otherwise. Plus it’s kind of cool how seriously old some of the books are – I like thinking about who else has read them before me, and why.
“You shouldn’t have done that, dude,” I say. “That tattoo lady is bad voodoo.”
“Voodoo?” Destin frowns. “Did you want to get into the library today or not? It’s not a big deal, it’s just checking out a book.”
“What book, exactly? And you know that if she steals it, you’re going to be the one owing the library. Again. So, vicious cycle.”
“She asked for the Grimm on the third floor,” he replies, confused. “So Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I guess. Do they even keep kids’ books on the third floor?”
“Kids’ stuff is all on first,” I confirm, frowning. “Third is all the stuff nobody touches, and librarian offices.”
“Stuff nobody touches?”
“Rare books and public records,” I say, punching the button for the elevator. “Which is where we were going anyway. So how’s that for more coincidences?”
“Take a look at this,” I say, showing him an old register of land deeds and titles. “Most of the property in the area before 1920 belonged to the Etheridges.”
“Never heard of them,” Destin says, not looking up.
“Yeah, it’s weird, right? But there’s this whole list at the turn of the century, and it’s Etheridge, Etheridge, Etheridge, oh hey Graham, that must be Jul’s house, Etheridge, Etheridge...but then...” I reach over and open a second ledger and lay it on top of his. He looks up, annoyed at being interrupted.
“Twenty years later, no more Etheridges,” I point out, running a finger down the list. “All gone. Oh hey, MacAlister,” I say, spotting my name. “And...another MacAlister. And...”
Destin’s annoyance fades as he read the list.
“Mac,” he says, in that voice that means I’ve found something enormous.
I can’t believe it. The 1920 list is peppered with my name. It looked like all the Etheridge properties had been replaced with MacAlister.
“Mac,” Destin says. “Who were you named after?”
“My...my mom’s maiden name is MacAlister,” I say carefully.
Suddenly he snatches a book out of the stack he’d been looking over. “I didn’t think...it didn’t seem like anything, but...” He flips through pages ‘til he makes a sound of recognition and stabs his finger onto the page.
“MacAlister,” he says. “Five years ago, a property off of Stonewall Road was turned over to the city in someone’s will. The original owner was an...” his eyes meet mine. “Etheridge MacAlister.”