Chapter 8

I peer at the sky, the downpour of rain ricocheting off the metal overhang covering my lifeguard stand. There's nobody at the pool right now so sitting here is kind of a joke, but Mr. Blackwood insists someone sits here at all times. Just perfect. I'm so incredibly bored. Winston will have that wet dog smell when I take him out today and I won't be able to kick the ball around with dad. Emily still hasn't reached out about the list anymore and part of me wonders if she has chickened out. Something Jake said yesterday nags at me-something about Emily having spent the last three years being afraid. He was kind of being a jerk about it, but I do wonder just how much her mother's death affected her. I can't really relate to this part because I think losing my mother has made me almost fearless. I'm just so afraid I'll die young like her and won't get a chance to experience things.

When my agonizingly slow shift is over, I get into my new-to-me faded blue truck and head home. It belonged to my grandfather, but he died a couple of months ago and my grandmother doesn't really drive. As I'm driving, I see a figure drenched in rain, running. I realize it's Emily as I get over and I pull up next to her, rolling down the window. She isn't even wearing a raincoat. This girl is absolutely crazy and I try to ignore the shape of her body, which is clearly outlined by her thin, rain-soaked Nina's Bakery t-shirt.

"What are you doing?" I call out.

She turns and squints at me. "Blake? Uh, walking."

I grin and shake my head at her. "You want a ride?"

She nodes gratefully and I reach across to unlock the door. She clambers inside and then sighs, her tote bag tumbling to the floor.

"Isn't this your grandpas old truck?"

"Good eye," I say, nodding and Emily rolls up the window. "My grandma gave it to me a few days ago to get around."

"Johnny won't let you borrow the porsche?" Emily asks and I roll my eyes. I should have known my dad's car sticks out like a sore thumb in a town like this. After all, it did in Hawaii too.

"I wouldn't drive it even if he let me," I say, smiling. "Way too flashy. He's always been a fan of attention. I think it's some pro-surfer residual."

I hear the click of her seatbelt and I can see that she's watching me. I really want to look at her too, but it's raining heavily and I have to keep my eyes on the road. I wonder what she's thinking about as she looks at me. I peer in the rearview mirror periodically, but the road is deserted.

"So where are we heading?" I ask after a while, realizing I have no idea where I'm driving to.

"O'Reilly's used books," Emily replies promptly. "It's four blocks down on the right."

I remember that buying a book in a foreign language was on the list.

"Are you working on the list?" I ask, excited. "Wasn't there a book related-thing on there?"

"There might be," Emily replies coyly. Emily pulls out the list and the Albert Camus' book we'd found in the box. "I'm looking for this. Page 157 and 158 are missing, torn out. I think the quote my mom's tattoo is from is on one of those pages and I think it can give me a bit of context, backstory. What set the list in motion. Like what you said on the phone."

I nod, gleeful that she remembers what I've said to her and takes it seriously. "You think he'll have a copy?"

"I hope so," Emily says as she points to the storefront and I'm relieved to see there's a parking spot right out front. "Only problem is, if he does, it's in French."

I parallel park the car, secretly glad it's the one language I can help with. Next to me, Emily shivers. She must be freezing in those wet clothes. I trail my eyes down her body as the rain thunders around us. Not in a creepy way or anything, just noticing the rain-soaked t-shirt demarcating small breasts. Okay, maybe a little creepy.

"Here," I say, pulling off my sweatshirt and handing it to her. "This'll help."

She slides the sweatshirt on and I like the way it looks on her. It's way too big for her, but she looks cozy in it. "You always smell like a day at the beach."

She notices how I smell, which makes me secretly glad, but I play it cool. I raise my eyebrows in amusement. She looks embarrassed and a faint pink color creeps into her cheeks. It's maddeningly adorable and makes me want to tease her more, but I refrain.

"Soon, I'll smell like a day in Huckabee," I say.

"Oh god," Emily says, as she opens the truck's door. "Let's hope that never happens."

She pulls up my hood and we run out, the two of us laughing together in the rain. The bookstore is bigger than it looks from the outside. The smell of old paper wraps around us the second we step inside, warm and comforting. There are piles and piles of books everywhere, tucked onto towering bookshelves and stacked on top of tables, tiny signs tacked onto the end of aisles to guide you to what you're looking for. The lighting is dim and some of the corners are thrown into darkness, faded red and blue and brown spines barely peeking out at you from their hiding spaces.

"Emily Clark," a voice says. I turn to see a man with powder-white hair and wire-rimmed glasses looking at us, a red cardigan tucked around his narrow shoulders. He reaches up to tug at the corner of his mustache as the door closes noisily behind us. "It's been a while. What brings you in today?"

"Hi, Mr. O'Reilly," Emily says, digging around her bag for the book. "I know it's a bit of a long-shot but I'm looking for…"

She pulls the book out, still tucked in a ziplock bag. "This."

He holds out a hand and Emily gives it to him. I feel antsy with the anticipation of finding the book and Emily completing the first task of the book. It must be here somewhere.

"Ah," he says, studying the cover. "Camus. This is an older one. 1954, I believe."

He stands and walks toward the store, Emily and I following after him. "I might just have a copy."

We weave down an aisle and around the corner, sloped wooden floor giving away to science fiction books and World War 2 history and finally, a foreign language section. He taps two enormous bookcases before the front bell rings noisily, an eager customer waiting to check out.

"If it's anywhere, it'll be here," he says with a wink, giving Emily her mom's copy before rushing back to the front of the store to make a sale.

I take a step closer, putting my hands on my hips as I crane my neck to look at all the books. Emily nudges me on the side and I see that she's handed me a small step ladder.

"You start on the top shelf, I start on the bottom?" she asks and I nod, my eyes narrowing at the challenge.

"Deal." We work in silence, sifting slowly through the mish-mash of books, titles and covers blurring together, whites and yellows and blacks and blues. This would be way faster if it was organized by language, but they're all just piled together, Mandarin next to Italian, next to Portuguese. I have some close calls and I know Emily does too, sharp intakes of air followed by mumbled "nevermind"s. I'm about halfway through the second bookcase when I at last see the faded white book we've been looking for. I pull the book off the shelf eagerly. In my excitement, I almost fall off the ladder. I steady myself before handing the book to Emily. "Found it!"

She flips through the book quickly, looking for the missing pages. Her grin is infectious when she sees them. We fly to the front of the store and I feel excitement building. Mr. O'Reilly looks up in surprise when Emily drops it onto the counter. Then, his eyes twinkle in delight.

"You wouldn't happen to speak French, would you?" she asks when he begins to ring it up. So Emily doesn't speak French, which is just fine because that means I can actually be helpful to this mission.

Mr. O'Reilly shakes his head. "I could do some Latin and some Spanish but I don't speak a word of French," he says and I'm secretly glad. I want to be the one that does this for her. Emily looks dejected as she hands over the money.

"Thanks Mr. O'Reilly," Emily calls as we head out the door. I'm relieved to see the rain has stopped. I began to tell her that I know French, but Emily grabs my hand and the words fly out of my mind. The gesture is completely innocuous but it's rendered me speechless all the same. She pulls me down the steps and across the street.

"Strategy meeting at Hank's. Blake, we've got some French to translate."