Maya looks up. She already knew this about Mayan weaving, having recently read the library’s other book on Guatemala, but here is someone who has been there.
He smiles down at her, the sun shining at his back, and now that he has her attention, she realizes that she likes his smile. It makes her feel like they’re in on a joke together. “Anyway,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to your reading. It was nice talking to you.” He turns to leave.
“What else did you see in Guatemala?”
“You really want to know?”
She smiles back at him. She can’t tell if he’s flirting with her, or if she wants him to be. But he’s piqued her interest, and there is something easy about talking to him. She moves the photography book and the marbled notebook containing her translation aside so that he can sit beside her on the bench.
“You’ve never been there?” he asks.
“No, I have, but . . .” How to explain? “I didn’t end up going out much while I was there. I was visiting family.”
The librarian seems interested in this, as if he wants to know more, but then seems to sense, and respect, her vague answer. “My best memory of Guatemala,” he says, settling back onto the bench, “is the morning I got up before dawn and biked from the hostel I was staying at to an ancient Mayan pyramid. Temple of the Jaguar, it’s called. It was still dark out when I got there and the jungle was kind of scary, but I was the only one there, so I knew if I was ever going to climb that pyramid, this was my chance.”
“Wow,” Maya says. Her voice isn’t flat anymore.
“Picture a temple as tall as a twenty-story building,” he says, “with a steep staircase going up its side. No one’s allowed to climb the staircase—that’s how dangerous it is. But I did. I climbed all the way to the top, got there just as the sun began to rise. I felt like a king from up there. I watched the whole jungle wake up. The monkeys, the birds. It was incredible.”
“Wow,” she says again, both about his story and the extent to which it differs from her own experience of Guatemala. The thought of all that freedom makes her dizzy in a good way. It also makes her wonder if it was only her mother’s fear that kept Maya from seeing more of the country. “Temple of the Jaguar,” she says. “I’ll be sure to check that out next time.”
His gaze drops to the yellowed pages on her lap. “What’s that you’re reading?”
“Oh, this . . .” She doesn’t know why her instinct is to keep it to herself. It’s not as if the book is a secret, but for a brief moment she feels as if it is—as if it’s a thing she must protect. “My father wrote this,” she says.
“Really? Your dad’s a writer?” He sounds impressed. “Would I have heard of anything he’s written?”
“No, he’s, uh—he’s dead.”
The librarian’s kind, expressive eyes fill with compassion. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
She shrugs. She never knows how to respond to that statement. Is she supposed to say it’s okay? No problem?
“That’s cool that you have some of his work,” the librarian says. He smiles warmly at her, and she can’t help but notice that he’s actually kind of hot. Alluring in a way that sneaks up on you. There are lines around his eyes but something young about his demeanor. His small chin is smooth, his gaze velvety. “Guess I should probably get back to my desk,” he says. “My break must be over by now. Hey, it was really nice talking to you.”
“You too,” she says as he stands up. “My name’s Maya, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Maya. I’m Frank.”
FOURTEEN
A ringing phone woke Maya from her dream.
She reached for the phone beside her on the bed, but that wasn’t the one that was ringing. She sat up, blinking into darkness. The digital clock read 2:57 a.m. She was drenched in sweat. She took a deep breath as, elsewhere in the house, the ringing went on.
Why wasn’t her mom answering her phone?
Maya got out of bed, the dread of her nightmare still clinging to her skin. She walked slowly down the dark hall, stopping outside her mom’s closed door. The ringing wasn’t coming from in there.
She turned on the living room lights, nearly blinding herself. She turned them back off. The ringing was coming from the kitchen, and it wasn’t a sound she was used to—there was something different about this ring, but also familiar.
The old landline. A phone mounted to the wall behind the kitchen table—Maya had forgotten it was there and couldn’t remember the last time she’d used it. She was surprised it still worked. She stepped closer as it continued to ring.
A bad feeling crawled over her. Frank must have been the last person who’d ever called her on her mom’s landline. Who even had one of these anymore? She felt like she was still dreaming as she reached for the receiver and held it to her ear.
Silence.
She held her breath. She felt sure that it was him. He could have guessed that she’d seen the video—many thousands of people had. He could be calling her mom’s phone to see if Maya was back in town. To see if she was looking for him. She stood frozen as the thoughts flew through her head. Was that breath on the other end? It was hard to hear anything above her own pounding heart, her lungs begging for air.
She was about to hang up when the kitchen flooded with light.
“Maya?” said her mom.
Maya stared at her.
A click on the other end of the phone.
“Who are you talking to?” Brenda asked. She took in her daughter’s fearful expression and pale skin, her sweat-darkened shirt. The dial tone blaring from the phone in her hand. “Are you okay?”
“The phone was ringing. Didn’t you hear it?”
Her mom’s brow knit with worry.
“Whoever it was called like three times in a row. I answered it, but . . . there was no one there.”
Brenda shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything.”
Anger rose in Maya’s throat. “What—you think I hallucinated it?”
“No, no, of course not,” Brenda said, but it was obvious that she was just trying to de-escalate. She laid the back of her hand on her daughter’s forehead. “You’re a little warm. How are you feeling?”
Maya felt like screaming. She had the urge to tear the phone off the wall and smash it on the floor. Her mom didn’t believe her. Again.
“You must be losing your hearing,” Maya said coldly as she slammed the receiver back into its cradle.
She strode past her mom on her way to her room.
“Wait,” Brenda said. She followed her daughter a way down the hall. “I’m only trying to help, Muffin. You know that, right?”
Maya almost laughed at that. As if her mom could help her. If that was Frank on the phone, he knew where she was now. After all, why else would she be back in Pittsfield? Hadn’t she always wanted to escape?
“I don’t need your help,” she said to her mom as she closed the door in her face.
FIFTEEN
Here,” Aubrey says, “try this one.”
She turns from her bedroom closet to hand Maya a white tank top with tiny silver clasps running up the front.