“Don’t judge a book by its cover, okay, Brooks?” she says. And I want to try. It’s just that Prescott’s cover is really ornate… and mine’s not.
I go over to the teen section, expecting a few regulars who come here to do homework and just hang out after school. I’m surprised, though, when Ty from the teen center comes in about half an hour later.
“Hey, Ty, what are you doing in my neck of the woods?” I ask.
“Hi, Miss Hart,” Ty says, polite and friendly since he’s by himself and he doesn’t have Jaxon and the other boys around to impress. “I finished Ender’s Game.”
“Oh yeah, what did you think?”
His eyes light up. “It was really cool. It’s a series, right?”
I smile. “Yeah, you want the next book?”
“That’d be great,” he says, and my chest swells with pride. This is exactly what the partnership between the outreach center and the library was meant to accomplish, and it’s only been a couple of days. I immediately want to tell Prescott how great it’s going.
Instead, I focus on Ty. I find him book two—Speaker for the Dead—and get him signed up for a library card. While I work, I can’t help pumping him for a little information.
“So, Ty, how long have you been going to the teen center?”
“Since last year,” he says. “Mr. P did a Madden tournament that brought a bunch of us guys in—not like we have Xbox money of our own—and we stuck around because he’s pretty cool. He’s always coming up with fun stuff to do.”
“He seems really dedicated,” I say.
“Totally,” Ty says. “And I heard a rumor he pays for all of it out of his own pocket. I mean, if I had that kind of dough, I’d probably go out and buy a football team, not Madden for a buncha poor kids.”
I smile. “I bet you’d be more generous than you think.”
“Maybe,” he says, unconvinced. “Nobody’s as generous as Mr. P, though.”
I laugh. “Did he pay you to come in here and say that?”
Ty laughs too. “Nah, I swear. I just wanted that book.”
I pass Speaker for the Dead to him and he heads out. His words reverberate for a long time after he goes, though.
Was I judging a book by its cover?
10
Prescott
It practically kills me to wait all day long, but I go back over to my parents’ house the minute I know my father will be home from work in the city. I don’t even knock like I usually do—I just let myself in and find them having cocktails in the formal sitting room.
“Prescott,” my mother says, surprised. Not nearly as surprised as she will be once I’ve said my piece. “Cognac?”
“No,” I say. “This isn’t a social call.”
“Well, I hope you came to apologize for running out on dinner last night,” my father says. “That was—”
“Completely justified given how you two treated Brooklyn,” I finish for him. “And yes, that is why I’m here, but not to apologize.”
They’ve both got their eyebrows raised, as if I just slapped them in the face. Good—they need to be woken up.
“That was completely unacceptable, and Brooklyn left here in tears,” I tell them. “I knew you two were old-money snobs, but I had no idea you could be cruel like that.”
“Prescott—” my mother tries to object, but I’m not finished.
I hold up a hand, silencing her. “No. Unless the next words out of your mouth are an apology, I don’t want to hear it. I love Brooklyn, I love my work at the outreach center, and I won’t allow you to make me or anyone I care about feel bad about that.”
“Oh, please, Prescott,” my father barks. “I understand that you’re going through some kind of guilty phase because of your position in life, but one of these days you’re going to wake up and realize it’s time to come back to work with me where you belong. Claim the legacy that I have created for you.”
“No, I won’t,” I say. It’s an argument we’ve had many times over the last two years, and yet he never seems to hear me. “I appreciate everything you’ve given me, and I know you worked hard for it. But it’s not the life I want. I don’t want a legacy. I want to build something for myself… and I have.”
“So what, Prescott, you’re here to try to make us feel guilty for what we have?” my mother asks, sounding tired.
“No,” I say. “I’m only here for one thing—Grandma’s engagement ring. You told me a long time ago that I could have it when I found the right woman, and that woman is Brooklyn. I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“What?” My mother looks about two seconds away from having the damn vapors. “Prescott, you can’t be serious! She’s below you!”
I put my hands on my hips, trying to contain myself. I snort and say, “You know, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought I was being crazy because I just met her two days ago, but the only thing you can think about is her socioeconomic status. I think you two should both take a good, long look in the mirror and figure out who’s below whom. Because I may have only known her two days, but I know Brooklyn has a huge heart and a beautiful soul, and she’s way above you in every way that counts.”
With that, I turn and march up the marble staircase to my parents’ master suite. I go into the giant walk-in closet with clothes that haven’t even been worn yet, and key in the combination to the safe where my mother keeps all her most expensive jewelry.
Fortunately, the code is the same as always—although she’s probably calling her financial planner right now, figuring out how to cut me
