I stop my flipping, my brow furrowing when I see there’s a page missing, a gap between 156 and 159, the jagged paper near the binding the only clue that something had been there.
She’d ripped a page out.
I could probably just Google it? Or…
I flip back to the title page and see a faded blue stamp reading “O’Reilly’s Used Books,” and suddenly the possibility of my first bucket list item is sitting right in front of me.
9. Buy a book in another language.
If they have this exact book, not only would I check my first list item off, but I could figure out what that missing page said. And, if I could figure out what the missing page said, I bet I could figure out what the whole quote was. I could find my answer.
It isn’t much, but it’s a place to start. Finally.
8
I peer at the sky, the downpour of rain ricocheting off the metal overhang in front of Nina’s.
Just perfect.
Of course I forgot my rain jacket on the one day the sky decides to dump out an ocean of water. That, and my bike tire popped on the way here, so I’ll be stuck not only walking to O’Reilly’s, but also waiting in sopping-wet clothes for my dad to come pick me up at Hank’s to go to the Carters’ to help them unpack.
Talk about bad luck.
I would just hide out at Nina’s, but… I’ve put off starting the list for almost a whole week now, and I’m not going to let some rain and a missing jacket ruin it for me. The Huckabee Lake trip deadline is getting closer with every day that passes, so even if I have to walk the half mile to O’Reilly’s Used Books in the rain, I’m going to do it.
Gritting my teeth, I step out onto the sidewalk, and the rain instantly soaks straight through my shirt and pants. I clutch at the strap of my tote bag as I slosh my way straight down Main Street, I feel my shoes getting heavier and heavier with each passing second, my fingertips finding the lucky quarter I’d tucked into my jeans pocket this morning.
Something about starting the list made me feel like I should bring it along. Although it isn’t proving to be much help.
I keep my head down, counting my steps as I go, to distract myself, the numbers blurring together as I pass forty.
I pull the quarter out and squint down at it, rain pelting me in the eyeballs. “Aren’t you supposed to be lucky?” I mutter.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a faded light blue truck pull over onto the shoulder, the window rolling down.
“What are you doing?” a voice calls out to me.
I turn my head and squint into the truck. “Blake?” She’s wearing a red lifeguard sweatshirt, the hood pulled up over her wavy hair. Or at least I think she is. It’s hard to see through the rain.
“Uh… walking?”
Talk about stating the obvious.
She grins and shakes her head at me. “You want a ride?”
I nod gratefully as she reaches across to unlock the door. I pull at the handle, clambering inside with a sigh of relief, my wet clothes squeaking on the worn, aged leather, my tote bag tumbling onto the floor.
“Isn’t this your grandpa’s old truck?” I say, once I can finally see again. When my mom died, Blake’s grandma and grandpa would pop over every now and then to see how we were doing, this truck chugging noisily into our driveway, Mrs. Carter lugging a giant casserole up our front steps. But Mr. Carter died two winters ago, and I haven’t seen it since.
“Good eye,” Blake says, nodding as I manually roll up the window. “My grandma gave it to me a few days ago to get around.”
“Johnny won’t let you borrow the Porsche?” I ask. She gives me an amused eye roll as I sit back in the seat.
“I wouldn’t drive it even if he let me,” she says, the corner of her mouth ticking up into a smile. “Way too flashy. He’s always been a fan of attention. I think it’s some pro-surfer residual.”
I pull my seat belt on and study her face as she shifts the truck into drive, wondering if she knows anything yet.
So far, things don’t seem awkward, and she’s the one who stopped, so that’s a good sign.
She peers in the rearview mirror for traffic. True to Huckabee form, there isn’t any. “So, where are we heading?”
“O’Reilly’s Used Books,” I say, nodding straight ahead as the seat belt I’m pulling on clicks noisily into place. “It’s four blocks down on the right.”
“Are you working on the list?” she asks, her eyes wide with unfiltered excitement as she eases us back out onto the road. “Wasn’t there a book-related thing on there?”
“There might be.” I push my wet hair behind my ear and pull the tote bag onto the seat, digging inside to find the folded list and the Albert Camus book, tucked safely in the rain-safe plastic of three Ziploc bags I’d stolen from Nina’s.
Carefully, I pull out the book, holding it up to Blake as she slows to a stop at a stop sign. “I’m looking for this. Page one fifty-seven and one fifty-eight 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.”
Blake nods, taking it all in. “You think he’ll have a copy?”
“I hope so,” I say as I point halfway down the block at the O’Reilly’s Used Books storefront, relieved to see there’s a parking spot right out front. “Only problem is that if he does, it’s in French.” I peer at the peeling gold lettering just above the door while Blake parallel parks the grumbling truck
