Page 84 of Ominous: Part 1
I take a breath, then shove away from the table, snapping my eyes open and deciding to take a lap around the library before I go.One last chance, Eli.
I glance at my phone, checking he hasn’t texted me, then I snatch it up and push it into my pocket, ensuring it’s on vibrate before I start to roam.
I glide my fingers over the shelves of Greek mythology first, eyes pausing on a text dissecting Adonis. My heart skips a beat in my chest, but I force myself not to grab the golden spine of the book. I keep moving, further away from my table, down aisle after aisle of heavy research volumes, until I get to the far side of the library, a fireplace never used as far as I can see at my back, and school records of Trafalgar on the shelves in front of me, climbing so high I’d need a stool to get to the top.
I scan the rows and rows of cloth bound, blue texts, realizing most of them are yearbooks. There’s a thick volume calledTrafalgar, The History,with silver letters threaded on the spine. But below that, it’s yearbooks by date, and smiling to myself, I reach for the one from three years ago.
It’s not very heavy, the school small and elitist (expensive) as it is. I take a few steps back to lean against the exposed brick, beside the fireplace, tracing my finger over the cloth covering. It’s made to look ancient. This could be a yearbook from 1909 if it wasn’t for the school year printed across the cover.
I flip open the pages, hearing the creak of the spine. I don’t think anyone has ever looked through this book, which feels sad in some way, like students are just forgotten. Money taken, donations levied, then they’re thrust out into the world of their parents, padded with cash and lawyers and trapped into gilded cages.
But at least they’re gilded, right?
The first half of the yearbook is full of photos from sports teams.
I bypass football, swimming, and lacrosse, heading straight for wrestling.
Glossy, black and white photos stare back at me with tiny captions printed beneath each one, but it’s the picture in the center that stands out above the rest.
Eli, a champion in his weight class. A freshman in this picture, I suppose he’s used to winning.
His hand is lifted high by the ref at the end of the match, he’s a little less muscular than he is now, a little shorter, his hair is, too, his edges not so sharp yet.
But even here, three years ago, there’s nothing exuberant on his face, though, veins stark against his skin along his forearms, his headgear dangling from the fingers of his other hand.
He looks bored, and I’m not even sure what he’s looking at, like he’s just staring through the crowd. He would’ve been fourteen.
Was his mom there, then?
His dad?
He’s just… stoic. Orempty,maybe.
Everyone around him, his coach and team on the sidelines, they’re wild with happiness, fists lifted in cheers, lips curled up into smiles and shouts of joy. It didn’t seem to reach him, though. It’s like he couldn’t feel it. It’s like he’s not even there, the look in his eyes blank.
I snap the book closed and push it back along with the rest on the shelf in front of me, marveling over just how many there are here. Scanning the dates along the spine, straining my eyes in the dark as I look up at the higher, faded numbers, I realize this school is over one hundred years old.
It seems like some kind of private school record, particularly in a state always building new schools to accommodate more students, then promptly filling them and bursting at the seams again.
It’s kind of startling, knowing in my quest to get into Trafalgar—after Reece’s brother mentioned it casually when he realized how good my grades were, when I saw the castle as we drove by to inspect the trailer before we moved in, when I knew my record wouldn’t endear me to many places—I didn’t really do my research. I went straight to the financial aid section on their website, ensuring this wasn’t a pipe dream, and knowing the first thing Reece would ask about would be tuition. Costs. What it would take from him.
But I didn’t look at how long Trafalgar had been around. I didn’t look at class sizes either, although I did glance at where students filtered to when they left. Ivy leagues, mainly. A few renowned universities in Europe. Those have never been in reach for me, but it was fun to scroll through and imagine being there anyway.
Still, I know this castle isn’tancient,the United States lacking the lengthy history other countries do, but it’s older than I thought. I glance around the library, at the fireplace beside me, with brand new awe, wondering if the rich kids ever feel that way.
I face the shelves again, my fingers gliding over the cloth spines, and I find last year’s book.
Smiling, I pinch it from the two volumes around it, one dating back the year before this one, and a thin paperback entitled,Theatrics at Trafalgar.
I retract it from the shelf, and realize I’m holding Eli’s junior year in my hand.
Again, I step back to lean against the wall as I flip it open.
I flick to the front, finding the sports section once more, noting this time, it’s etched in silver filigree, something that must have cost a fortune for these glossy, heavy pages. I wonder if all private schools take their extracurriculars so seriously. The guidance counselor had tried to sign me up for something—the paper, or yearbook—but I wasn’t sure I could count on rides when they were needed on demand, and with no parking spot and no hope of forking out a grand for one anytime soon, I declined, knowing it would look bad on my transcripts, but my grades would have to be enough for Bloor.
Focusing on the silky pages unfolded to me, I realize I’ve been scanning the group wrestling photo for several minutes, my attention not once snagged on Eli’s face.
Smiling to myself at my runaway brain, I hold the book in one hand, fingers splayed underneath the cloth binding, and drag my index finger over every single face in the huddle, Coach Pensky squatting in the center with a grimace I think is supposed to be his smile.
