“Don’t thank me, I always love feeding people.” He gives me a thumbs-up and leaves before I can explain that I was thanking him for getting the books down for me.
I finish my detailed work of volume 12 of the Starfield saga—The Cassius Sun—and place it on the shelf in order behind volume 11, and search for the dreaded number 13.
But…it’s not on the shelf, or in any of the cardboard boxes.
At first I think it’s just a gap in the books because of their different sizes, but the longer I look for volume 13, the more I begin to wonder if it’s even here at all. Most of the books are scattered across the various shelves—volume 1 might be beside the Noxian Guilt series (or volume 73, if you don’t section the series out into their respective arcs).
I look through the various shelves and a few of the cardboard boxes one last time just to make sure, but it’s not there.
Maybe Mr. Rodriguez has it? I mean, since he took the books off the top shelf last night, and I can’t very well ask him right now, since he’s not home.
The volume has to be here somewhere. Mr. Rodriguez had said that it was a complete collection, after all, but I can’t find it anywhere. Maybe he’ll know where it is.
I take out my phone out of my back pocket to call Mr. Rodriguez. It rings twice before he answers.
“Um, hi—I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, twisting a lock of my hair nervously.
He laughs into the phone—he sounds somewhere loud and busy. Then I hear the sound of my old manager over the intercom. Ah. The grocery store. My old nemesis. “No worries! What do you need?”
“Um, well—I can’t find one of the books? I’ve looked through all of the boxes and…”
“Hmm, maybe Vance borrowed one? I did see him sneaking into the library last night, so maybe he wanted a read.”
My heart sinks into my toes. “Oh.”
“It’s fine. Just pop up there and ask him for the book. He won’t bite.”
Right. He won’t be him. Me, on the other hand? He’d probably yeet me straight out the window if he could. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I’ll be home in a while—good luck!”
Great, I’ll need it.
I hang up and shove my phone into my back pocket. Well, there’s one mystery solved. I guess I have to confront him in his own territory, which might just be the death of me.
But I will do anything for a book.
“Screw your courage to the sticking place, Rosie,” I tell myself as a pep talk, and pour myself a glass of lemonade just to…you know, prolong my imminent demise. I know I’m being overly dramatic, but I really don’t want to go upstairs to confront Vance, but then again I don’t…not…want to go up there. I’m a tiny bit curious. And besides, if he does yeet me out the window, I’ll just drag him with me.
I flip through one of the magazines on the counter—People and Star—as I drink my lemonade. At least one of them has a story about Vance on the cover, and I flip to the page even though I already know what it’s about.
WHEN IT REIGNS, IT POURS, the cheesy headline reads, detailing some rumors that have cropped up over the last week. About Vance losing a role in the next James Bond movie, about the (probably fake) talks of CW restructuring Veten Rule to write his character out of it. About Natalia Ford’s radio silence on whether Sond is returning for the third installment of the franchise—and whether the third installment will be the last thanks to a merger with Disney.
I wonder why Vance keeps them around. I get hives when someone subtweets about me. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have entire articles printed—mostly untrue, I assume—about me for the entire world to read.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t care for me? Because he thinks I also subtweet and buy into all that gossip?
That’s silly, especially since he doesn’t even know me.
As I finish my lemonade, I realize I can’t prolong my appointment with the man upstairs any longer, and embark for the stairs on the other side of the house. I mean, I haven’t heard Vance since I got in today, so maybe he isn’t here, anyway! He might be out for a walk with his abs. Or running his glutes. Or, I don’t know, taking his pecs for a spin.
One can only hope.
I hold my breath and creep up the stairs.
When I reach the top, the entire floor is quiet, and I realize I don’t quite know which room is Vance’s. Which…I guess I should’ve asked Mr. Rodriguez about before we hung up. There aren’t that many rooms in the house, so it shouldn’t be hard to find. The first room on the left is sparse and neat, with a bed in the far corner, covers turned down and pillows fluffed. This must be Mr. Rodriguez’s room, neat and orderly just like him. There is a photograph of him and an older woman who looks like she might be his abuela, but otherwise the room is empty, save for the neatly hung clothes in the closet.
They really aren’t planning to stay here very long.
The other three rooms are an office, an unused bedroom, and a bathroom. But no book. The last door at the end of the hall is cracked open, and I give a tentative knock before I poke my head inside.
As I thought, it’s Vance’s bedroom, and it looks like a hurricane went through it. The gray comforter is bunched in the middle of the bed, and the pillows are strewn haphazardly across it, like someone who has a hard time getting to sleep. There are clothes piled on the floor and a fifty-inch TV screen with the television logo softly bouncing from one corner to the other. There’s a gaming console hooked up to it, and a Game Boy lying on the floor, screen glowing as a Pikachu wiggles left to right, ready to fight a Hitmonchan. The eight-bit Indigo League music that flooded my childhood sings softly from its mini-speakers.
Huh, I didn’t realize he played video games. Or that he was that much of a nerd. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling because I will not smile for Vance Reigns. I will not. I wholeheartedly refuse.
Now where is that book?
I cautiously begin to pick over his things, feeling a bit like Indiana Jones stealing some precious artifact from a remote region he definitely doesn’t belong in, but it isn’t on his nightstand, or his couch, or his bookshelf.
As I turn toward the dresser, a black mask catches my eye. As I creep closer, even in the darkness of the room, I recognize it. Because it hasn’t changed in the month since I’ve seen it. It actually feels like yesterday. But it can’t be the same one, can it? Outlined in glimmering gold, speckled with the constellation of Ambrose Sond’s home galaxy.
No, it can’t be.
But who else would have—
“What are you doing in here?”