Evil Librarian Read Online Free PDF Page B

there, holding the pen that is standing in for the razor, which we still need to procure, singing and exuding demonic barberness with a beautiful mix of sex appeal and insanity, all of my problems seem to melt away and I listen raptly, watch helplessly, and let myself temporarily forget that Ryan and I will probably never really be together in some kind of romantically connected way. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved most about musical theater. The way it makes anything, even the most unlikely turn of events, seem absolutely possible.
    When Mr. Henry lets us go for the evening, I slip my set notebook back into my bag and then sit for a moment, thinking, as the other students begin to make their way toward the various doors. I am thinking I might swing by the library on my way out, because even though I was right there when Annie said “See you tomorrow, Mr. G.,” I have a very strong suspicion that she ended up back there again anyway. And even though I have nearly convinced myself that nothing sinister is going on outside of my own overactive imagination, it will make me feel better to stop by. And then if she is there, we can walk home together, which would be infinitely more fun than me walking home alone with my thoughts.
    I stand up and suddenly notice that Ryan is standing in front of me.
    “Uh,” I say eloquently, looking up into his face from this unexpected and surprisingly close vantage.
    “Hey,” he says back, as though I had said something similarly standard and comprehensible. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I realized I took off pretty fast after our little mid-corridor collision today. I have Marchansky eighth period; you know how he is about people being late to class.”
    “Oh,” I say, which, while significantly better than my first statement, still doesn’t exactly register on the charming-and-clever scale. I mentally slap myself across the face.
Wake up and be interesting, you idiot!
“Um, thanks. Although, I’m the one who slammed into you; I should be asking if you’re okay. But you seem to have made a pretty speedy recovery as far as I can tell.”
    Better. Not great, but at least all the words make sentences and things.
    He smiles. I manage to stay upright. “Yeah, I think I’ll make it. Anyway, I gotta run, but glad you’re okay. That was a pretty serious full-on tackle. I can’t remember the last time I was taken out like that quite so efficiently.”
    I smile back. The way he says
efficiently
makes me a little light-headed. “Anytime you want a rematch, you let me know.” Crap. Too much? Am I flirting, or threatening him with further bodily harm?
    His smile tilts up a bit on one side. “Maybe I will,” he says. He gives me one of those chin-first nods that guys seem to use to communicate various forms of hello and good-bye and acknowledgment. I feel like it is all three, in the best of ways. “See you tomorrow.”
    “Sure, yeah. Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow, Ryan.”
    I watch him turn and jog toward the door and through the door, savoring the taste of his name on my lips. I tilt my head a little to the side and let myself take in the extremely pleasant rear view of him until he is out of sight.
    Oh. Oh, sweet
Jesus Christ Superstar.
    It takes me a second to start moving again; my brain insists on a few instant replays first. Of my
conversation
with
Ryan Halsey.
The one I just had, right here, in which both of us said things to each other, and there was mutual smiling, and no one ended up on the floor or otherwise demonstrated embarrassing behavior of any kind.
    I glance up and catch Mr. Henry watching me in obvious amusement from the stage. He raises his eyebrows at me. “Nice boy, that Ryan,” he says, grinning.
    I grin back, unable to help myself. “No kidding,” I tell him. I can hear the wistfulness clearly in my voice.
    He laughs, but not in a mean way. Mr. Henry is a pretty cool guy. “You should go for it. Bass-baritones that good looking