Page 21 of The Fake Out

“Maebell, everyone has to give a little.” He directed my attention to the oversized, full-color blueprint for the high school football stadium he had on an easel beside his desk. “This football stadium will put our little town on the map.”

I hated him and his stupid stadium.

“You cannot cut my budget.” I crossed my arms. “This is asking too much. Especially after last year.”

“Look, everyone is chipping in. The police department is willing to cut back on overtime.”

“I feel safer already.”

He scowled. “The city maintenance department has come up with some cost-saving measures.”

“Great. I bet it will take twice as long to get a light bulb replaced now. Is the city going to cut back on drinking water, too? I mean, who really needs to stay hydrated? That’s junk science.”

“Are you done?” he snapped.

I smiled. At least I’d gotten under his skin.

“Not by a long shot.” I stood and snatched his idiotic budget proposal from the desk.

“It’s pretty much a done deal. City council will vote on it in eight weeks.”

I leaned over his desk and was pleasantly surprised to see him shrink back in his seat. “I guess I have eight weeks to figure out how I’m going to make sure this doesn’t happen.”

Then I dumped the entire contents of his coffee mug on his lap.

“He didn’t,” Ali said with a justifiable amount of outrage. “I hate him.”

“Thank you,” I said into the phone. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if the library hours get cut.”

I’d gone straight back to the library after my meeting with Peter, fuming mad. But as the anger had worn off, it had been replaced with overwhelming anxiety. The kind that had forced me to sit down and take slow steady breaths. It hadn’t worked; I still felt like either throwing up or throwing something.

“I know a guy who can help me get my hands on an ostrich,” Ali offered. “We could put it in his office and, you know, let it play out.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I’ll pass.” I hesitated, picturing a terrified Peter cowering under an evil-eyed ostrich. The scene had real merit. “Who exactly is this guy? No, never mind.”

“You’re going to figure it out,” Ali said, her voice sure.

I appreciated the vote of confidence, but sometimes I wished people didn’t think I was so competent. It would be nice, just once, for someone else to swoop in and solve my problems.

“Yeah, I’ll figure it out. Somehow.”

The library door burst open, and Chris Dreamboat Sterns was suddenly standing in front of me.

He was very… sweaty. That should be very unattractive. It was not. Neither was the fact he was wearing one of those shirts with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders that looked stupid on mortal men. On him, it highlighted the muscles in his arms. There were a lot of them, and I noticed. I promised to have a long introspective discussion with myself about this later.

“Ali, I have to go,” I said, my voice sounding almost breathless. With a scowl, I hung up and crossed my arms. “Did you run all the way here? You know they have cars for that.”

He shrugged and leaned an elbow on the counter, his bicep bulging. “It’s only four miles.”

“Only four? Light day for you, I guess.”

“Yup. But it’s off-season; I can go a little easy.” He tapped the belt bag at his waist. “I brought the book too. Where are we sitting?”

“Come on then.” I put the OUT TO LUNCH sign on the front door and directed him to my small office/break room/copy room. He sat down at the table there while I pulled out the lunches I’d picked up from the Sit-n-Eat on my way back from seeing He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Peter’s smug face popped into my brain. I slammed the to-go boxes on the table and threw myself in a chair across from Chris.

“You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t fine; I was angry.