The Lake and the Library by S. M. Beiko Page A

aiming it at my face to snap a few.
    I lunged at him. “Don’t do that! You’re wasting film!” I tried to grab it but he buckled backwards with a half step, teasing me, taking more, and dancing away. He wanted a chase, and I was more than willing to give it.
    Midsprint, I whined, “Give it back! It’s an antique! You’re gonna wreck it!”
    I skidded to a halt as he ducked around a darker corner. As soon as I lost sight of him, he was gone, but a few flashes from above gave him away instantly. He was lazing on his belly on top of a bookshelf without a care, even for heights, and thoroughly enjoying himself.
    â€œOkay, okay!” I shied away behind my hand. “I get the point; you can stop any time.”
    He gave a mock-pout, saddened that I wasn’t amusing him anymore, so he turned the camera on himself and snapped one. While he sat, temporarily distracted by sudden blindness, I scaled the ladder nearest to him, but stopped just out of arm’s reach remembering yesterday. I held out my hand.
    â€œGive it here, whoever you are, and I promise I won’t sue for damages.”
    He cocked an eyebrow and curled a half smile, those strange eyes looking for a fair trade but willing to give in. The camera came close to my hand, and as I wrapped my fingers around it, he yanked it towards him, bringing me, rolling ladder and all, right to him.
    I shrieked. “This isn’t funny, just let go—” But his ice-chip eyes were concentrated on me, relentless. I wanted him to just
say
what he wanted, rather than keeping me constantly suspicious. He was coming in closer, closer, his pupils about to devour, until he pinched my nose and made a throaty honking noise
before letting the camera go. I rubbed my nose, disgusted that I fell for it and muttered “Idiot”
while checking the camera over.
    He kept watching me like an amused feline, face planted in folded arms and fascinated as I hung the camera around my neck. I grappled with my thoughts, still shaken and uncertain about what was there between us. Impatient with myself, I finally said, “So I guess you’re L-I.”
    He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.
    â€œUm. I mean. Li?” I pronounced it “Lee.”
    At that he looked genuinely insulted. I threw up my hands. “Well, maybe if you just
told me
what it is I wouldn’t keep guessing wrong.”
    He leaned back on his arms, crossing his ankles and looking bored.
    â€œHow about ‘Lie.’ As in li-on?”
    He squinted, wrinkling his nose again like he was trying to work out whether or not I was right. Then he made a face like it hurt him to think, and at the end of it all he shrugged, conceding, and gave me a slow clap. “Lie” it was, then. I couldn’t dodge my own smile.
    â€œAre you this annoying to everyone who asks?”
    Li’s grin engaged every muscle and line on his face before he raised his shoulders cartoonishly, again.
    â€œFigures.” My mistrust was waning, though. He was just a prankster. Messy, rumpled, partway good-looking in a dogged kind of way, and only irritating as far as he knew it was amusing. But there were still some unanswered questions that were gnawing hesitation into my bones.
    He also wouldn’t stop staring.
    â€œSo . . . How’d you get in here? Did you follow me through the back?”
    Maybe we were fellow trespassers, unified under breach of conduct, which made me feel a little less guilty in treading all over someone else’s memories. Li didn’t bother with a reply, though, now too busy digging around in the breast pocket of his faded wool peacoat to give me a second’s notice.
    I wasn’t about to let it go. “Well?” I insisted, drumming my fingers on a shelf. “Are you going to say
anything
or what?”
    A Polaroid suddenly cuffed me square between the eyes. I rubbed my face, and before I could blurt a “
don’t
” he was