Waiting For Sarah by James Heneghan

anyway, and if truth be told didn’t mind the silence, but he wasn’t about to let her know that. “Look, kid! You better put — ”
    â€œMichael, be nice. Here, have some of my Snickers bar.” She broke her chocolate bar in half and proffered the package.
    He took it. Chocolate was hard to resist.
    She began to sketch.
    â€œYou’re supposed to be helping me.”
    â€œI
am
helping you, Michael.”
    â€œNo. you’re not. You’re just having yourself a good time.”
    â€œWhat would you like me to do?”
    â€œWell, you could help by looking through these newspapers and searching for interesting stories.”
    â€œI’d love to search for interesting stories.”
    â€œSlap a Post-It on anything you find. No reports on school dances — unless something unusual happens, like a .re or a fight, or problems with liquor; and no sports or athletics, unless school or district records are broken, or something unusual happens, okay?”
    They settled down to work. After a while, Sarah started to hum. He waited for her to stop, but she kept it up. “You’re humming,” he told her.
    â€œNo, I’m not.”
    â€œYou
were
.” He knew how sneaky girls could be with verb tenses. He’d been caught before, with Becky.
    â€œWasn’t.”
    â€œYou were. You were humming.”
    â€œWasn’t.”
    â€œWas.”
    â€œThat should be
were.
”
    â€œWhat were you humming?”
    â€œBeethoven.”
    â€œThere, you see. You admit it!”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    He sighed and tried to ignore her.
    On Thursday the librarian said, “I’ve left the door open for you, Mike.” Miss Pringle had found a way to help without being pushy. “If you need material from the high shelves I can have one of the library students get it for you.”
    He didn’t thank her as he wheeled past the checkout counter, turned right at Myths & Folklore and headed down to Classics. A left turn, a right and another left brought him to Archives. He pulled the door closed behind him.
    â€œHello, Michael.”
    She was already there, sitting at the table with paper, crayons and glue, making colored labels for the newspaper shelves.

16 ... meant to be together
    She looked slightly different, but he couldn’t see ex­actly why. Probably her hair: girls were always fooling around and doing different things with their hair.
    She stopped what she was doing and moved to the stool, where she perched, chin cupped between her hands, big happy smile, elbows on knees, feet on the rung of the stool, saying nothing. She was evi­dently waiting for him to acknowledge her, to greet her, to say something nice about her colored labels perhaps.
    But he only mumbled in his gruff voice, scowling, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of noticing she was on time.
    She held something up for him to see. “Look, I brought my paint box.”
    He wheeled past her to the table. “You can put these newspapers back on the shelf. I’ve finished with them.”
    â€œDon’t be such an old grouch, Michael. It’s no use pretending you’re not glad to see me because I know you are.” She slid off the stool.
    He watched her: thin, straight back, tumble of abundant dark hair to her shoulders. It was a different style, he was almost certain of it; girls did tricky things with wigs and hairpieces these days, made themselves appear to have more hair than they actually had. She was gluing her new labels to the shelves. They looked good. Nobody would have any trouble in the future looking for specific years.
    And the room seemed different today, warmer and brighter, pushing the shadows back, burnishing the mahogany of the table, bathing the bundles of old newsprint in a bronze glow.
    â€œHow do you like it?” She stood back, admiring her work.
    â€œIt’s fine.”
    She smiled. “Is that all you can say?