Wake the Hollow Page 6

  “He wasn’t looking at me. It was something behind me.” I clear my throat uncomfortably, order a latte and an oatmeal raisin cookie, and then step aside to let Natalee order. “What did you think of the class?” I ask just to change the subject.

  “Welllll, it’s Doc Tanner.” Natalee raises an eyebrow. “So we’re gonna have to work really hard. I’m kind of glad Mr. Boracich is there to buffer things, though.”

  I can’t say I agree. For me, the literature class would have been easier without Dane Boracich. Having him stealing glances at me when he’s as cute as he is will make it exponentially harder for me to concentrate.

  Natalee pays the cashier, then scoots past me. “Well, good seeing you.”

  “Yeah, same here. Nice to see you, too.” I smile and wave good-bye. I let out a quiet, nervous breath. At least she was nice to me.

  From behind the counter, Jonathan keeps a close watch. I’m not sure what to make of it. He could just be getting used to the sight of me again. Or plotting to kill me. Or staring at my breasts. It’s hard to tell. I sneer at him and go find a seat.

  There’s one by the big front window, so I head over with my coffee and cookie, pulling out a fresh, clean notepad and pen. Taking in a deep, cleansing breath, I begin to write:

  HOLLOW TO-DO LIST

  1. Go back to house and get Coco.

  2. Ask Betty Anne about Mami’s things.

  3. Call Officer Stanton again.

  4. Get house key from realtor OR break in.

  5. Try not to break in. Try to use actual key.

  The chimes sound, and a moment later, Natalee’s vanilla bean cloud whooshes back to my side. “Speaking of the devil…” Her sights land somewhere by the ordering counter. “Super tall, isn’t he? And kind of adorable, right?”

  It’s Dane, unwrapping a dark gray scarf from his neck, checking out the menu. “Yeah.” Since he’s not looking straight at me, for once, I take advantage and check him out. Handsome in a non-traditional way, pale chiseled face, soft, wide smile when he talks to the cashier. Not bad for a stalker. I run my fingers through my hair. Maybe Bram is right. Maybe I do find him attractive.

  “He’s not like firefighter-hot”—Natalee giggles—“but there’s something about him. Am I right?”

  Definitely. I don’t think it’s so much about physical appearance, though. I think it’s because he’s older, goes to Harvard, plus he’s teaching my favorite subject. A college man…nothing like the boys in this town. As if that weren’t enough, he’s new here, kind of like me.

  “I guess so,” I reply, as blasé as possible. I don’t need to express how hot I find my literature teacher and give people more fodder for rumors.

  Dane takes another step in line, and I notice how he watches everyone in the shop. Silently, carefully. His eyes are clear and beautiful, steel blue and powerful. I often wonder what mysteries lie behind people’s facades, and this guy is a prime example.

  I sip my coffee, trying to focus on my to-do list, but I’m keenly aware that he’s already spotted me. When I finally gather enough courage to look up again, I’m not surprised to find him studying me. My heart races.

  I smile politely and catch Natalee eyeing the whole wordless exchange with a goofy grin. Dane orders then waits by the counter while I, for the life of me, cannot think of the next item for my to-do list. I tap, tap, tap my pen, as he stares. Stay focused, Mica. A moment later, I feel someone crouch by my table. “Hey, there.”

  My stomach knots. I act surprised. “Ah, the other newbie in town.”

  “Micaela, right?”

  My smile softens a bit. “How did you know my name?” I didn’t give it to him at the house yesterday.

  “Dr. Tanner’s attendance sheet?”

  “Ah.” Derp. But then I remember… “You didn’t take attendance today.”

  Dane’s eyes flit side to side across mine, then he glances down in shame. “Okay, you got me. I asked someone. But you told a little lie yourself. You said you weren’t from around here.”

  “I’m not. I mean, not anymore. I used to live here six years ago. So, technically, it was the truth.” I feel bad that he’s still crouching. Should I invite him to sit? Even though I’m eighteen, he’s my teacher. Won’t that be, like, taboo?

  He peeks at me sideways. “I see. I don’t suppose you’re related to the Maria Burgos who owned the house we were looking at yesterday, are you?”

  My fingers tighten around my ceramic mug. It’s probably all public information, but it still stuns me to hear my mother’s name from the lips of this guy, someone even newer to Sleepy Hollow than I am. “I, uh…”

  “Sorry, that was personal.” He stands and glances around. “I was only wondering if that was your house. If it is, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was intruding yesterday.”

  “No, it’s just…that was my mother’s house. But I just don’t see it as a house for sale yet.”

  “I completely empathize. Again, I’m sorry.”

  I notice his retro black-and-white-checkered sneakers. Nice. “Have you called to see it yet? The realtor doesn’t get back to me.” Nobody gets back to me.

  “Not yet, but I’d like to get inside soon, maybe take a look around.”

  It’s odd to think that he wants to see the very room where I used to dance and twirl, even see my growth chart and stickers. Assuming my mom kept it all there and didn’t erase the memory of her betraying daughter by painting over them, that is.

  “I’m sorry to ask…I mean, I know the circumstances by which your house was made available…”

  “My mother’s house.”

  “Your mother’s house.” He clears his throat. “It seems like a nice enough place, but I’m wondering if there are any structural problems with it, anything I should know, or…”

  “I wouldn’t know. You have to call the realtor.”

  He points at me. “The one that doesn’t answer.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.” He smiles, and we both chuckle. “Sorry to ask.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. But if he wants to be nosy, two can play the same game. In fact… “I feel bad you’re standing there. Want to sit?” I gesture to the chair opposite me.

  “Oh…” Dane checks the time on his phone, like maybe he has somewhere he needs to be, then looks at my to-do list. “You sure? You look like you’re working on something.”

  “I was, but it’s okay. Two more minutes won’t kill me.” I have questions of my own.

  He nods and takes the seat. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Whoa. Nerves and excitement course through me at the same time. “So, why are you teaching at Tarrytown High as opposed to a college somewhere?”

  “Well, I’m still a student myself, just started out teaching. And your high school is in a literary town.” He pauses as if judging to see how receptive I might be to an expanded answer.

  I don’t encourage him, but I don’t discourage him, either.

  “See, I’m writing my practicum, which covers Irving, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Poe. I’m interested in how their literary choices paved the way for postmodernism.”

  Ah. Now he’s starting to speak my language. “That’s one of my favorite topics.”

  “No way.” His light blue eyes disappear into a crinkly smile. I know I shouldn’t be staring right at him this way, but he doesn’t seem like a teacher to me. He seems like just another student.

  “Yes way. They led fascinating lives, didn’t they? So secretive and tragic. I could read about them for days. It’s what I want to study when I get to Yale.” I toast my coffee cup at him.

  He taps my cup with his. “Good for you. And great school. You got in?”

  “Not yet. Hoping to.”

  “You will.” He takes a sip of his coffee. His demeanor is so easygoing, I’m starting to feel like he’s someone I’ve known my whole life. “So I’m touring their hometowns, trying to get a feel for what they experienced when they lived…where they lived. Well, at t
he time anyway.”

  I never heard of anyone touring historic homes while writing a practicum before. What a great gig. Except he’s forgetting one thing… “But Irving wasn’t very secretive.” I study his face closely. Surely, he must know this. “He wrote everything in his diary. Anyone can read it online.”

  I know I’m giving him a hard time, but it’s true—Irving’s life was an open book. Every little thing from what he had for breakfast to the people he met throughout the day for years and years. As a teacher on the subject, shouldn’t he know that?

  “Impressive.” His clear eyes hold my gaze. I find it difficult to look away from them. He sits back, clasps his hands. “I guess all the locals are just as familiar with his life as you are?”

  “Not all of them, but some.” I sip my coffee, noticing the shape of his lips. Full but not too full. “My mom was an Irving historian.” I realize I haven’t spoken openly about her to anyone but Bram in a long time. Without warning, I find myself wanting to tell him everything—how I spent half my life at Irving’s home, read his works right from his very own leather-bound copies at the library, how my mom believed we were related to him, how Coconut was born from one of Sunnyside’s resident cats…

  I could go on and on.

  “Not that you’re from around here or anything.” He winks, then we both see it at the same time—Bram bustling up to the coffee house, cold hands shoved in jacket pockets. “Thanks for the chat, but I have to go now.” He stands suddenly, smiling. “Lesson plans, things like that. I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Micaela.” He pronounces my name correctly, the way people do when they make an effort to say the soft Spanish L, the way my mother used to.

  I twiddle my fingers, try to hide a coy smile. “Bye, Mr. Boracich.” Sweet Jesus in Heaven, I am flirting with an older man. A teacher! He can’t be more than twenty-two or three. But still!

  He dawdles a moment longer to get his scarf on right and collect his things, then he smiles at me one last time. The door chimes tinkle, and Bram plows into the shop, unbuttoning his jacket and blowing out harried puffs of air. His eyes capture me and Dane together, and for a second, he seems thrown. He stops short of my table. “There you are, Micaela.”

  “Hey, Abraham.” I widen my eyes at him. Someone’s acting weird.

  “What’s up, teach?” He gives Dane a momentary nod.

  Dane points at him. “Bram, right?”

  “The one and only.” Bram takes on a stronger, tough guy stance.

  Dane nods, and I’m embarrassed by Bram’s little show of bravado. “Have a wonderful evening, you two.”

  “You too, teach.” Bram’s eyes could shoot lasers as he takes the chair opposite me and follows Dane’s movements all the way out of the coffeehouse.

  Dane pauses at the door, preparing his scarf for the cold. He glances back at me, a silent apology in his eyes. Not that he did anything wrong. Then, he spills through the chiming door into the night with his coffee.

  I smile at Bram sitting across from me. “Hi. Did you need me for something?”

  “Flirting with a teacher, huh?” He laughs, folding and unfolding a napkin.

  “Who says I was flirting?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

  He taps the table with nothing else to say, then gets up. “I’ll see you later, Mica. Gotta get to work.”

  “But you said, ‘there you are,’ like you were looking for me. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. You look awesome, by the way.” He winks then rushes to the back, grabs his apron off the wall, and claps hands with Jonathan.

  What just happened? It’s not like I was on a date with Dane. Is Bram still sore? I know I rejected him, but I was only twelve at the time. If I wasn’t here on a mission, I might be interested, but… Wait, what am I talking about? I shake my head and stare at my list.

  6. Stay focused on what you came to do. No thinking of Bram Derant OR Dane Boracich.

  7. Because the Hollow knows how to push your buttons. It knows how to lull you back into its dreamy hold, Mica. And once it does, it’ll never let you go home.

  Chapter Seven

  “…the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.”

  Turns out I have a rotating block schedule, so it’s three classes one day, then three the next. Rinse and repeat. So I have to wait until Wednesday to have American Literature again.

  On Wednesday, I watch Dane from my seat behind Bram. I’m beginning to internalize things about him, like the length of his loose blond hair and the way he nods every time Dr. Tanner says something. The way he scans everything going on in the room when he thinks nobody is watching him, and the way he covers his mouth with his fist when he’s listening.

  I have to say, even if my dad wasn’t making me stay in school while visiting Sleepy Hollow, I’d probably attend anyway, just to watch him. He’s completely fascinating. However, I’m careful. Every time Bram looks back to see what I’m doing, I pretend to be absorbed by my literature book. I know we’re not together, but something definitely simmers just underneath his surface.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I’m handing it over to Mr. Boracich for the start of the new unit,” Doc Tanner says, putting up his feet on a plastic chair.

  Dane stands at the front of the class, and he and Doc Tanner fall into a deep discussion over something, as though agreeing first on the material to be presented.

  Dane claps once to get everyone’s attention. “All right everybody, here’s my big debut.” Chuckles echo throughout the room. “I’d like to begin by asking…how many of you have secrets?” He raises his hand to get us to do the same.

  Half the room raises theirs. I don’t, even though I have plenty of dreams, visions, and voices nobody knows about.

  “Right, most of us do.” Dane paces around slowly. “But would you ever tell anyone your secret?” Quiet laughter and hell no’s resound. “No, because then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore, right? But what if you were a writer—any writers in the room?” He raises his hand suggestively again. A few lift into the air.

  Aside from a research paper I wrote last year, I’m not much of a writer.

  “Well, what if you were compelled to write everything down? Whether for posterity or because you’re just cursed with the need to record every thought, emotion, plan you’ve ever had? Would that be a great testament to your existence, or would that be…say…shooting yourself in the foot?”

  “Shooting yourself in the foot,” Bram offers, eliciting chuckles around the room.

  “Could be.” Dane holds eye contact with Bram for what feels like an eternity. “And that’s why primary documents—journals, birth certificates, notes, letters—are so important to historians. Because long after we’re dead, everyone will read them and know more about us. Especially the dirt.”

  Bram taps his pen on the desk repeatedly. I nudge his shoulder to get him to stop.

  Dane goes on. “It’s interesting to discover that people we regarded so highly were just like you and me, people who made mistakes.”

  “I never make mistakes,” Bram mumbles, and his buddies erupt in laughter.

  Ugh. Bram is in a dork mood. “Let the man speak,” I whisper.

  “Of course not, Bram. Not you.” Dane grins.

  Muffled oohs resound around the room. I want to hide under a rock.

  Dane uncaps a marker and writes two names on the board. All the awkwardness suddenly melts away, replaced by the sound of scribbling pencils:

  Washington Irving & Mary Shelley

  “So when we find out more than basic facts about a person, like where they lived, when they were born, what books they published, you start getting clues, and these clues make you wonder where the truth really lies.”

  I’ve seen those two names together before, but it’s all suspect. What does Dane think he knows about it? A hand goes up in the front. “Who’s Mary Shelley?”

  Seriously? Come on, people.

 
Dane holds his arms out. “Anyone want to answer that?” Nobody raises their hand. I want to, but I’m scared of looking like the teacher’s pet. “Nobody knows this author’s most famous piece of Gothic romantic literature?”

  “Micaela knows,” Bram declares.

  I almost smack him over the head with my binder. “Instigator.”

  Bram snickers.

  “Micaela?” Dane raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Frankenstein,” I say. I can’t believe nobody else knew that.

  “Correct.” He smiles.

  Natalee raises her hand. “I thought the author of Frankenstein was British, but isn’t this American Literature?”

  “She was, very good. But Irving was barely American himself, for all the time he spent on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. The reason I wrote their names up there is because a lot of people believe that these two…” He gestures to both names with his dry-erase marker. “Were hooking up.”

  Giggles erupt through the room. One guy loudly yells, “Yeah!”

  I’ve heard of this, but it’s pure rumor. Behind Bram, I mutter to myself. “Shelley wanted Irving to want her. I’d hardly call that hooking up.” I heard my mother talk about this to guests at Sunnyside before. Irving and Shelley were briefly a couple after her husband died—the famous poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley—but the romance lasted less than a year and didn’t really amount to anything. He must be bringing this up because it’s October and fun to think about.

  “Can you imagine if these two would’ve married and had kids?” Dane raises an eyebrow. “Two major celebrities having a baby. Not that different from today’s famous stars getting together.”

  Natalee raises her hand again. “But Irving never had children. Didn’t his fiancée die when he was like nineteen?” Ding, ding, ding! Go, Natalee!

  “Yes, but he could’ve been with another woman after that,” Dane says, and a few guys chuckle knowingly. “I’m not saying they did have a child. I’m saying if they did, that child would’ve been a famous kid back then.”

  “My mom said he was probably gay,” Natalee adds. “Never married, never had kids…”

  “…Was a world traveler, yes, I’ve heard those, too.” Dane sits on the edge of the desk. “And it could be true. But he still could’ve had a child. Many gay men in the nineteenth century were fathers and husbands. Things weren’t as out in the open then as they are now.”