“We probably missed them because of the security guard,” she says. “It’s his fault!”

“Where is he?” I ask. She knows I’m not talking about the security guard. And she knows that I know that she doesn’t know. And that I don’t know what else to say.

“Why did we even come here? This is your fault!” Mercedes glares at me.

“It was your idea!”

She pounds on the locked doors with her fists, and then she kicks them with the rubber toe of her sneaker. Then she kicks a potted plant near the doors, a pile of dry leaves at the edge of the staircase, a sign that says NO SMOKING. She’s screaming, too. I realize she’s not screaming at me—she just needs to spit out words. Nonsense. Nothing makes sense. Not her screaming, not her kicking. Not the security guard, not the search for a man we’ve never met. I sit down on the steps as far from her kicking as I can get. What now?

“Patricia Piper,” she says like the librarian’s name tastes bad. “She lied to us.” She kicks the door again, yanks on the handle. “I’m glad we took that book. Serves her right.”

The book in my backpack feels unbearably heavy. I plop down on the top step and sling the bag off my shoulders. I close my eyes, blocking out Mercedes’s kicking, wishing I could block out her yelling. When I open them, a man with a gray beard and sunglasses is walking up the steps, two at a time.

“Can I help you?”

Mercedes stops kicking and spins around. She pants. I stand up and put my arm around her shoulders. Her face is red.

“Hi,” I say to the man. “Everything’s fine.” My voice sounds froggy. I clear my throat. “We thought there was a faculty meeting here. We were supposed to meet…” I pause and think for a second. “We’re supposed to meet our aunt.”

“Yes, our aunt,” agrees Mercedes.

“It seems you’ve been misinformed by your aunt,” the man says. “The faculty meeting was last Friday. Once a month. I’m here to unlock the hall for the concert tonight.”

Mercedes and I look at each other. I can tell what she’s thinking: she’s extra glad we stole the book.

“Can I help you find your aunt? Or call someone for you?” the man asks, his brushy gray eyebrows getting even bushier with concern.

“No,” I say as quickly and breezily as I can before he offers to call the security guard. “We’ll just go to her office. We know where it is.”

I grab Mercedes’s hand and pull her down the steps.

CHAPTER 30 Mercedes