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Wallace flicked his long bangs out of his eyes as he entered the school library. His platform boots clomped against the polished floor, earning a side-eye from the librarian; he ignored her. Wallace’s eyes scanned the shelves, zeroing in on the nonfiction music section—a sanctuary where most students dare not tread.
But, yet again, the book was gone.
Music Theory and the Modern Mind had become his holy grail. He’d been tracking it for weeks, and every time he came close, someone had already checked it out. That someone had to be borrowing it over and over, as if mocking him. Wallace wasn’t one to let such offenses slide.
He marched up to the circulation desk.
“Who has it?” he demanded.
The librarian glanced up from her computer, sighing.
“Like I always say Wallace, it’s a privacy policy thing. I can’t just tell you,” she replied. “What I can do is put it on hold for you and you can—”
Wallace rolled his eyes. Privacy policy? What a joke.
“No, thank you,” he muttered, turning away. He didn’t need her help. He had a hunch.
The book thief had to be the same person who always sat in the corner by the windows, the spot with the best lighting and just beyond the graphic novels section. Wallace had seen the book there once, when he’d been doing a favor for a teacher, but the reader had vanished before he could identify them. He’d barely caught sight of a tangle of shaggy auburn hair.
The next day, Wallace bee-lined and commandeered the window seat. His plan was simple: wait for the book thief to show up. But as the hours ticked by, no one appeared.
The same thing happened the next day. And the next. Wallace started to doubt himself. Maybe the kid had graduated to some other obscure text, or worse, given up on music altogether. Then he’d never get the book.
But on Friday, Wallace refused to give up. He dropped his leather messenger bag onto the chair and slumped into the seat, glaring at the library doors. If this kid was real, they’d show up eventually. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long.
Scott Pilgrim, notorious oddball and garage band enthusiast, stumbled through the doors. His guitar case was slung over one shoulder, and his shirt bore the logo of a band Wallace had never heard of. He beelined for the window seat—and upon seeing Wallace, froze.
Wallace smirked, crossing his arms.
“Looking for something?”
Scott’s expression shifted, realization dawning.
“Uh, yeah. My seat?”
“Your seat,” Wallace drawled, dragging out the words. “Funny. I thought it was public property property. Kind of like library books.”
“Oh, you mean the book. The librarian told me about it.”
“Yes, the book ,” Wallace replied sharply. “The one you’ve been hogging for weeks.”
Scott fidgeted, his eyes darting to the side as he adjusted the strap of his guitar case.
“I was just…studying. For music stuff. It’s not, like, a crime.”
Wallace leaned forward, his dark eyeliner making his glare even more intense.
“It is when you’re keeping it from someone who actually needs it.”
“Okay, okay, chill. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
“Not good enough. I need it today.”
Scott hesitated, then sighed. “Fine, but you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For making this super awkward…” Scott replied with an awkward grin. “I mean, you’ve been stalking me for a book. That’s kinda weird.”
Wallace snorted, unable to help the small smirk tugging at his lips. “Whatever.”
Wallace didn’t expect Scott to actually come through. People like Scott Pilgrim were unreliable by nature—flaky music kids who made big promises and then forgot about them five minutes later. So when Wallace entered the library after lunch and saw Scott waving a dog-eared copy of Music Theory and the Modern Mind at him, he had to fight the urge to look surprised.
“Don’t get too emotional about it,” Scott teased as Wallace approached. “I can see it in your eyes—you’re about to cry.”
Wallace snatched the book. “You creased the cover.”
Scott leaned against the table, completely unfazed.
“It adds character! Plus, there’s that little protective film on it, so I really only creased the thingy on top of the cover.”
“It adds disrespect ,” Wallace flipped through the pages, checking for any other crimes—no highlighter marks, no torn covers. He exhaled. “Guess you didn’t ruin it completely.”
“Gee, thanks,” Scott said, plopping into the chair next to Wallace instead of leaving like any normal person would. “What’s so important about this thing, anyway? Are you, like, secretly starting a band or something?”
“Do I look like the kind of person who’d start a band?”
“I mean…kinda…? But probably not…”
Wallace’s glare intensified, but Scott just smiled.
“For your information,” Wallace said coolly. “I’m writing a paper.”
“Oh. For class?”
“No. For me. ”
Scott blinked, then pointed at him. “That’s even weirder than stalking me for a book.”
“You don’t get it,” Wallace groaned, wanting to desperately just put on headphones and read the damn book. “Music theory isn’t just for playing songs. It’s about patterns—formulas. You learn how things fit together so you can control it. Break it apart if you want to.”
Scott stared at him for a second, then nodded slowly. “That’s…actually kinda cool.”
Wallace paused. He wasn’t used to people calling him—or anything he cared about, for that matter—cool. He didn’t trust it.
“Yeah, well. Don’t spread it around.”
Scott zipped his lips, then immediately pretended to throw away the key. Wallace buried his face in the book, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave.
He didn’t.
“So, uh…” Scott shifted in his chair. “If you’re into music and all that, maybe you could…come check out band practice sometime? I mean, not to join or anything—unless you want to, which you probably don’t, but like—”
Wallace cut him off.
“You think I want to sit in someone’s basement while you and your friends butcher Nickelback songs?”
“We don’t play Nickelback. Not anymore, really. It’s more like…Sum 41?”
“Sure,” Wallace turned the page, pretending to lose interest.
“Whatever,” Scott stood up, clearly offended. He slung his guitar case over his shoulder. “Offer’s there. Just don’t cry when you realize you’re missing out.”
Wallace waited until Scott was gone before snapping the book shut and staring out the window. The offer wasn’t too bad. It’s not like he had anyone else to hang out with, just his online message board friends and listening to music. So, maybe, sitting in a basement wasn’t the worst way he could spend the afternoon.
It turned out the band didn’t totally suck.
They were rough around the edges, sure, but there was something weirdly earnest about them that Wallace didn’t hate. By the second practice, he was critiquing their chord progressions. By the third, he was helping Scott tune his guitar. And by the fourth, they were hanging out at school like it was normal.
What Scott didn’t know was that it wasn’t normal for Wallace to have friends.
“Hey, Pilgrim!”
Scott flinched as a group of upperclassmen walked past the lunch table he and Wallace had claimed. The guy in the lead—some jerk Wallace had already forgotten the name of—grinned like he was about to say something clever. Spoiler: he wasn’t.
“Didn’t know you were into goths,” the guy said. “What’s next? You gonna start wearing eyeliner too?”
“Mind your own business, Lucas.”
Lucas just laughed at Scott, leaning on the table. “Nah, man. I’m just worried about you. You’re probably, like, one seance away from getting sacrificed.”
The other guys laughed, and Scott’s face turned red. Wallace calmly sipped his soda.
“Does he make you like, chant in Latin, or is it all screaming and candles?” Lucas asked, grinning like he thought he was hilarious.
Used to it, Wallace piped in before Scott could fire back.
“Latin’s for amateurs,” Wallace said flatly. He set his soda down and met Lucas’s eyes with the deadpan intensity he’d perfected over years of brooding. “Real rituals use Old Norse.”
Lucas blinked. “Uh..what?”
Wallace didn’t break eye contact, he tapped his fingers against the lunch table impatiently.
“Old Norse,” he repeated. “You should brush up. Never know when you’ll need it.”
Lucas briefly faltered, then scoffed.
“Whatever, freak ,” he shoved away from the table, muttering something under his breath as he left.
Scott waited until Lucas and his entourage were gone before turning to Wallace.
“Did you seriously just convince him you’re part of a cult?”
“He wanted a goth stereotype. I gave him one.”
Scott laughed—like, actually laughed—and Wallace blanched. He wasn’t used to making people laugh. Not in a real way, anyway.
“You’re kind of awesome,” Scott grinned.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
Later, as they sat in the library flipping through music books, Scott glanced at Wallace and said, “You know, I don’t care what those guys say.”
“About what?” Wallace asked without looking up.
“About you being my friend.”
He froze for half a second, then turned the page like nothing happened.
“Good,” Wallace recovered. “Because I’m not letting you out of this friendship until you fix your chord transitions.”
“Cool.”