by Dave Connis
He shook his head. Then shrugged. “I don’t know. See, if I leave . . . if I leave and live like the real me? I’m out of the family. The money. The connections. It’s all gone.”
I looked at the ground. I needed to say something. Anything. A quote? Something to make it better. But I couldn’t. I had no idea what would help. My go-to was to give the conflicted a book, but I’d already given the conflicted a book—four, actually—and there he was. Hurting even more because of those books.
“It doesn’t help that this school hates me too. Everyone hates me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I said.
“Of course you do. The way you looked at me that first night I came to your club thing? Of course you hate me. I hate me.”
“Okay . . . okay. Yes. I did. Did. Hate you. But it’s just because I didn’t know you.”
“What’s to love now that you ‘know’ me? I’m a gay Holden. Bitching about everything with the added bonus of bearing the scarlet letter of the conservative South.”
“Jack . . .”
“Emerson is a freshman here. Have you seen him talk to me at all?”
I hadn’t. In fact, it was only then that I realized: Emerson didn’t sit at the star-star table. Emerson, his younger brother, was pretending that Jack didn’t even exist.
“Ashton and Resi are the only friends who have never hated me. And I’m sure they do by now anyway.”
He went silent.
“Do you like him?” I asked. “Ashton?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Well . . . at least there’s that.”
Jack stared at me for a second, then laughed. “Yeah. At least.”
I looked him in the eyes. “How can I help you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how to help me.”
“I think you’re stronger than you think.”
“I’m not. I got that DUI on purpose. I wanted to get suspended from this hellhole. To finish out my senior year in a place that didn’t whisper my name in every corner. But my mom likes that. She thinks it keeps me straight. Accountable. So she bought me back in. Back into the place that watches me for her.”
“So your family knows?”
He nodded. “Yeah. They know. I came out to them last year. Hence why Emerson doesn’t talk to me.”
More silence.
“Not going to lie.” I paused. “Your mom sounds downright horrible.”
He laughed again, but didn’t say anything.
“Hey, I have a new book for you. This one will cheer you up. I promise. Wait here,” I said, walking over to the desk. I pulled two sheets of white construction paper out of the drawer, and in a few minutes I’d wrapped the status-pending copy of The Adventures of Captain Underpants, added it to my app, and checked it out to Jack using his old info. I handed it to him. He took it and looked it over.
“Captain Underpants,” he said flatly.
“It’s banned, believe it or not.”
“I believe it. Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise.”
More silence.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
He nodded.
“You don’t know me. Why did you tell me?”
“Perks,” he said, simply. “I checked it out a year ago, back when it wasn’t banned, and Mr. Caywell said, ‘Oh, this is one of Clara’s favorite books.’ I figured if you loved that book, then maybe you’d understand. Maybe you’d care.”
A tear formed at the corner of my eye. I brushed it away as it came. “But why tell me at all?”
“Because I feel so alone I just want to not be here. Anyway, it’s one of the reasons I dragged Ashton to your book club. I wanted to see . . . I wanted to find a place I could be understood.”
“So when I snapped at you, I confirmed that even the people you thought might understand, wouldn’t.”
He shrugged. “We don’t need to get into it.”
“But it’s true.”
“You apologized.”
“That doesn’t matter—I was still a jerk to you for no reason.”
“Yeah, well, same. I do the same thing to everyone else. It’s not like we’re that different.”
“So . . . that’s it?”
“What?”
“We accept the hate we’re given because everyone hates someone?”
“Well, yeah, everyone hates,” he said. “It’s just a matter of if it’s someone else or yourself.”
“That doesn’t make it better, Jack. Don’t accept that.”
“I’m not accepting it!” he yelled. “It’s just really damn ridiculous to think we don’t or won’t hate anyone. It’s better to learn how to see it in ourselves—then we’ll know when we hate, and knowing will make it easier to stop.”
I sighed. He had a point.
“Who do you hate?” I asked, leaning against the wall next to him.
“Everyone. And myself.”
“So, if you know that, then can you stop?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t know why I hate. I just know I do. How can you stop what you don’t know?”
“Maybe it’s less hate and more anger.”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what the difference is.”
I didn’t know either, I guessed.
“Jack.” I looked up at him. “You are handcrafted and artisan-made. You’re batch one of one, and I wish I could take all that . . . shit from your life, your mom, your family and toss it in the trash. I don’t really know what else to say outside of I’m here and you don’t have to be alone.”
He nodded. A simple, clean, easy, Sure kind of nod, and it hit me that maybe he’d heard all of this and that it didn’t help.
Maybe, after all the words I’d read in my life, I was finally fresh out.
Runners, Jumpers, Racers, Tinkerers, Grabbers, Snatchers, Fliers, Swimmers
I needed either a nap or a bucket of fried chicken.
School was over. I shoved my locker shut, and then tapped in the data for the last check-in of the day. I’d had seven people check in books at lunch, and I hadn’t had time to update the app. I hadn’t even had time to consider the conversation I’d had with Jack that morning, even though it pressed on me with every millisecond that passed by.
That day, in order to get every book checked out, I stayed a little after school. Once I finished, I texted LiQui. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to step foot into the cafeteria. It had been straight books through lunch. The only food I’d had was a cookie LiQui shoved through my locker slot. I’d told her we needed to hang out that night and that I needed chicken—not cheese for once (strange days)—ASAP.
On my way out of the school, I swung by the library to grab the history homework I’d left in the processing room, which, now that it was clean, had become more than a resting place for donated books, doubling as a dumping place for all my stuff.
I walked into the library, coming in on the side closest to the shelves and out of sight of the desk. Before I popped into view, I heard Mr. Walsh. I stopped and disappeared behind a bookshelf, not wanting to touch that mess.
I looked through the stacks. There he was. The dictator of LA. Back to me. Arms crossed. Looking like a dictator. The polished buckle of his tight gray suit vest glinting the light onto the wall.
“There’s an ex–staff member going to the press about the prohibited-media list,” Mr. Walsh said. His voice sounded strained and harried. Ex–staff member. Press. Ms. Croft must’ve struck. “I have a little pull with the people at the Times Free Press—a Lupton alum is one of the editors there—but if there is an article, and it is printed . . . well. I need your word, your absolute collaboration on dealing with this. We’ll have to handle the press with the most precious of care. We are in the midst of the SPA agreements, and we don’t need any negative press. Not only that, but we don’t need a hubbub about books that simply don’t matter.”
“Dr. Walsh, you know where I stand on this. I’m not
going to lie to kids and tell them, ‘Sorry, we don’t have that one,’ when it’s very obviously banned. The library is not a place for those sorts of things.”
“I disagree, Mr. Caywell. Change the subject. Offer a different book that is similar. Tell them you don’t have the one they are asking for, but that they can request it. Many options. You need to decide, because she’s . . . they are going to the papers in the next few days, and I need you on my team.”
Mr. Caywell sighed. “I’m going to respectfully decline. The students knew administration got rid of The Hunger Games when it was banned, and being dodgy only made things worse. They’re smarter than you’re giving them credit for. I’ll simply tell them they’ve been removed from circulation until further notice.”
“You will do exactly what I ask, and that is not what I am asking.”
Mr. Caywell smiled, but it was a smile that meant everything smiles didn’t mean. “I will not lie on behalf of the administration to every student who walks into my library and asks for a banned book. Especially about a policy I do not find fair, do not agree with, and was not consulted or warned about.”
Mr. Walsh nodded. His hands pressed into his sides. “I hear you, Mr. Caywell. I hear you. And do call them ‘prohibited media.’ ‘Banned book’ is way too aggressive. Anyway, perhaps a few mandatory days off would help you remember that you were employed to serve the school and its students. We can call it a ‘short sabbatical for personal reasons.’ At least until this blows over.”
Holy semicolon.
No way.
What?
Mr. Caywell laughed. “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely. I’ve been charged with making this school the best it can be, and it, and a deal I’ve fought for since I began here hangs in the balance. If we don’t nip this in the bud right now, we will see a heap of trouble land on our welcome mat. I respect that you do not agree, and I respect your work. So, if you do not want to comply in this simple matter, then, for the sake of this school, that is what I must do. You must hear my sincerity. You’ve been with Lupton for eight years. You’re a great librarian. The students love you. We disagree here, and I think this is a good way to meet in the middle.”
Mr. Caywell stared at him. Probably thinking the same thing I was thinking. Did Mr. Walsh really think that having the library closed during negative press about banned books was the answer?
“You know what, Dr. Walsh? That sounds great. I’m going to go visit my mom.”
Mr. Walsh actually smiled, but not in a Victory! way. He smiled like he thought he’d actually given Mr. Caywell something he deserved. Like he really did believe he was doing the right thing.
Mr. Walsh put his hand on Mr. Caywell’s shoulder. “Good. It’ll be paid time off, of course. Least I can do.”
Mr. Caywell grabbed a shoulder bag off the floor and started packing his things. “Generous of you,” he said drily.
“Thank you for understanding, Mr. Caywell. Now I’m off. Have to assure the powers that be that all has been taken care of. Ha! Cheers! If all goes well and stays quiet, we’ll see you back here next Monday.”
“Sounds great.”
Mr. Walsh swiveled on his heel like he’d had one of the best conversations in his life. A pep in his step only matched by a kid who got a red Mustang for their sixteenth birthday. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and started to whistle. I waited for the whistling to fade down the hallway before emerging.
Mr. Caywell put a finger on the library light switches as I came into plain view. He nodded like he’d expected me.
“Of course you’re here. You smelled blood.”
“You’re just going to shut down the library?” I said. “Like, LA is not going to have a library?”
“Do you really think that’s going to go unnoticed?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
“Don’t you think that the library being closed is a better nail in the coffin than it being open? He’s digging his own grave. This is the move I’ve wanted from him since I started working here. Something so rash and political that he’d miss the obvious. Me leaving is for all the books he’s ever banned.”
It hit me that, for him, this was all so clear. He’d put in his time dealing with the crazy, and now suddenly he had the chance to stand for what he believed. All along, I’d thought Ms. Croft had been the one fighting. The one actually doing something. But this had been calculated. He wasn’t rioting in the streets. He’d infiltrated. Waited. Now he was striking. Brilliant.
It was strange, because the way he talked about leaving almost felt like he was doing it out of revenge. Me leaving is for all the books he’s ever banned. What I didn’t understand was that if he was acting out of revenge, then where was the line? Was there one? Was Ms. Croft acting out of revenge or belief? Could you act out of both? Where on that line did it turn wrong? Why was everything always so confusing?
He turned off the library lights while I ran back to the processing room and grabbed my stuff. I followed him outside and watched him pull down two large security grilles that spanned the length of both openings to the library, and lock them.
When he finished, he turned to me and said, “Dr. Walsh and I only agree on one thing right now: I can best serve this school by not being here.” He held out his hand to the library. “I expect something from you, Clara. I don’t know what it is or what it should be. But this closed library is an impulsive gift from Principal Walsh. Don’t waste it.”
The weight of his “don’t waste it” slipped onto the weight of Ms. Croft’s “why don’t you help me?” from the previous night’s Queso.
“Tell your mom I said hi,” I said flatly as Mr. Caywell walked away.
His laugh echoed through the hallway. “I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll even bring you some of her famous chocolate-chip banana muffins.”
I stared through the slats of the security grille. I was so done with the weight. The whole thing was getting out of hand. If Mr. Walsh would go so far as to shut down the library to avoid problems, he was smoking a special kind of power trip. I couldn’t do anything about that. I couldn’t risk everything my senior year. Levi and Joss were living in a war zone; it was death on all sides for them. For me, it was my future.
Could I believe in books and quit the Unlib? Did believing in something have to mean ultimate sacrifice? Was there ever a time where not sacrificing was better for the greater good? If I kept the Unlib going, I could jeopardize the Founders Scholarship. I could miss out on Vanderbilt with LiQui. I could completely miss out on having the money to even go to college. If I went to college, would that put me in a better place to fight? To do more good?
What if there wasn’t a next time?
What if there was a next time and I said the same thing, “next time”?
But . . . regardless of next time, regardless of any of these questions, the Unlib wasn’t just some fanciful plot in some book. It wasn’t just something I’d done to prove Mr. Walsh wrong. I didn’t start it because of my belief in books. It was my own power trip. Using books as weapons to win a war instead of collecting books to bring unity. I wasn’t Levi or Joss. I was another Mr. Walsh, fighting a fight, forcing my own opinions about books and which ones were the best on everyone else. It wasn’t going to work.
I had to stop.
I needed to stop.
I took a breath. Felt the worry of all the Should I? Should I not? lift off my chest. I felt free. I’d made a choice. Finally.
The real library was closed. I couldn’t quit now. I’d fill in for Mr. Caywell. I’d be the library until he came back. When the real library opened again, I’d be done. I’d really move the white covers out of school and into my Tiny Little Libraries, and I’d focus on graduating and getting out of LA. That was my long-term plan, and I felt good about it. I also felt good about my short-term plan: getting fried chicken for dinner.
Book Honey
I feel sorry for anyone who is in a place where he feels strange and s
tupid.
—Lois Lowry, The Giver
I held a giant John Deere mug filled with mango nectar and stared at my personal copy of Don’t Tread on Me. Wanting so badly to read it again, but instead thinking about Jack. Thinking about our conversation. About how I’d hated him for so long and hadn’t even noticed that I hated him and how that had added to his hurt, even though we didn’t know each other. I wondered what I could do to help him. Or, at the very least, what book would actually give him some hope. All of this, but I also wondered if I dared to read DTOM again. The book had already shifted fault lines in my life in ways I couldn’t even process. Did I want to refamiliarize myself with it? Luckily, I was handed a distraction from the book gods when my dad knocked on my door.
“Yeah?”
He opened it. “I love knocking on your door, because that means you’re actually home.”
I laughed. “Can’t have a burgeoning nonprofit career, good grades, friends, and a home life.”
“Why do you think I became a car salesman?”
“The shame?”
“So I can have it all, baby!” he said.
I laughed.
“Anyway,” he said, “the reason I’m knocking is that there’s a LiQui at the door downstairs.”
I finally turned to face him. “Did you let her in?”
“She didn’t want to come in. Y’all are going somewhere for dinner?”
I stood up. “Fried chicken. It’s been calling to me all day.”
Dad nodded. “I understand. That happens to me with pizza.”
“Oh. Pizza. That sounds good too.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come between you and fried chicken.”
I sighed and rolled out of bed. “Why do you hate me?”
He gave me a big hug. “Tell chicken I said hi.”
“I’ll tell chicken that my dad doesn’t approve of our relationship and that he’d rather I date pizza.”
Dad grimaced. “How do you think chicken will take it?”
I shook my head. “Not well.”
“It’s for the best. Bye.”
“Time heals all wounds. Bye.”
I ran downstairs, passed Mom, and slipped out the front door. LiQui sat on my front stairs.