“Greta,” Will tried to interrupt me. I didn’t let him. This was too good.
“So he rents a school bus. He gets behind the wheel and drives over to the Hancock neighborhoods. He picks up a hundred kids and brings them to Central. He walks them into school, past throngs of screaming white adults. He directs these kids into classes and walks the halls all day, watching to make sure teachers teach them stuff. And he does this every day for an entire semester.”
“Greta.”
“Not done yet. Then he gets put on probation because all the white parents are freaked out. So he organizes the kids at school—white and black—for this rally.” I pointed to the newspaper. “The kids said, ‘Hey, adults, don’t be jerks. We all belong in school together. We all deserve access to awesome educational opportunities.’ And the kids all marched together in big circles in front of the school singing songs about equality and freedom.”
“Greta.”
“Yeah, okay, but don’t change the subject, please. I’m totally falling in love with this hat-wearing man, and it’s no longer because of how he looks. This is the coolest. Can you imagine being there? This happened here. Where we went to school. A rally, right in front of the building where you spend all your days.” I shook the paper at him—gently—to remind him where I’d gotten this excellent story. I was stunned that I’d never heard it before. How was that even possible?
Will met my eyes with a patient expression. He nodded, and then held up his hand in a stop-talking-now gesture. “Greta. Yes. Completely amazing. Will you please look at this?”
I finally tore my eyes away from the newspaper story and looked. Will was clutching a framed photo to his chest. It showed Dr. Silver, smiling this time, shaking hands with . . .
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That can’t be.”
“It totally is.”
Dr. Silver and Martin Luther King Jr, standing in front of the Franklin library.
I ran to the front desk. Julie wasn’t there. I ran up the stairs. I couldn’t find her. Running back down, I skipped past a pregnant woman and her toddler.
“Sorry,” I said over my shoulder.
The front door creaked open, and Stan the ancient postman wandered in. I intercepted him on his way to the circulation desk.
“Stan!” I said in a very non-librarian voice. “Did you know that Dr. Martin Luther King once visited Franklin? He was here in this very library. On the steps. There’s a picture.”
If I was hoping that Stan would know that story and tell me his version of it, I was disappointed. Instead, he gave me a list of all the famous people he’d met in Franklin. Most of them were famous only by some nebulous Stan standard. A golfer from the sixties. A war hero that maybe I should have known. Third-rate movie stars, minor pop culture celebrities, and possibly one Beatle—but he was in disguise, so Stan couldn’t be certain.
“Who knew we lived in such a hot spot of fame?” I said, delighted by Stan’s adorable standard for celebrity status. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I found Julie in the bathroom. She was scrubbing a batch of indeterminate slime from the wall below the paper towels.
“Hi,” I said to her back. My voice echoed around the bathroom. “Historical people won’t let anything happen to an important building, right?”
As Julie turned around and looked at me, I got the distinct impression that I’d been unclear.
“I’d like to try that again, please.”
She almost nodded—a tiny dip of her head.
I cleared my throat and forced my words to come out clearly. “If something of national historical importance happened, let’s say, at a building, would someone from some kind of historical society be interested in keeping that building from being demolished or becoming, for instance, a Taco Emporium?”
That made her smile. “I think that is probably the case. Why?”
I showed her the framed photo. Her eyebrows disappeared into her hair. She spoke slowly, as though she had to create each word in a new language. “Wow. Greta. This is very interesting. What do you know about the situation represented here?”
I answered without any such care. My words tumbled out, filling the tiny, echoing bathroom with increasingly squeaky chatter. I could hear my words bounce through the room.
“Doctor Silver. Doctor King. Integration. Protest. Peaceful. History. Important. Relevant. Evidence. Change. Everything.”
“We’re going to save the library,” I finished in triumph. “We’re going to keep the library.”
Why did her smile look sad?
Chapter 10
Mac sent a text asking me to dinner on Wednesday.
It took him a minute to answer—maybe to decide if it was worth it to reschedule his plans.
Apparently it was worth it.
I may have stood staring at my phone for longer than was technically required.
I managed to remember to keep my squeal to myself.
But even though I asked three times, he didn’t tell me where this place was. I decided to brave it.
Tuesday dragged on at work, but I spent the time when nobody needed me (translation: most of the day) working on poster ideas for the upcoming Book Jam fund-raiser concert. I’d fleshed out the idea with Will, and he was a total star. He suggested all kinds of great details that would get kids from the high school to sign up—details like donuts and laser lights. Julie was on board, even if she seemed hesitant that my concert would bring in enough money to make a dent.
I put on my most confident face. “It’s a step. This journey may take a lot of steps,” I said.
She nodded and said that all important journeys did. I showed her a few mock-ups for the posters.
She held the poster at arm’s length, looking at it over the rims of her funky glasses. She made some “hmm” noises. “These look great. So, anyone can perform if they pay the fee?”
“Right, but their song has to have something to do with a book or a story. It’s a literary musical celebration,” I said, pointing to the words literary musical celebration on the poster.
“Got it.” She smiled.
I loved to see her relax and grin, and realized that it had been a long time since that was normal. “This is going to help,” I said. “We’re going to keep our library.”
Her smile fell a little, like it was too tired to stay in place. “It will be wonderful,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry too much conviction.
I’d show her. I’d deliver the best book-related rock concert Franklin had ever seen. Which was probable, as I was pretty sure this would be the first and only of its kind.
That afternoon, right about the time my body called out for a nap, I looked up from the circulation desk to see Marigold come in the door.
She did a big-arm wave and then seemed to think better of it. Holding her back straight, she cleared her throat and said, “Hi, Greta. I’m here on official business.”
I did not laugh. “That sounds very official and businesslike. What can I do for you?”
She reminded me that she needed to research and write about a bond on the November ballot for her political science class. “I want to put a grassroots spin on my paper about the library bond.” Then she leaned in across the counter and mock-whispered, “I didn’t actually know what a grassroots spin was until my TA told me I should have one for my paper. But now that I’ve looked it up, it seems like a perfect idea. So,” she said, still leaning close, but back to her regular voice, “what grassroots things are you doing to save your library?”
“What makes you think I’m doing anything like that?” I asked.
She huffed out an amused breath and gestured toward me. “Orange,” she sang out. “You are going to make some joyful and possibly rash decisions to make the world you occupy a whole lot more awesome.”
Obviously.
I told her about the book jam concert.
“That’s excellent. How are you advertising?” She actually licked the end of her sharpened pencil, as if she was a newspaper reporter in a 1940s film.
“Twitter. And these, all over town.” After I showed her my poster mock-ups, she asked if she could keep one. I ran her a copy, and she offered to talk to the advertising manager of the Franklin paper to see if they’d put it in their “Upcoming Community Events” section.
“That would be great. And if you want, you could come to the show and write about it. Maybe the paper would publish it.”
“Would you really let me do that?”
Eager smile-lines creased her face. Her look of pure joy almost made me regret that I was about ninety-two percent kidding.
“Absolutely. I’ll make you a press pass. That will get you into the show for free.”
She scratched some notes on a piece of paper. When she finished, she looked up and grinned. “This is so fun. Let’s save the library.”
I nodded. “Yes. Let’s.” When she left, I allowed myself a laugh. Marigold was certainly crazy, but it was a happy crazy. I took a picture of the ad and tweeted it. “Rock out with Book Jam. You could be a star! #SongsAboutBooks #SaveFranklinLibrary #GoToTheLibrary”
Mac met me at the library at the prearranged time of 6:00. He had on another black T-shirt: “Tired? You’ve been running through my mind all day.”
He came to the circulation desk and smiled at me. “I need to return a book.”
“Okay,” I said, and held out my hand.
“I didn’t bring it with me.” He did this face, this unbelievable face that looked ashamed and proud at the same time. It was a full-throttle flirting face, is what it was.
I took two seconds to remember where I was. “Would you like me to renew it for you?”
“You can do that?” He angled himself closer to me. My face flushed.
“Sure.” I pulled up his account and renewed the Rilke he’d checked out the first day we’d met. “Need anything else?”
He put his hand across the desk. “Actually, do you think you could remind me where that book came from? I’d love to get another.” He gestured back into the stacks.
“You bet.” I had this feeling that if I let it, this little jaunt back to the 831 shelf might yield more than another book of translated poems. I was absolutely planning to let it.
When I led him around the corner, I slowed down enough that if he’d been following me really closely, he’d have bumped into me. He didn’t bump. I couldn’t decide if that meant he was keeping his distance or he was paying attention. I chose to believe the part about attention.
I pointed to the shelf of poetry, but instead of scooting to the side, he leaned around me, his arm reaching over my shoulder to pull a book off the shelf. He didn’t even look at the title.
“You look especially lovely today,” he said, making all my brain cells melt. “Have you been doing something that makes you happy?”
I made a mental note of another excellent personality trait I could tell Will about. Who doesn’t love someone complimentary? And he had great conversation-starting skills. I thought about all the poster-designing and concert-planning I’d done and nodded. Then I turned on the bravery. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”
A single syllable of happy laugh came out of his mouth. “Nice,” he said, which didn’t really match the rest of the conversation up to this point. So, the conversation-starting skill was stronger than the conversation-continuing skill. I absolutely didn’t care.
I leaned a bit against the bookshelf. The smell of musty paperbacks made my head spin. His arm was still on the shelf behind me. He leaned in, and I felt my stomach do an anticipatory lurch. I couldn’t have taken my eyes off him for any conceivable reason.
His face got very close to my face, and I readjusted my feet so I wouldn’t fall over. He stared through my eyes directly into my soul. His hand moved from the shelf to my shoulder, and I felt my smile expanding. He moved closer, even though that seemed impossible, and I knew it was totally happening. My hand started to move up to touch his arm.
“Hungry?” he said.
If this had been a movie, that would have been the second where the soundtrack screeched to a stop. “What?”
“I’m starving. Ready for dinner?” He didn’t wait for me to answer, which was just as well, since I literally had no words at my disposal. He put the book back on the shelf and took my hand. “Let’s go eat.” He turned away from the stack.
Right. Eat. Good. And we were walking through the library holding hands. I took a second to enjoy the giddy flutter that always came with holding hands. When we passed the desk, I slowed enough to reach my free hand over the counter to grab my bag from the chair where I’d left it.
Ponytailed high-school Kevin caught my eye, glanced at Mac, and made a face of wide-eyed impressed-ness.
I grinned at him and waved good-bye.
We walked out the door and to the left. I didn’t say anything about the old Greenwood house. Creepy old men and possible haunted houses weren’t really date conversation material.
But then again, conversation wasn’t actually happening. Mac seemed perfectly content to walk down the sidewalk holding my hand and smiling at me every few steps. Maybe he was messing around with me. Maybe he was trying on personalities. Maybe he was just trying to keep me on my feet.
We’d walked a few blocks when I asked, “Where are we eating?”
He squeezed my hand. “It’s a surprise.”
I forced a smile as I remembered the feeling of my throat burning under the power of some other food-borne surprise.
We crossed a street and turned a corner and—surprise!—Mac opened the front door of Happy’s, Franklin’s best burger place. I felt my face relax into a sincere grin.
“I love eating here,” I said, aware that it was neither fashionable nor traditionally feminine to admit to eating cheese fries and milk shakes.
“I know you do.” He walked up to the line at the counter.
Following closely, I asked, “How do you know?”
He looked at a few spots around the dingy dining room, probably unchanged since the 1950s, and said, “Spies.”
I laughed. Funny. I added it to the growing list of depth-giving characteristics. “That sounds exactly like something Will would say.”
“Does it?” he asked, but not like he wanted me to answer him.
After we ordered and sat down, I watched him get comfortable in his chair. Usually I came here with Will, who always sat with his back to the wall so he could smile and wave at his students who filled up the place. Today I could see people all around the room looking at us and double-taking. Women took several glances at Mac. I felt a weird combination of defensiveness and pride.
Hey, ladies, I wanted to say. Back off. He’s here with me.
But also, Hey, ladies. Check it out. He is here with me.
It was a strange sensation, one I’d certainly never experienced coming here with Will. I spun the plastic pyramid that had our order number on it for a second, uncomfortable at what felt like a disloyal thought. Then I looked up and Mac was looking right at me, and I forgot all about disloyalty.
I wanted him to keep looking at me, but I was having a hard time thinking of something to ask him. So I just stared. He appeared to stare back. There was a tiny smile on his face—just enough to curl up the edges of his mouth. Honestly, it made it hard to focus on words. On anything but his lips.
A guy walked over and slid our plates onto the table. “Need anything else?” he asked as he walked away, clearly not anticipating an answer.
I could not speak, but I could eat. I reached for a fry and consciously picked up only one. Well, one at a time.
After a minute of eating fries and star
ing, I realized I would have to say something.
“So aside from the Book Jam concert I’m organizing, I want to schedule an author visit.” I’d mentioned to Julie at work earlier that I would keep my mind open to other ideas in case the concert wasn’t enough to cover our expenses. Sitting here reading the cheesy posters on the walls of Happy’s and staring at my date, the idea sank into my brain. “I just thought of it. Right now. An idea inspired by our meal together. I think it will be awesome.”
Mac nodded and dipped a fry into his ketchup. “Cool.”
I waited for him to say something more. Something to prove that he knew what a big deal this could be. He didn’t say anything. But maybe that was because he didn’t have any experience with this particular kind of big deal.
“Have you ever been to an author reading?” I figured that would require some moments to answer, so I took a bite of my cheeseburger. Heaven tastes like Happy’s cheeseburgers, I’m pretty sure.
He shook his head and ate more fries.
After I swallowed, I dug a little deeper. “What about a poetry reading? You’re really into poetry, right?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m totally into it. But I just, you know, read it myself.” When he picked up his burger, I could see his muscles moving in his arms. I wondered if I had visible muscles, and then I remembered that of course I did not.
I started telling him about a website I liked that had video and audio files of poets reading their own work. I expected him to pull out his phone and look it up, but he just glanced between me and his burger and smiled that amazing smile. So I stopped trying to make conversation and enjoyed the meal and the view. I reminded myself of a quote Bonita had printed out and mounted next to the phone at the library: “You don’t have to say everything you know.” I wasn’t sure if that was there for her own benefit or someone else’s, but it stayed in my mind.
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