by Linda Bailey
He woke up when he heard the word sticky. Recognizing the Grischer’s raspy voice, he crawled forward between two books and peeked out.
She was facing a group of children on the story-time carpet. Eddie didn’t know how old they were, but definitely much younger than the fourth graders in Room 19. The way he could tell (aside from their small size) was this: one was facing backward, two were lying down, and one had its finger up its nose. The Grischer scolded those four and made sure she had everyone’s attention before holding up the sticky.
“Does anyone know anything about this?”
Hands flew up.
“Something’s written on it,” said a child who’d been lying down. “Funny writing. What does it say?”
A child at the front stood up to see better. “It says ‘please.’ And the writing is skinny. Must have been a teeny-tiny pen.”
“A fine-tipped pen!” said another child, jumping up too.
A third child rose. “Or a fancy paintbrush,” she said, “with blue ink like my dad uses in his art.”
Eddie was thrilled. Not only had they been able to read his writing—they had also complimented his footwork.
More children stood up.
“Sit down!” said the Grischer. “All of you. What I want to know is—who put this sticky on the books?”
The children looked around. No hands went up.
The Grischer kept asking questions. Did anyone have blue ink? Did anyone have an extra-fine-tipped pen? Some children had one or the other at home. Nobody recognized the sticky.
All morning, Eddie stayed on D shelf. A second class came and went. The Grischer quizzed those children about the sticky, too. Nobody knew where it had come from, of course.
But the children grew ever more curious. Eddie heard them whispering as they walked past his shelf. Fortunately for him, no one was looking for authors whose names began with D that morning. Everyone was talking about the mysterious sticky.
“Where did it come from?”
“Why does it say ‘please’?”
“Who writes like that? Nobody writes like that.”
When the Library finally emptied for lunch—all the children gone, and the Grischer locking the door behind her—Eddie came out of hiding. He ran to Aunt Min as quickly as he could.
“You’re alive!” she said, lurching toward him. “For crying out loud, Eddie, you’re going to have to stop scaring me that way. When I heard her yell ‘Bug!’ and then all those thwacking noises—”
“I’m fine, Aunt Min.”
“Well, good, I’m so relieved. But Eddie, did you hear the children talking? Your sticky’s a success.”
“Not yet,” said Eddie.
That afternoon they stayed snug in their secret compartment. They listened as the Grischer grilled two more classes about the yellow sticky.
“She must have asked everyone by now,” said Eddie.
“Everyone except you!” said Min.
And somehow they both found that funny. They laughed for a very long time.
CHAPTER
16
At the end of the day, a boy walked into the Library by himself.
“I’m Janek,” he told the Grischer. “Mr. Steadman says you need some help? In the Library?”
“Hey,” whispered Eddie in the secret compartment. “I know that voice.”
“How?” asked Min. “He’s not from Room 19.”
Eddie and his family knew all the children in Room 19. They might not always recognize faces, and sometimes they forgot names, but they certainly knew the voices of the children in their own classroom.
“He’s the boy from the hallway,” said Eddie. “I told you about him, remember? He came out of the BOYS’ ROOM, and he chased away that spider. He saved my life, Aunt Min. He didn’t mean to, but he did.”
“Well then, bravo, Janek!” said Min. “He’s already my friend. Why don’t we go closer and listen?”
They crawled to the front of the drawer.
“Hmph!” said the Grischer to Janek. “You’re thin as a rail. I said I needed someone strong to help with lifting and carrying.”
“I’m strong,” said Janek.
“Oh, very well,” said the Grischer with a sigh. “You can start here. Take all the books in this display and put them into this box. Here’s some tape to seal it when you’re done.”
There was a silence.
“Ms. Grisch?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“Is there something wrong with these books? Do they need to be fixed?”
“No. They’re going into storage.”
There was another silence, longer.
“Ms. Grisch? These are the graphic novels.”
“Yes, I know,” said the Grischer. “Comic books. Waste of time.”
This time the pause was very long. “Er . . . excuse me, Ms. Grisch, I don’t want to be rude . . . but lots of kids love these books.”
“Puh!” said the Grischer dismissively. “The students who read graphic novels—and I hope you’re not one of them—would be better off working on their math. Do you have any idea how low our math scores are? Compared to other countries?”
“Uh, no, Ms. Grisch. I have not lived here very long . . . and I like math very much. But I also like graphic novels. I like seeing art and story together. Graphic novels are my favorite—”
“Never mind what you like,” said the Grischer. “The question is—how are your math scores? Are you good at math?”
“Yes,” said Janek. “I am good at math. Also computers. But books, Ms. Grisch, are—”
“Puh!” said the Grischer again. “Now you are being rude. This conversation is over. Just put the books in the box, if you please, and seal it up. Put the box by the door. When you’re done with that section, you can start on this one. Mysteries and thrillers.”
“But—”
“Please. No more arguments. Fill and carry, fill and carry, can you do that, Janek?”
“Yes, Ms. Grisch.”
After that, there was silence. Nothing but the sound of books dropping into boxes, followed by the skrawwwwk of packing tape being pulled.
“Ooooooo,” said Min. “She makes my juices boil!”
“Mine, too,” whispered Eddie, “and she’s too quiet right now. Where is she?”
Taking a risk, he peeked out of the drawer. While Janek packed books, the Grischer was doing a slow, careful tour of the Library. She moved at an unusually poky pace, inspecting the books, the shelves, the surfaces. Looking for something.
What?
Eddie was sure he knew. More stickies.
When Janek had packed and stacked six boxes of books, the Grischer sent him away. For a moment, she paused—perhaps in thought. Then she turned to the desk and frowned.
Eddie ducked.
He skittered back to Min. “She’s coming!”
There was a sound at the front of the drawer. Eddie and Min looked, then froze in horror.
Fingers!
Long, bony, white—they were inside the drawer. Poking. Reaching.
“Ack!” cried Min as a fingernail swept past.
Eddie dragged her quickly out of range.
The fingers retreated. Curling, they gripped the drawer. Then they pulled. Hard!
“She’s trying to open it,” whispered Eddie.
The fingers pulled again. A grinding sound. Wood against wood. The drawer trembled beneath the bugs’ feet.
The Grischer grunted, annoyed. “Is there nothing that works in this place?”
The fingers disappeared. A moment later—BANG! The whole desk shook! Eddie and Min fell over.
“Ooh!” whimpered Min.
“Are you okay?” said Eddie. “Now she’s trying to shut the drawer. But look! It barely moved.”
He pointed at the opening. Almost the same as before.
They listened. There was a faint tink. The hanger.
“She’s putting her coat on,” whispered Eddie. “Wait.”
They listen
ed again, not breathing. Silence. More silence. Finally the sound of her key—
Click.
Eddie turned to his aunt. “She’s gone. Are you hurt?”
Min shook her head. “Just shaky. Let’s rest a bit.”
Rest, thought Eddie. Rest? That was the last thing he needed. Tension still raced through his body like electricity through a wire. He had to do something!
“Aunt Min?” he said.
“Yes, Eddie?”
“Are you ready for the second sticky?”
CHAPTER
17
Eddie scooted down the desk leg, quivering with excitement. The thought of writing another word made him tingle. Would his blueberry still be waiting under the desk?
It was.
But it looked different. The dusty air had shriveled the berry’s surface. It tasted okay when he nibbled, but it wasn’t nearly as juicy. Eddie had to chew really hard to get to a good part.
He chomped off the best bit he could find and carried it up to the drawer.
“Have some,” he said to Aunt Min.
She took a few bites, then stepped back. “You’ll need the rest for your message.”
“But you’ve hardly touched it.”
“I’m fine, dear. Go ahead.”
So Eddie got to work, soaking his front feet. It took longer to wet them this time, and longer to write the letters.
Aunt Min must have noticed his discouragement.
“Do you know what this reminds me of, Eddie? A book! Charlotte’s Web. I heard the Librarian read it to third grade. It’s about a spider who wrote messages—just like you. Well, not exactly like you, of course, with your blueberry juice. Charlotte spun words in her spiderweb.”
“That sounds hard,” said Eddie.
“I imagine it was very hard. She was trying to save a pig named Wilbur. I remember one of the words she wrote. ‘Radiant.’”
“What’s ‘radiant’?”
“It means shining or glowing. Like you, Eddie, with your green body.”
“Really?” Eddie tried the word out in his head. “Radiant. I like it. So what happened to Wilbur? Did Charlotte save him?”
“I don’t know,” said Min. “One of the worst moments of my life was when the Librarian told the children to read the rest of the book on their own.”
“Oh,” said Eddie. “Rotten luck.”
“Never mind,” said Min. “Here’s what I do know. Charlotte’s Web was written by the same Squisher who wrote that book you love—about the mouse. The one you read on the carpet. Stuart Little. The author’s name is E. B. White.”
“Yay,” said Eddie. “I’m his number-one fan.” He had heard children say that in Room 19.
Aunt Min laughed. “I’ll be number two,” she said.
With E. B. White for inspiration, Eddie returned to his task with fresh energy. When the Cleaner arrived, Eddie barely paused. Ignoring the ROARRRR of the vacuum, he wrote on.
And finally, there it was. His second word:
save
“Well done,” said Min, staring at the sticky. “I like that word a lot. Where do you want to put it?”
“Well, now that you’ve reminded me about Stuart—”
“What a wonderful idea!” said Min. “Yes, put it on Stuart Little. You’ll find it on W shelf. W for White. If you hurry, you can get there before dark.”
Eddie meant to hurry, but he got distracted by the posters. The Grischer must have put up new ones that afternoon. Like the sign that said “Food-free Zone,” they had no pictures. Just big letters.
The first had only a single word.
QUIET!
The next poster made him stop and think.
WORK HARDER TODAY THAN YESTERDAY.
“Huh,” said Eddie. It wasn’t that he disagreed. But he did think that in the long run, it might be difficult to keep that up.
The third poster baffled him entirely.
THE HELPING HAND YOU NEED IS AT THE END OF YOUR OWN ARM.
“Huh,” said Eddie again. He read it several times. Maybe you needed hands to understand.
W shelf for novels wasn’t easy to find. It was on the bottom of a dark row. By the time Eddie got there, the light was fading. He looked around, disappointed. This spot didn’t look nearly important enough for someone like E. B. White.
As he pondered this injustice, the Library suddenly grew darker.
Oh no, thought Eddie. Sundown! He had dawdled too long. Peering anxiously at the books, he saw that most of the titles were impossible to read.
“Nincompoop!” he muttered to himself. After all this trouble, would he have to take the “save” sticky home?
Then, in the next instant, he realized—he didn’t have to see the book at all.
“Tuna!” he exclaimed as he closed in on Stuart Little. His antennae wiggled in recognition—there was no mistaking that fishy aroma. He paused to remember his first happy encounter with this book. The rolling, the reading, the turning of the page—and the oily tuna fish stain on the paper.
It was like meeting an old friend!
Lucky for me, tuna smells so strong, thought Eddie.
Once again, it took some serious wrestling to get the sticky off his back and onto the book. He kept getting parts of his own body—a foot, an antenna—stuck where they weren’t supposed to be.
When the sticky was in place, he gave the novel a pat. “There you go, Stuart,” he said.
Aunt Min was asleep on her cotton ball when he returned. He crept in quietly. Nestling into the corner he had claimed for himself, he tried to doze off.
But tired as he was, he kept jerking awake. In his dreams, he saw huge outstretched fingers. A terrible voice yelled again and again, “BUG!” as the THWACKS rained down all around. He woke up to find that his legs were moving. Running! Eddie was actually running in his sleep!
The next morning he slept in. So did Aunt Min. They were awakened by a loud gasp.
“What?” said Eddie.
“Pah!” said a voice from the bookshelves.
Eddie and Min stared at each other.
The Grischer. Again she had caught them off guard! How long had she been wandering the Library while they didn’t even know she was there?
“What the—” she said. “WHAT?”
“She’s found it,” whispered Min. “Your new sticky.”
KA-BANG went the door as the Grischer rushed out of the Library. She returned moments later with the Principal.
“I don’t understand, Ms. Grisch,” said Mr. Steadman. “What’s the problem?”
“Right . . . over . . . here!” said the Grischer tightly. “I left it exactly where I found it. It’s evidence. Do you see it? Down there with the W books?”
“Oh,” said the Principal after a pause. “Gosh. Another sticky.”
“Exactly! And what are you going to do about it?”
The Principal took a moment to answer.
“It just says ‘save,’” he replied. “I mean . . . that’s harmless, isn’t it?”
“Harmless? Harmless? How did it get here? That’s what I want to know. Who is doing this? I locked the Library door—I’m positive I did! I left late yesterday, and I came in early today. No children have been in this room, Mr. Steadman. Is this a practical joke? Is it the cleaning staff?”
“Certainly not,” said the Principal. “Mr. Iversen has been cleaning this school for twenty years. He’s totally reliable. And not the joking kind, I assure you.”
There was a long silence. Eddie and Min stared at each other.
“Do you have any . . . enemies?” asked the Principal. “From another school, perhaps?”
“Enemies!” cried the Grischer. “What are you talking about?”
“Just a thought,” said the Principal quickly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Grisch. But it does seem like a small thing to get so upset—”
“It may be small to you,” said the Grischer, “but if you were the one getting threatening notes—”
“Oh, surely not thr
eatening—”
“Threatening!” repeated the Grischer. “I want you to do something about this. I want you to find the perpetrator and—”
“Now, now,” said the Principal. “We’ll look into it. Why don’t you come to the teachers’ room and sit down? I believe I saw some Soothing Herbal Tea—”
“Tea?” snapped the Grischer. “Are you seriously suggesting tea? Mr. Steadman, I will not be ignored. Kindly find out where these notes are coming from.”
“Yes, of course,” said the Principal.
There were more sympathetic mumblings as he and Ms. Grisch left the Library.
“Well, I’ll be a cross-eyed cockroach!” said Aunt Min. “Did you ever hear such a fuss?”
Eddie shook his head. “Oh, Aunt Min, this is terrible. She doesn’t understand at all!”
“She certainly doesn’t.”
“But I want her to understand. I must have written it wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Min. “You just haven’t finished your message yet. And honestly, anyone who’d get so tumble-tangled over a couple of stickies . . . well, there’s just no talking to her.”
“But I have to talk to her. I want to reach—”
“I know. Her soft spot. But what if she doesn’t have a soft spot, Eddie? Have you thought about that? What if she just won’t listen?”
Eddie thought for a moment before he answered. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I still have to try.”
Looking at his aunt, he could see that she wasn’t convinced.
“It’s like Stuart Little,” he said. “Stuart went down a drain. A drain, Aunt Min! To get his mother’s ring. A Library’s more important than a ring. Isn’t it?”
Min’s face softened. She gazed with longing through the drawer opening.
“Well?” said Eddie.
She sighed. “You’ve got me there, Eddie. You’re absolutely right. Yes, you must finish your message. You must try as hard as you can with your sticky campaign. I’ll help you any way I can.”
“Thank you,” said Eddie.
“And now,” said Min, “I think—I hope—we’re going to have a treat. Fourth grade should be coming in next. Our very own class from Room 19.”
“Really?” said Eddie. “You mean it?”
“Yes! It’s their library time.”
