Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

“You will request books through us. If we have read a book and approve, we will release it to you,” Dad says calmly.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “We are. This is how it’s going to be from now on.”

  “I think we should have a family discussion about it,” I say.

  “We’ve already had one. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re grounded.”

  I walk as heavily as I dare back to the stairs without actually stomping, and sneak a glance over my shoulder. They look so cozy snuggled up with my books. I don’t get it. My books have nothing on the bathroom stalls at school, and I don’t see my parents demanding a paint job. How is this happening? I always follow the rules! I can’t believe I’m actually in trouble!

  What would Kate say about all this? The few times I’ve called her, I’ve left messages like “It’s ME. Your sister. Why don’t you love me anymore?” and “I am pleased to inform you that you’ve won a cruise. Please reply with your credit card number, and you will enjoy nine glorious nights in the Caribbean.” No return call yet.

  Tonight is different, though. She’s the only person on the planet who could possibly understand how I feel. I swipe my parents’ phone from their nightstand and dial the number I’ve committed to memory. One ring. Two rings.

  “Hello?”

  I could cry. Finally. “Kate! It’s me.”

  “June! Hey! I was going to call you back. I’ve just had a lot going on here.”

  I ignore her excuse and jump right in. “Mom and Dad have lost it, Kate. Like, they’re being ridiculous, and I don’t know what to do.”

  She laughs. “What else is new?”

  My throat tightens. “They took my books.”

  “Wait—your books? Why?”

  “I don’t know. They think they’re too scary? Because they could? I just—”

  “June? Who are you talking to?” My mom’s sharp tone cuts across the line. No, no, no. I finally manage to get Kate on the phone, and I can’t tell her anything.

  “Hi, Mom,” Kate says.

  “Honey!” Mom says. “Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice!” At least we agree on that. Two months was too long. “June, you’re grounded. Hang up the phone now.”

  “But Mom!”

  “Now,” she says.

  Kate says, “Wait! Love you, June. We’ll talk later.”

  “Love you, too,” I croak. I click off the phone and drop it onto the bed. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs and catch a few snippets from Mom’s end of the conversation like “inappropriate choices” and “totally unlike her.”

  I creep down a few steps and sit hugging my knees. Did I really make an inappropriate choice? I don’t think so. But my parents have never been this mad. I wish I could hear Kate’s side of the conversation. This doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

  “Love you, too, honey,” Mom says, and hangs up the phone. Her voice echoes up the stairwell. “That went well.”

  “Yep. Hello, teenage years,” Dad says.

  Mom says something muffled, and then, “I just don’t get why June would even want to read books like that.”

  “Same reason she and Emma snuck and watched that horror movie last summer.”

  They both laugh.

  “She slept with the hallway light on for a week,” Mom says.

  I did not. I forgot to turn it off.

  “But it’s not just that book that bothers me; it’s the others, too. And she’s had them for how long? I never dreamed we’d need to monitor kids’ books.”

  “I know,” Dad says.

  “What are we going to do with her?”

  There’s a brief silence. “Stay firm. She’s testing us,” Dad says.

  “She can test all she wants. This is how it’s going to be.” Mom groans. “The look on her face, though. Our child hates us.”

  “Our house, our rules. She’ll get over it.”

  I lean my head against the wall.

  Dad chuckles. “We sound like our parents.”

  “We do, don’t we?” She sighs. “Good. They would’ve done the same thing.”

  I slink back into my room and stumble over my bag. I know I’m the one who left it on the floor, but it still feels like getting kicked by the universe. The perfect ending to a perfect day. I sling the bag against the wall and close my eyes.

  And then I realize they didn’t take every book. They couldn’t, because one wasn’t there. I dig The Graveyard Book out of my bag. Good thing they missed it. They’d freak out for sure at the beginning.

  By the time Dad opens my door to check on me, the book is safely stashed under my nightstand, my light is out, and I’m grinning under the covers.

  Mom has an early yoga class in town today before her volunteer group meeting, so she insists on giving me a ride to school. She can pretend she’s just being nice, but the real reason is so I can’t hang out with Emma. It’s long-term planning for my punishment. Fine by me. I don’t know if I even want to see Emma after Friday.

  “Have a good day,” Mom says.

  I give her a tight-lipped grimace and tumble out of the passenger side of the car.

  I walk down the hallway, not paying attention to anyone around me. I’m not thinking of anything at all, really, and yet I find myself in front of the library.

  A sign on the door reads CLOSED FOR INVENTORY.

  I try the handle anyway. Locked.

  And then someone’s hands cover my eyes and it all goes dark.

  “Guess who?”

  “Graham?” I whirl around and almost stumble over my own feet.

  He takes one look at me and says, “Hey, you all right?”

  It’s weird, but for the first time, I’m not nervous talking to him. “Not really. I’m grounded forever.”

  “I heard,” he says. “And I’m sorry. We missed you on Friday night.” He shifts his weight to the other foot.

  “Wait. You heard what?” I’ll bet Emma found out I was grounded and blabbed it. Or maybe it was Graham’s mom. Word travels fast around here.

  He glances down the hallway and lowers his voice. “Look, I’m not supposed to be telling you this, but…I heard about your book, June. And I know what happened to Ms. Bradshaw.”

  I look back at the door at the mention of her name. The flyers are gone. I almost can’t bring myself to ask, but I have to know. “Where is she?”

  “My mom said she’s been put on leave,” Graham says.

  “For what? Having The Makings of a Witch in the library? I don’t understand.”

  “They didn’t like it, but that wasn’t the only reason.”

  “What? What else could she have done?” My stomach drops. I was so sure Ms. Bradshaw couldn’t have done anything really bad. But Graham’s mom is in the PTSA with my dad. Whatever he knows, it’s probably true. I hold my breath and wait for him to answer.

  “It was the author talk. Mr. Beeler had no idea what the book was about, and there he was on the program in black and white. It was embarrassing. They’re all ticked at Ms. Bradshaw for not giving them more details.”

  I shake my head. “So she’s in trouble because the principal didn’t read the book?”

  “I guess so,” Graham says.

  I sigh. “At least that’s all.” But in my heart I know there’s more. “They canceled everything, didn’t they?”

  He fumbles with a thread on his button-down. “I’m really sorry, June. But yeah, the author isn’t coming.”

  I lean my head against the wall.

  He reaches for my hand. I don’t twitch or pull away from him, even though I’m pretty sure my sweaty hand feels like a cold, wet fish.

  “My parents took my books this weekend. All of them.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” He squeezes my hand and m
y stomach does that flippy thing again. “Everyone will forget about it in a week.” His voice is so reassuring, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

  “I won’t.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “The whole thing is so unfair. I just checked out a book. And now Ms. Bradshaw is fired?”

  “Not fired. Just on leave. It’s like she’s grounded, I guess.” He studies me with his ice-blue eyes. “I’m really sorry you’re grounded.” He sighs. “You’ve completely ruined my plans, June. I was supposed to be cool and smooth and ask you out, and you were supposed to say yes. Just so you know.”

  I stifle a laugh. “That was cool and smooth? You dropped the ball on that one.” I hold my shoulders a little straighter. I finally had a good comeback!

  He winks. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  * * *

  When I get to art class, Emma is already sitting at our regular table swirling her brush in the water jar and sending an inky cloud of royal blue spiraling out to the sides. I sit down next to her.

  “So, how was Friday?” I ask. Part of me doesn’t even want to know, but I have to ask.

  She pauses midstroke with her brush and flashes her best smile. “It was awesome! Tons of people were there. Oh, and Matt even showed up with his dad.” She flushes the tiniest bit. “Wish you could’ve come.”

  “Sounds like you had a blast without me.”

  “Aw, come on, June. It’s never as fun when you’re not there.”

  I shrug.

  “All Graham wanted to talk about was you, anyway. It was all, ‘What does June like? What’s her favorite flower?’ and stuff like that.” She singsongs, “I think someone likes you!”

  It’s all I can do not to break into a huge grin.

  Emma starts to say something else, then stops. Her eyes follow my pencil sketch. “I missed you this morning. When were you going to tell me you’re grounded?”

  I erase a smudge and blow the eraser fragments off my paper. “Looks like I didn’t need to.”

  “Would’ve been nice to know.”

  “My mom snapped at me about the diner right in front of you. What more did you want?”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “But you still went to the diner without me.” I can’t even look at her when I say it.

  Emma paints in silence for a moment. “I told him you hate daisies. They look like white-and-yellow weeds.” She waves her hand at the flowers in front of her. This is Emma’s best attempt at an apology in years. Then again, it’s not like we ever fight.

  I nod and go along with it. “And they smell like a funeral parlor.” They’re arranged in a rusty watering can meant to be adorable and quaint.

  “You think all flowers smell like a funeral parlor.”

  I finish my pencil sketch of the last maple leaves clinging to a tree branch. “True.”

  “Have you been to a lot of funerals or something?”

  “No. That’s just what they smell like,” I insist.

  “You’re so weird.”

  I shrug. I may be weird, but Graham Whitmore likes me. I smile thinking about him finding me at the library this morning. Like he knew I might need a friend.

  I pick up a short, rounded brush and set to work blending water and the tiniest dot of red pigment into a small pool.

  Emma leans closer to the watering can and examines a petal. “Well, if Matt sent me a dozen roses, I’d put them out where everyone could smell them. Even you.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “So what’s Graham supposed to get you when you go out? Assuming your parents ever let you leave the house again.”

  “He doesn’t have to get me anything.”

  “No, no. I mean, what would make you happy?” Emma presses.

  I touch the tip of my brush to the canvas and lay the base of watercolor. “Something that lasts. Flowers die.”

  Mr. Garcia strolls up to us and leans over my painting, resting his chin on his hand like he’s trying to solve a complex problem. He taps his fingers against his brown skin and short brown beard. “What’s your vision for this, June? All watercolor?”

  I tilt my head to study it. “I’m not really sure yet. I’m just seeing where it goes.”

  He nods. “You don’t have to go any heavier. Each layer of watercolor will take it a shade deeper. The challenge,” he says, “is not doing too much too soon. Let it dry, then repeat. Slow and steady. That’s the way to do it.”

  He moves over to Emma’s painting. “I see you like the opaque, Ms. Davenport.”

  “Huh?”

  “You like strong, solid color.”

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “Blue’s my favorite.”

  “I can see that,” he says, walking to the next table.

  Emma rolls her eyes. “I hate art.”

  * * *

  I make it to the band room with a few minutes to spare before the sixth-period bell rings. This door has a sign on it, too, except it reads NO AFTER-SCHOOL PRACTICE DUE TO WEATHER. That’s weird. Even if it’s storming, we still have indoor rehearsal. We’ll keep practicing the halftime show for the next few weeks in the hope we’ll be invited to play in another competition. After that, we’ll start rehearsing for the Christmas parade.

  Everyone’s already set up in sections with music stands and everything. I dump my stuff next to Brooke and hurry to the instrument room to dig out my flute.

  Mr. Ryman rings the dinner bell, also called the triangle, which is his way of calling us to order when we’re inside. I hustle out and slip into my chair, flute at the ready.

  “As you’ve all seen, after-school practice is canceled, so we’ve got to focus extra hard during class today.”

  I whisper to Brooke, “What’s going on?”

  “There’s some kind of meeting in the auditorium. All the teachers have to go.”

  “For what?”

  “Don’t know. Something big. People in suits were standing in front of the office during class change. A bunch of people from the PTSA will be there, too.”

  This just keeps getting worse. I’ve never really gotten in trouble in my life and now the PTSA is involved? My nose starts to tingle and I know I’m going to start to cry if I don’t pull myself together. I take a deep breath and start playing warm-up scales on my flute.

  We play the Jaws show twice—just long enough for Mr. Ryman to start making corrections to each individual song.

  My mind races through the events of the last few days. Graham knew something, but I bet Mom knows more. Maybe I can get her to tell me what it’s all about when I get home. I just need to ask the right questions. As for Dad, he’s probably already here.

  When the final bell rings, the room clears out. Most people are running for the buses, but I take my time putting away my flute. It’s raining and the walk home won’t be fun.

  “Ready?” Emma says by the door.

  I pull up my hood, and we run through the sideways rain into the parking lot. I don’t know why we even bother with raincoats. We’re going to get drenched anyway. Days like this shouldn’t exist for kids who have to walk home.

  Emma points through the downpour. “Hey, isn’t that your mom’s car?”

  She’s right. There’s a PROUD PARENT OF A DOGWOOD HONOR STUDENT sticker on the back. I’m not sure Mom’s so proud of me right now. And the sticker is for Kate anyway.

  If Mom is here, I’m staying here. Then maybe I can get her to answer my questions on the drive home. “Yeah, I’m going to hang out in the band room and catch a ride with her.”

  “She’s probably at that meeting. You’ll be here forever,” Emma says.

  I look at the sky and shrug. “Beats this.”

  She nods. “K. I’m going home. I’ve got to get going on my research paper.”


  I run back to the band room. In the back corner, Matt Brownlee strums his guitar. His eyes follow me as I settle into a chair. The melody of an old song fills the room while I shiver, soaking wet, in the air conditioning.

  Matt stops playing. “Rough day?” His eyebrows are raised in expectation, but I’m not saying much. I don’t even know him.

  “Something like that. Why are you still here?” I toss my wet raincoat onto an empty chair.

  “I’m waiting for my dad to get off work. You?”

  “My mom has a meeting,” I mumble. He looks more at home with a guitar than a baritone, I decide as I rummage through my backpack for a hair tie.

  Matt’s fingers drift across the strings. “No book?”

  I didn’t think he even knew who I was, and he notices when I’m missing my usual prop? “No,” I say. There’s no telling what he’s heard about Ms. Bradshaw, and I’m not adding fuel to the fire.

  He plays the first chord. “You sing?”

  “Only when no one’s listening.”

  He grins, his smile bright against his band practice tan. “I could be no one.”

  My cheeks flame. Emma would die if she could see this. I don’t know what to say. “I, um, I…”

  He grins and belts out the first line of the song. I pull out my math book and stare at it instead of his dimples, but the singing doesn’t stop. After a while, I hum a little bit. Before I know it, I’m singing along. I know all the words because I’ve heard it a million times on the radio in my parents’ cars.

  Matt looks proud.

  “So, why this song?” I ask.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not something most kids listen to.”

  He shrugs. “Because—I don’t know. I can’t explain it.” He stops strumming. “Why do you read the books you read?”

  I think for a moment. Entertainment, sure, but what makes a book entertaining? I like a good tearjerker as much as I love a comedy. And the way I barricade the door when I’m reading something scary is kind of why I’m currently grounded. I think. “Because they make me feel more than I would if I were just living. I feel things when I read.” Jeez, I sound so weird.