His expression softens. “That’s why this song.”
That deserves an encore. “Fine,” I say. “Play the chord.” And I sing. It’s not great, but it’s not bad, either. I love Matt’s voice. He sounds like a cross between a rocker and a pop star, gravelly but still able to hit the high notes. We’re singing the chorus again when Mom walks into the room and drops her jaw.
She takes in his raggedy jeans and his tanned bare feet balanced on the rungs of his chair. “June! What are you still doing here?”
“I saw your car,” I say. “I thought I’d just wait for you.” And ask you a million questions on the way home that you probably won’t answer, but I can dream.
“You should’ve just gone home. I can’t believe you’ve been here this whole time!” She sneaks another look at Matt, as though she also can’t believe I’ve been alone with him.
“Where’s Dad?”
“He’s still finishing up.” There’s a long, awkward pause. “Hmm. I guess we should go,” she says. “I would wait it out if I thought the rain might stop soon.” What she means is that she would wait out the storm if she didn’t need to separate me from Matt. Please. Like he’d ever be interested in me. “Grab your stuff, June.” She hovers in the doorway. “Hurry. It’s coming down even harder now.”
Matt strums the guitar again. “Nah,” he says. “It’s just a little shower.”
Mom and I walk as quickly as we can through the downpour to the car. It’s only when I’m inside with my seat belt buckled that I realize I’m still humming.
* * *
The next day at lunch, the line in the cafeteria is moving extra slowly. I think I know why. “What do you mean, you don’t serve bacon bits anymore?”
The lunch lady’s eyebrows shoot up in exasperation under her hairnet. “New health guidelines. No bacon.”
I look down at my brownish lettuce leaves and a few watery pieces of bruised tomato. “Okay,” I say, trying a new strategy. “What do you serve?”
She points to two tubs on ice. “Fat-free ranch or vinaigrette. Take your pick.”
I ladle a white glop onto my salad. “May I have a roll?”
“No.”
I look up at her. “Really?”
She nods toward a basket of whole-wheat crackers.
I swipe a pack, enter my code at the register, and plop down at my usual table next to Emma. I’m frowning at my tray when Graham says, “Everything tastes better with ketchup.” He slides into the seat next to me and offers me a ketchup packet. I’d pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming, but I don’t want to know.
Say something smart, something funny, something—“Rabbit food doesn’t.” Fail.
He shrugs. “You were expecting burgers?”
“No…but if they’re trying to make us healthy, brown lettuce isn’t going to do it. We’re going to starve!”
Brooke takes the seat next to Graham and dumps a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a cookie double-stuffed with cream out of her brown bag.
“Trade you,” I offer. “One lovely salad with dressing in exchange for the sandwich and the cookie. It doesn’t get any better than that. You know you want it.” I wiggle my eyebrows at Brooke.
She laughs. “I’ll pass.”
“Have you guys heard anything about the library?” I ask. Maybe if I could get in there, I could find some way to contact Ms. Bradshaw. Like an email address or something. I could start apologizing now, but I still wouldn’t be done by Christmas. And to top it all off, I couldn’t get my mom to say a word about the meeting yesterday.
Graham shakes his head. “The inventory sign is still on the door.”
“I kind of like the library being closed,” Emma says.
My head snaps toward her in disbelief. I open my mouth and then she says, “You’re usually running off in the middle of lunch, but now I get to spend the whole period with you!”
“I guess that’s a silver lining,” I say. But I still miss spending the last ten minutes of lunch getting new book recommendations from Ms. Bradshaw. I shove a stale whole-wheat cracker in my mouth, and my stomach rumbles in protest. This can’t last forever. I’m so packing my lunch tonight.
Graham smiles at me. “Maybe I should eat with you guys more often.”
A sharp kick connects with my shin under the table. “Ow!” I glance at Emma, who calmly stabs her juice pouch with a straw. The corners of her mouth twitch like they do when she’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” Graham asks.
I shoot a dirty look at Emma. “Nothing.” I glance at Graham. “What would happen if we all packed our lunches? Just think about it—no more cafeteria food.” I poke a straw into my milk carton and ball up the wrapper.
Brooke says, “I wouldn’t feel bad eating cookies in front of you anymore.”
I throw the wrapper at her. “No, seriously. What would they do?”
“Cry? They can’t make us buy it,” Emma says.
“Do you think the food would get better?”
“Not a chance,” Brooke says. “Most of us already bring our lunches because the food is so bad.”
“But not everyone does. If we did, they would lose money and then…”
Graham frowns at my salad. “They can’t fix that.”
I scowl at the brown leaves. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I say. But if I could, I’d fix everything that’s wrong with this school.
One thing at a time.
I step out of the shower to a ringing phone. “Mom! Can you get that?” The phone rings again. I wrap myself in a towel and sprint down the hall just in time to swipe the phone from my parents’ nightstand. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Emma says. She never calls this early because we have to use the landline. My parents say I’m not old enough for a cell phone, so I’m probably the only seventh grader without one. It feels like it, anyway.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to let you know my mom’s taking me to school today. We’d take you, too, but we’re leaving now.”
“Why so early?”
She yawns. “I wish I knew, but she’s in a big hurry.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I think it might have something to do with the—” Emma’s mom cuts her off, yelling about getting in the car.
“About what?” I ask.
“Sorry, I have to go. I’ll see you at school.” The phone clicks off before Emma even says goodbye.
I flip through my closet quickly so I can get to school and figure out what that was all about. I grab a pair of skinny cords and a lacy white T-shirt. I add a long navy cardigan. I tug on flat brown boots and scurry into my bathroom to dry my hair. I say it’s my bathroom, but Kate’s stuff is still everywhere for when she comes home on school breaks. If she comes home. I snuck a call last night and left yet another message for her, but I’m not getting my hopes up. I’m totally on my own now. I place a small dab of lip gloss in the center of my bottom lip and then press my lips together.
Downstairs, a note from my parents awaits on the kitchen counter:
Left early for errands. Have a good day! Love, Mom and Dad.
That’s weird. Maybe my parents’ presence at the meeting this week has something to do with it. But what could possibly be so important that they had to leave before dawn? Nothing is open this early. And they never leave without saying bye. Ever.
I toast an English muffin and smear it with peanut butter. Then I load up the biggest tumbler I can find with hot chocolate, because Mom isn’t here to prevent my sugar rush. I also take a moment to pack my lunch so I won’t have to eat cafeteria mystery meat.
The rain moved out overnight, leaving behind blue skies and lots of puddles. There’s a reason we still have mosquitoes in October in the South. Still, the air is new, with a crisp bite to it, and I breathe it in with each care
ful, measured step over the cracked sidewalk. If my family wants to complain about something, it should be this. This uneven cement could actually hurt someone.
The stop sign looms ahead, right where it always is. Except this time, I don’t go where I always go. I turn left.
Maple Lane is older than my street, with giant trees lining the curb. The houses have been around since my parents were kids. There is no sidewalk here. But there’s also no traffic.
I love this street, but this is the long way to school. I thought I wanted to get to school early, but the more I think about what might be waiting for me—or not waiting for me—the more I want to take my time.
Maple is out of the way. It’s quiet. It’s just the change I need today. When I was little, I’d fly down the street on my bike, tassels streaming, leaves crunching under my tires. The memory floods me with warmth, and for the first time since last week, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
About midway down the street, a small house with pink flowers still in bloom brings me to a halt. Balanced on a tall wooden post, right by the curb, is some sort of dollhouse. I’ve never seen anything like it. I lean in closer. Below its top two windows, a glass door protects a few books on the other side. LITTLE FREE LIBRARY is engraved in a metal plate at the top, with the inscription TAKE A BOOK, LEAVE A BOOK just below it.
I feel like I just found a wad of cash, but better. I still have plenty of time, and the street is just as empty as it was before. Inside the box, there are a few magazines and The Secret Horses of Briar Hill.
I pull the novel off the shelf and pause. I don’t have one to leave at the moment. But I have a whole library being held hostage at home. I can always make it an even trade later. I flip my bag around and slip the book into the main compartment.
I don’t even notice the rest of the walk to school. I’m too busy thinking about when I’m going to curl up with my newest novel.
When I get to the middle school, two moving trucks are parked in the pickup/drop-off circle. They’re probably full of athletic equipment for our football team. Meanwhile, the marching band has worn the same uniforms since my parents were students here.
Emma isn’t at her locker, so I wander off to the library to check the status. The CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign is still up, and the door is locked. I’m about to turn away when the door creaks open, revealing a heaping cartload of books behind it. I hold the door while two older men wheel the cart into the hallway. Then I slip inside.
The space is almost unrecognizable. Rolling carts line the walls, and volunteers transfer stacks of books onto them. Huge gaps linger on the shelves where large quantities of books used to be. Just like my bedroom bookshelf, but grander in scale.
Front and center, of course, are my parents.
“Dad!” He freezes with a novel in his hand. “What are you doing?” He tosses the book into the half-full bin.
“We’re reviewing the inventory.”
I take in the full carts next to them. “It looks like you’re getting rid of the inventory.”
“It’s called a book extraction.” He plucks another novel off the shelf and flings it into the offending pile.
“What? Why?” I’m not even sure what to ask.
“It’s necessary for quality control.”
My eyes tear up, to my total horror. But I won’t let them see me cry. I blink back the tears as best I can. “Dad.” My voice comes out in a whisper because it would crack if I tried to speak more loudly.
I turn my head all the way to the left so I don’t have to look at him, and I wish I hadn’t. There’s Emma, standing by her own cart brimming with books. And next to her, Graham. “You? You’re in on this?” So much for my voice not cracking. I don’t even know which one I’m talking to. I try to form more words, but they won’t come. My heart does a little flippy movement in my chest. Emma lied to me. Or at least she didn’t try very hard to tell me what was going on. But why? And Graham held my hand, and I thought he—
“June, I—” Emma takes a step toward me, but I spin on my heel and let the door slam shut behind me. What do I care if I’m locked out now?
By the time I get to science, I feel like my head is going to explode. Since when does this school get so worked up about books?
And Emma! My molars grind together. She knows how much I love the library, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t matter. But why? And with Graham? It just doesn’t make sense.
Ms. Langford distributes a stack of papers right as the bell rings. “I’m handing out a new resolution passed by our school board. Please make sure to take it home to your parents. Initial the form I’m sending around to show you received it.”
Olivia hands it back to me over her straight blond hair. I take one and pass the stack to the next person.
Dear Parents, Students, Teachers, and Community Members:
Several resolutions were passed during a board meeting this week to address recent events. Please read the changes carefully, as they directly impact all of us in the Dogwood community. It follows that:
No reading beyond the textbook may be assigned unless the teacher has completed and posted the Reading Clarity Form to his or her web page. Teachers will indicate whether a book contains the following: profanity, drugs, violence, rock/rap music, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, or rebellion of any kind. Administration and parents must approve the text prior to classroom coverage, or instruction will be limited to the designated textbook.
Effective immediately, Dogwood school libraries will no longer house texts that contain any of the aforementioned components. They are hereby banned for unsupervised distribution.
Students in possession of unapproved texts will face disciplinary action. Teachers in violation of this resolution will be terminated.
The paper shakes in my hand. I read the last two sentences again, trying to make sense of them. I was wrong before. Now I’m going to be sick. Just like that, I can’t read a book at home or in the library.
Ms. Langford clears her throat, her lipstick bright against her pale skin. “The office has asked me to note that if you’re caught with a banned book, there will be consequences. Don’t be that person they’ll make an example of for the entire school.”
For the first time I can remember in recent years, most of my classmates are silent. Everybody is shocked. I mean, who thought books would be cause for punishment? Well, everybody except one.
Madison Greene laughs and shakes her brown curls over her shoulders. “Why would we even care what they keep in the library? It’s not like we’re busting down the door to get in there.” She would’ve cared back when we were still friends. But that was a long time ago.
Ryan says, “Because they think we shouldn’t be able to choose what we read, that’s why.”
“So what?” Madison says. “Who actually reads?” She looks at me with piercing blue eyes, her expression emotionless.
I stare back.
“That’s enough,” Ms. Langford says. “We’re not going to talk about it in this classroom. It’s not up for debate.”
She must be taking lessons from my mom.
* * *
I wait my turn at the sink in art class to fill my water cup.
“I didn’t want to do it,” Emma says. “My parents made me.”
I flip the knob on the faucet too hard and spray water all over myself. “They made you?”
Emma hands me a paper towel. “Yeah. Just like yours made you hand over The Makings of a Witch. It was like ‘Get in the car, or else’ this morning. My mom didn’t give me a choice.”
I mop up the mess and swipe a palette from the counter.
“June, come on.” Emma nudges my shoulder playfully. “I tried to tell you, but my mom freaked when she heard me whispering!” She chooses a few shades of blue paint. “I wanted to tell you the moment I found
out about it. The whole thing was so unfair. And then you saw me and thought I was with them.”
“I can’t get that image out of my mind.”
“Tell me about it,” Emma says. “I actually tried to slip a book into my bag for you, but my dad caught me.”
I look up at her then and smile before I can stop myself. “I just wish you’d told them no.” I shake my head and squeeze red paint onto my palette. “I wouldn’t have done any of it. Not even if they grounded me until Christmas.”
Emma selects a midlength brush. “You don’t really know what you’d do until you’re the one with the choice.”
* * *
I’ve never skipped a class in my life. I don’t steal. I follow the rules. I’ve never even been sent to the principal’s office.
I’ve never had a reason until now.
When the lunch bell rings, I tell Brooke I’m going to the bathroom. I’m not going there now, but I will later, so it’s not a lie. Not technically. When I’m far enough away, I slip outside and follow the path to the deserted outdoor patio. I think it used to be a popular lunch spot, but the tables are old and a lot of the chairs are broken so no one eats here anymore. But I don’t care about broken chairs. I only care about one thing right now and it’s in my backpack. It may be against the rules, but I need to tune everything else out and read. With my jacket rolled into a pillow, I curl up on the bench and open The Secret Horses of Briar Hill. There’s a message written in elegant loops of blue ink:
To Brendan, I’ll always see the real you.
It’s so personal, I feel like I’m not supposed to be reading it. But it was in the Little Free Library, so I guess it’s okay. I speed through the opening pages and eat my turkey sandwich. I’m already wondering why no one else can see the horses, when I’m shaken out of my thoughts by the sound of my name.
Mr. Hawkins towers over me with a cup of coffee. Of all the teachers to catch me, he’s the worst. He’s always scowling, and he looks like he’s about to have a heart attack most of the time. Then again, if I were the detention teacher, I’d freak out, too.
Property of the Rebel Librarian Page 4
