* * *
Emma barrels toward me moments after I leave science. “June Harper!” she squeals. “Tell me every. Single. Thing.”
“About what?”
“Oh no you don’t. You held hands with Graham in front of the whole world this morning. Spill.”
I laugh. “And where were you this morning, anyway?”
She flushes. “My mom heard about your detention and is giving me rides to school this week.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. It’s weird walking to school without you.”
“June. I love you, but stop stalling already and tell me everything!” Emma demands.
“Okay, okay! My mom said I can hang out with him—even at the diner—as long as I’m with a group.”
“Finally!” She grabs my arm. “And then he held your hand?”
“Something like that.”
“Wow. Wow, wow, wow. And then what?”
“He walked me to class. The end.”
She shakes her head. “That’s so not the end. This is the beginning! I’m going to find out how long he’s liked you.”
“What? Em, no, don’t!”
“Too late, it’s happening.”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Something tells me it won’t be fine. Just like when she told me riding our bikes as fast as we could down Walnut Hill would be fine and I ended up with a faceful of dirt.
I groan.
“I can’t believe it’s finally here. How long have we talked about dating?”
“I’ve talked about it today. You’ve talked about it forever.”
She loops her arm through mine as we walk into the art classroom. “Everything’s going to change now. Just wait. It’s going to be amazing.”
* * *
After lunch, the library door is propped open. Out of curiosity, I peek inside. At first I think it’s empty, but then I see a tuft of gray hair sticking up behind the back shelves.
“Hello?”
A throat clears. “Yes? I’m back here.”
I follow the voice to the back. An older lady wearing a beige sweatshirt with ABCs all over it sits at a table eating a sandwich. Bright pink blush covers her pale cheeks.
“Hello, dear. Can I help you find something?”
Not likely. I twist my face into something pleasant anyway. It’s not her fault Ms. Bradshaw is gone. “I was just wondering if you had anything new.”
She frowns. “No, all shipments have been stopped. I don’t think there will be any more for a while.”
“Oh.”
“Is there anything I can help you find?”
“No,” I say. I look around at the empty shelves. “You don’t have it.”
She smiles. “Okay. Come back if you change your mind.”
In English, it’s “Goody” this and “Goody” that during our monotone read-through of The Crucible. I tune out for a bit after a girl accuses someone of being a witch and the whole town believes her. There’s something wrong with that.
I focus on the illustrated poetry projects covering the walls in swirls of color. We just completed them last month, but it feels like forever ago.
Ms. Gibson cues me back to Earth. “What does this tell us about the author’s portrayal of accusations and fear-mongering? June, what are your thoughts?” She leans against her desk.
“He wanted to show how damaging they can be.”
“Interesting. Why do you say so?”
“Because when you’re in a small town, it doesn’t matter what the judge says. The people living there are the ones who really make the call.”
“In what way?” Ms. Gibson leans toward me, nodding.
People turn in their seats to stare.
“Honestly? Because sometimes gossip weighs more than the truth.”
Ms. Gibson raises her eyebrows. “Can you think of a real-life example?”
Don’t say it. Abort! Abort! I shake my head. “I can’t.”
She frowns and moves on to someone else. It’s like she’s fishing for someone to blurt out, “Ms. Bradshaw!”
Where am I even living anymore? Dogwood or Salem? They look so much alike; it’s as if we’re stuck in the 1600s. And then I wonder if that’s Ms. Gibson’s point. The Crucible isn’t even on the seventh-grade honors reading list, but she got special permission to teach it early when they restricted everything else. Maybe Ms. Gibson is on our side. I smile at the thought.
* * *
I go through the motions in band, but something feels off. Everyone saw me in the red vest for detention. And I can still feel people staring today. Graham tries to be reassuring, but it doesn’t help.
Graham squeezes my hand a few minutes after the bell rings. “I’d give you a ride home,” he says, “but it’s probably not a good idea right now.” Then he strolls out to his mom’s SUV. Emma winks at me over her shoulder and follows him. That’s what she meant? She’s going to ask him about liking me in the car? With his mom? She doesn’t need to do this. Why can’t my best friend just walk home with me? Talk to me about him.
I kick a few pebbles scattered on the sidewalk as I walk home. Through the windows of the diner, kids from school are already drinking milk shakes. Brooke and a couple of flute players wave, their orders of curly fries and onion rings already on the table. My mouth waters.
As of tomorrow, I’m not grounded anymore. I’ll be free—so to speak. I could go out with Graham, but it’s probably too soon after my detention for his parents to be okay with that. I could read, but there’s nothing left worth reading.
Freedom isn’t very freeing after all.
Before long, I’m at the intersection of Willow and Maple Lane. I’ve got nothing else to do, so I might as well take the long way home. I look both ways and turn right on Maple. Light filters through the leaves, speckling my shoulders with warmth in the crisp air. I breathe it in, already feeling better.
But I didn’t come here for the leaves.
A dog barks in the backyard of a nearby house. A few doors down from the dog is the Little Free Library. I look around. There’s not a single kid my age anywhere.
I open the door. Today there are some old magazines and a copy of Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry.
I don’t think. I don’t pause. I slip the novel into my bag and somehow make it home without my feet touching the ground. So what if I can’t catch my breath right now? I caught a break instead. I shove the book under my nightstand and force myself to calm down. Time to act normal.
I have a healthy dinner with my parents. I eat all the right things and have just the right attitude, and when the moment is perfect, I tell them I have to go upstairs to read a play if I want to get into a good college.
Mom beams at Dad. They think they’re responsible for this change. They think everything worked according to plan, which is exactly what I want them to think.
Books are worth the risk.
I open Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Another message is scrawled in blue ink.
To Brendan, who once told me that family is everything.
I puzzle over the inscription. Who is Brendan, and why are his books circulating through the neighborhood? I tuck these questions away and lose myself in southern Mississippi, where I stay until I can’t keep my eyes open.
The next morning, I approach the Little Free Library with something to trade. I slip my copy of The Graveyard Book into the box, and find The Lightning Thief.
I know there’s something written in it before I even open the cover.
To Brendan, whose greatest strength is within.
I’ve already read it, but I take it anyway. Farther down the street, I plop down on the curb and open my green notebook. Flipping to the bac
k, I copy the inscriptions from The Lightning Thief and Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. I also add what I remember of The Secret Horses of Briar Hill.
Mr. Beeler was quite clear in his office: If you are caught with an unapproved book, there will be consequences.
But what if nothing is found in my possession?
Rule number one: Don’t get caught.
* * *
I duck in the side door to avoid the main lobby and Graham and Emma and go straight to my locker. Behind my gigantic social studies book, I engross myself in Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry in the middle of the hallway. No one suspects anything if you do it in the open.
Someone stops right next to me. I remain perfectly still even as my stomach lurches forward. Please don’t be Graham. Please don’t be Graham.
“That’s some heavy reading you’ve got there.” Matt smiles down at me, his brown hair sweeping low into his eyes.
“History is important,” I say.
“I’ve always thought so.” He drops next to me on the cold linoleum floor. “What are you really reading?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
“Try me.”
I flash him the cover of the novel.
He leans over to get a better look. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about this kid, Cassie, during the Depression. Her family has land, and a bunch of racist people think they shouldn’t have it. I can’t put it down because I’m so afraid something bad is going to happen.” And I really love Cassie’s family.
“Sounds serious.” He settles back against the cinder block wall. “What else is it about?”
I flip through the pages, unsure of what to say. But he seems genuinely interested so I say, “It’s about a whole bunch of other stuff that I’m still thinking about. Some of it is hard to read because it makes me so mad. I hate that people used to talk like that.” Or treat people like that.
I don’t know exactly what it is about him, but I trust him. So I say the words that have been stuck in my throat since this whole mess started. “All I know is, they don’t want me to read it, so I’m gonna. Every last book I can find.”
He laughs. “Who knew you were such a rebel?”
“I figure it’s my mind. I’ll read what I want to read.”
Silence. His eyes follow me as I turn the page. I steady myself with a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my pants.
“You got another one?”
I slip The Lightning Thief out of my bag behind the cover of my social studies book. “Understand you’re taking a major risk.” As am I. My pulse quickens. Better set some conditions first.
He raises an eyebrow and reaches for it.
I pull it back just out of his reach. “Ah-ah-ah! Hold on. Rule number one: Don’t get caught. I mean it. Rule number two: Don’t squeal. You just found this book. I had nothing to do with it. Rule three: Give it back to me when you’re done. If you write in it, so help me, I will find you. Got it?”
He grins. “Do I get a library card?”
I groan. “No,” I say, shoving my books into my bag for first period.
And then I stop.
A library.
* * *
“I hate painting. I wish they’d let me take study hall instead.” Emma slides into her usual art table with a clean palette and looks at me a moment or two while I choose my colors. “Hello? Earth to June. Are you not talking to me?”
“Hi.”
“All right. You’re mad. Out with it.”
I dilute my red paint with water until it pales, then dip my brush into it. “What makes you think I’m mad? You ditched me to ride home with Graham. Why would I be upset?”
“But June, I did that for you.”
I roll my eyes.
“I did! Besides, you’re grounded. I couldn’t see or talk to you if I tried.”
I stare at her until she squirms.
“I’m sorry! I know it’s not your fault you’re grounded. But my mom won’t let me walk with you. At least for now,” Emma says. “Ugh, this whole thing is awful. My parents gave me ‘the talk’ about what I’m allowed to read.”
“Welcome to the club.” I roll my eyes. “Also, I’m not grounded anymore.”
“Good! As soon as my mom will let me, I’m gonna plan a sleepover just like old times. Bake cookies, a scary movie, the works!” Emma smiles at me hopefully.
“Yeah,” I say. “But nothing too scary. You know we’re not old enough for that!” I smirk and when Emma laughs it really does feel like old times.
She smears light blue paint over the first layer, but the darker color peeks through. “So did you oversleep this morning?” she asks.
“No, why?”
“Because you didn’t hang out with me before school! I thought about checking the library…but I was pretty sure you wouldn’t be there. Where were you?”
“Yeah, definitely not in the library. I…” I’m not sure I’m ready to tell Emma about the Little Free Library. Or sharing my books with Matt. So I just say, “I took the long way to school. You know how I love when the leaves change!” To prove my point, I layer another coat of pale, watery red onto the leaves on my canvas.
Emma nods. “Well, I missed you,” she says.
“Me too.”
Mr. Garcia walks over and says, “Nice work, June.”
I sigh and put down my paintbrush. “It just seems like no matter how much I do, nothing changes.”
“But it is changing.”
No, it isn’t. What I’d like to do is throw my canvas out the window, but then I’d fail art.
“I know you can’t see it right now, but every time you add a layer, it deepens the pigment.” His thumb strokes his beard. “You know what, June? If you don’t believe me, I’ll let you see for yourself.” He strolls up to the front of the room and digs around in a drawer. He returns with a camera. “Here. You do the honors. We’ll take another one in a week so you can see the difference.”
I go along with it and snap a photo of my painting. “Wouldn’t it be a whole lot faster if I painted with a deeper color?”
He reaches for the camera. “You could, but then you’d ruin it.”
“Ruin it?”
“You’d be missing all the layers.” He smiles. “That’s what makes it beautiful.”
* * *
I have to wait until lunch to visit my locker. I’m not supposed to be in the hallway then because teachers aren’t around, and that’s exactly why this is my moment.
I open locker 319, next to mine. It doesn’t have a combination lock, so all I have to do is lift the lever out of place. Nothing has changed since the last time I looked inside, but somehow, it looks totally different. Full of promise. I crumple the trash in my hand and toss it into the hallway bin.
I dart a glance down the hall.
No one.
I retrieve Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry from my bag and place it on the bottom shelf of the locker with the spine out. It looks cavernous and pitiful with just one book.
One book can change everything.
I know where I can get more.
* * *
The next day, I get up earlier than usual. I have somewhere I need to be. Maple Lane. Today’s selections include Diary of a Wimpy Kid, Because of Winn-Dixie, and the first Harry Potter book. The Graveyard Book is still where I left it. Right as I gather the new books in my arms, I see a flicker of movement at the blinds in the window. I freeze.
I wish I had something to share so I wouldn’t feel so bad about walking off with their books. Next time.
As soon as I make my way to the curve in the road, I plop down next to a random mailbox. I pull out my green notebook, flip to the inscription page, and open the Harry Potter book. To Brendan, because love is the greatest power of all. In Because of Winn
-Dixie, it’s To Brendan, who knows the magic of a summer storm. And in Diary of a Wimpy Kid, it’s To Brendan, who’s always known that popularity isn’t everything.
I copy all the inscriptions into my notebook. Why these books? And what happened to Brendan? I turn past my English doodles to the second page and write Inventory at the top. Then I list all the books I’ve gotten. I draw a line through The Secret Horses of Briar Hill. It’s a loss.
When I reach campus, I duck in the side door again so I can hide while I read. I feel a twinge of guilt about not hanging out with Emma, but that doesn’t stop me from diving into the Harry Potter book the moment I find a quiet spot. I was never allowed to read the books or see the movies, but I’ve always wanted to.
I’m just learning about mail delivered by owls when Matt slides next to me on the floor.
“That must be the most interesting textbook in the world.”
“You have no idea.”
He tilts his head toward mine. “What are you really reading?”
I flash the cover toward him.
“Oh yeah! My cousin loves those.”
“How old is your cousin?”
“Ten.”
Perfect. There are ten-year-olds who are allowed to read more than I am. “Did you finish The Lightning Thief?”
“Yeah.” He retrieves it from his bag and slips it to me under my textbook.
“And?”
He shoots me a dazzling smile. “Two thumbs up. What else ya got?”
I pass him Diary of a Wimpy Kid.
He nods and tucks it away. “Actually, can I keep The Lightning Thief for my friend Abby?” Off my expression, he quickly adds, “She’s in eighth grade, and believe me, she won’t say a word.”
“Abby Rodriguez?” I’ve seen her in the band room a few times. She’s always wearing Vans and cool T-shirts.
Property of the Rebel Librarian Page 6
