“Yeah. She’s so ticked over what they did to the library. You’d like her.”
I don’t have a problem with sharing, but I don’t know anything about her except she’s infinitely cooler than I am. “Same rules apply for her, too. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He’d better be sure about her. I slip the book back to him and then flip to a blank page in the middle of the green notebook. I write LOANS at the top. “I’m going to use code names to keep track of everything. You know, just in case. What do you want yours to be?”
“Batman.”
I laugh. “Batman?”
“Always be yourself, unless you can be Batman. Then be Batman.”
“Batman it is.” Number one on the list is Batman, Diary of a Wimpy Kid.
He leans over and studies the page. “What’s yours going to be?”
“Supergirl.”
He tilts his head. “Not Wonder Woman? She has that awesome golden lasso.”
“Supergirl can fly.” In Abby’s slot for number two, I write Wonder Woman, The Lightning Thief.
“This is true.” Matt absentmindedly taps a folded piece of paper against his knee.
“What’s that?”
“They were handing them out at the front door.” He hands it to me.
In bold letters, it reads:
REMINDER FOR STUDENTS
Texts containing profanity, drugs, violence, rock/rap music, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, or rebellion of any kind are BANNED.
Any student caught with a banned book will face serious consequences.
“Rebellion of any kind,” I say. “What do you think they mean by that?”
“Hard to say. Like some kind of protest? I don’t know.” He leans his head against the wall.
I rifle through the front pocket of my bag until my fingers close around my black Sharpie. In big, messy letters, I write on the cover of my notebook:
PROPERTY OF THE REBEL LIBRARIAN
Matt laughs. “Look at you, all bad in your cardigan.”
I smile sweetly. “You have no idea.” The words tumble out of my mouth like I’m always this bold.
He nods at the notebook. “I should’ve known from your handwriting. It looks like a serial killer’s.”
“Bad handwriting is a sign of brilliance.” Mom wouldn’t say the same, though. She hates my writing with the fire of a thousand suns. Last year she wouldn’t even let me help address Christmas cards. I slip the notebook back into my bag and weigh the flyer and my words carefully. “Hey—my friends are going to think something’s up if I don’t start coming in the front door again.” Actually, they’ve already noticed.
He nods like he’s not at all surprised. “You mean Graham’s going to wonder where you are.”
My cheeks grow hot. “Just meet me at locker 319 tomorrow, okay?”
“When?”
“During class change, but only if Graham and the flutes aren’t there. Otherwise, keep walking.”
“Why not include him?”
I search for the right words. “I’m not sure he’d understand.”
Matt nods. “Mind if I bring other people?”
My stomach does a little flip. Who does he want to bring? Will they rat me out the first chance they get? I steel my nerves. Matt wouldn’t bring them if he thought that. He’s in this, too. “Sure. Bring whoever you want, but only if they can follow the rules.” I hand him the flyer. “I don’t want to get busted because you trusted the wrong person.”
He smiles. “May we never get caught.”
I nod and walk away, my cheeks still pink. He makes it sound as though we’re vandalizing the hallway or cheating on a test, when we’re really just a couple of kids reading books.
But as I walk into the main hall papered in new flyers, it’s clear. What we’re doing is much, much bigger.
After art, I swing by my locker. Matt, Abby, and Colby, another eighth grader, lean casually against the wall like they own it. Graham is nowhere in sight.
“Hi, June,” Colby says, his green eyes and fair skin peeking out from under a mop of floppy red hair.
“Hey!” I smile at him and turn to Abby. “I’m June.”
Abby grins. Today she’s rocking a nineties band shirt with leggings, a skirt, and short boots. “I know who you are.” I think that’s the first time in my life anyone has ever said that to me. Abby brushes one of her dark waves from her face, exposing brown eyes and brown skin. People with perfect hair baffle me. I’d need a salon miracle to make mine do that.
I glance up and down the hallway; then I open the locker a few inches to reveal Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry and Because of Winn-Dixie. “Take your pick. I wish I had more.”
She swaps The Lightning Thief for Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. “I guess you’re our new Ms. Bradshaw, huh?” she asks.
I smile at the thought but shake my head. “Nobody could replace her.”
Abby nods. “Yeah, I miss being one of her groupies.”
“You are—were—a groupie?” I ask.
“Yup! I used to swing by after sixth period every time I needed a new book,” Abby says. That must be why I don’t know her better. I was more of a morning groupie because of after-school band practice.
“Speaking of new books, can I take one?” Colby asks. I move to the side so he can grab Because of Winn-Dixie. “Thanks, June.” I saw Colby every week this summer when my mom dragged me with her to the grocery store to buy organic vegetables. His family owns the store, so he spent the summer bagging groceries there. He’s always been nice to me.
I scribble down their code names and the books they’re borrowing. “I have some ground rules—”
“We know,” Colby says. “Matt told us.”
I nod at Matt.
“Hey, I have a few books stashed in my closet,” Abby says. “You want me to bring them?”
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. I’ll make sure they stay in good shape,” I promise.
“Keep them. Just bring more books.”
“Done.” Maybe I can share a few with the Little Free Library after taking so many. I close the locker.
“I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning—”
“Only if she’s alone,” Matt says.
Abby dismisses him with a wave. “We know, we know.”
I pause for a moment and then remove the combination lock from my own locker. One flip and a click later, locker 319 is secure.
* * *
Graham halfheartedly loads up his lunch tray. “Are you avoiding me?” he asks while we stand in the lunch line.
“No.” If I were avoiding him, I wouldn’t even go to the cafeteria. I’m only in line because I forgot to bring a drink to go with my lunch.
“I don’t see you in the mornings anymore.” His tone is accusing.
“Some of us have to walk.”
He ladles fat-free cheese onto his whole-wheat tortilla chips. At least, I think they’re whole-wheat. Could be baked cardboard. Who can tell? He picks up his tray and doesn’t speak.
I can’t share my library with him. Not after he begged me to give the books a rest so I wouldn’t be grounded forever. I’m still thinking about what to say when he touches my arm and says, “It’s just—I miss seeing you.”
Graham’s forehead wrinkles. He’s waiting for me to say it back, but the words won’t come. So I say the truth. “It’s been a while.”
He grabs a carton of milk and types in his lunch code at the register. “It has. But that’s not my fault.”
“It’s not mine, either,” I say. But I guess it kind of is. Just not for the reason he thinks.
He shrugs. “Whatever, June.”
* * *
“Back to one, people. Let’s go,” Mr. Ryman’s voice barks over the loudspea
ker.
I stand in place by Emma while everyone else scatters to their spots.
Matt lightly bumps into me as he runs by. “Whoops! Sorry, Ms. Harper.” He winks. I don’t have to imagine the look on Emma’s face. I can see her dumbstruck expression in the corner of my eye. This is going to be bad.
By the end of the routine, Emma’s jaw is set in a hard line. She darts by me faster than I’ve ever seen her move.
“Hey!” I call after her.
She doesn’t respond.
“Emma! Wait!”
She whirls around, lips pressed flat and her pulse thudding in the vein at her temple. “I hate what you’re doing to Graham. It makes me sick.”
I make a conscious effort not to let my mouth drop open. It’s not easy. “And what, exactly, am I doing to Graham?”
“You’ve got this amazing guy who’s trying to get to know you, and it’s like you just don’t care. You’ve been avoiding him every day. And don’t think I don’t see how you’re looking at Matt.”
“Matt’s my friend—”
“Since when?” She perches a hand on each hip, staring me down. “You know I like him.”
I stop at that. Why haven’t I told Emma about Matt? The library is a secret, but Matt doesn’t need to be. I sigh, unsure of what to say.
“Why would he even talk to you?” Emma snaps.
In all the years I’ve known Emma, I’ve never seen her like this. Not with me, anyway. “Look, we stayed after school once, and now we say hi when we see each other. That’s it.” Which is mostly true. “Believe me, I’d never do that to you.” Which is completely true.
Her expression doesn’t change.
My heart starts racing. I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “And what have you been doing? Hanging out with the guy who’s trying to get to know me.”
Her eyes widen the tiniest bit.
I manage to look her square in the eye. “It’s more than just riding home from school with him, isn’t it?”
For the first time ever, Emma is silent.
The lump forming in my throat makes it hard to speak. “So what’s wrong here, Em? What I’m doing to Graham? Or what you’re doing to—” My voice cracks. “Me.”
She doesn’t look the least bit sorry. Just mad. “Are you done?”
I flinch. “Yeah. We’re done.”
* * *
Normally, I’d read to distract myself from a fight with Emma. Not that we’ve ever fought like this. But since I still can’t read out in the open at home, I decide to work on the library. I need to figure out how to transport books without getting busted. I saw this movie once where people hid stuff in drawers with false bottoms. I need that, but in my backpack. Something like a concealed layer.
“Mom, I’m home!” I toss my keys onto the side table.
There’s no response over the instrumental album she found at a yard sale. It helps her channel her artistic spirit, or so she says.
I sprint up the stairs and find her tucked away in her studio. She’s always working on a new art project of some kind. Pink pastel cozies for the toilet paper rolls in every bathroom. Latch-hook wall hangings. Today, she’s hunched over a canvas and stippling white paint on tree branches against a black sky. Perfect. I’ve never been so happy to see her focused on her art. Because that means I stand a chance of not getting caught.
“Mind if I use your sewing machine?” I ask.
She glances up from the painting. “Nope. Need some help?”
“I’m good.” Be natural. Casual. “Hey, do you still have the black vinyl from when you made that raincoat for Mrs. Collins’s dog?”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Oh, I’ve just been thinking about all the money you put into my flute, and I thought it would be good to create a waterproof bag to protect it.” I’ll be her favorite before Christmas if I keep this up.
Mom beams at me. “That’s a brilliant idea.” I feel a twinge of guilt at that. But I stay focused on my task. She taps her brush against the palette. “You know, I think there’s a scrap or two, but not much. You might get a few feet out of it.”
“How about black Velcro?”
“In the odds-and-ends basket. It’s next to the sewing machine in Kate’s room. Help yourself.” Mom wanted more room for her art supplies, so she moved her sewing stuff in there when Kate started school. I thought Kate would be upset, but you have to come home to find out about things like that.
“Perfect!”
“Sure you don’t need help?”
“Nah, I want to try it by myself.” I turn to go to Kate’s room.
“Hey, June?”
I pause and look over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
Her face practically glows with happiness. “I’m so proud of you. You’re really showing us how much you’ve grown.”
I smile back at her. With each step I take down the hall, I shrink an inch.
But there’s no time to lose. Not even to look around at all the things my sister left behind and feel like one of them. First, I measure the bottom of my bag. With Mom’s fabric scissors, I cut a rectangular piece of material an inch bigger all around and stitch the fuzzy side of black Velcro around the border with black thread. Now comes the hard part. I flip my backpack inside out. At about three inches above the bottom of the bag, I stitch the prickly Velcro around the sides in a crooked horizontal line. I use purple thread to match my bag, of course. It looks okay, but I’d never make it as a seamstress.
Almost time to test it. I flip the bag right side out and scoot it to the floor.
Mom strides in with paint smears on her arms. “How’s it going?” She reaches for the sturdy black rectangle and folds it over. The creases around her mouth deepen. “I hate to tell you, but the Velcro won’t stick like this. The pieces should be opposites.”
“Oh no. I knew something was off.” I let my shoulders fall.
“You’ll get there. Holler if you need me.” She pads back down the hall to her easel.
I align the material with the Velcro strip inside the bag and press gently around the edges. I can’t believe it—it actually looks like a normal bottom. Now for the test. I add my textbooks, and their weight presses down on the fabric. With books under the layer to support the load, it just might work.
Mom calls, “Already done?”
“Nah. I threw it out,” I yell back. “I’ll just use a big freezer bag if it rains.”
“Oh, that’s clever,” she says. It was also my plan all along.
I zip my updated bag. “Thanks!”
* * *
The next morning, cinnamon toast and hard-boiled eggs await me in the kitchen alongside a thermos of hot chocolate. The saliva pools in my mouth. I haven’t eaten like this in weeks. Months, really. We stopped having family breakfasts when Kate left. I don’t know why. One day we ate together, and the next, we didn’t. It just happened.
“What’s all this?”
Mom pulls a plate from the hot, soapy water in the sink. “Oh, I got up early today and thought you needed something better than a breakfast bar.”
“Thanks.” This is one of her pride payments. She’s proud of me, so I get the grand spread. Luckily, cinnamon toast still tastes good even when you don’t really deserve it.
“You want a ride?” She scans my outfit from head to toe and then looks back up at me, pleased. I’m wearing a long dusty-blue shirt with skinny jeans and ballet flats. The picture of innocence.
“No thanks, I’ll walk. It’s so beautiful outside.”
She smiles. “Suit yourself. Now go learn something.”
At least that’s an order I can obey. Just not exactly the way she means. I take Maple Lane to school. This time I survey the blinds in the window before I touch a single novel, but there’s no trace of movement. That’s too bad, bec
ause I’d like to meet the person behind this library. Inside the box, I find:
The Witches
George
The first Dork Diaries book
Brown Girl Dreaming
I wish I had my notebook, but I decided to make it part of locker 319. Less to get caught with that way. On a loose piece of paper, I scribble the titles and inscriptions—these books, like the other ones, include messages to Brendan. The books stack perfectly along the bottom of my backpack, and there’s still enough space for the Velcro to seal it off from the main compartment. With my textbooks on top, it looks like a normal bag.
It works!
I walk into school a changed person. My heart beats a little faster, and there’s a goofy grin on my face. This feels so right.
Graham loops his arm through mine. “I’m sorry,” he says. I breathe in the smell of him. I can’t help it. But I freeze midsniff. The scent of peaches is fused with his woodsy body spray. I clench my jaw. “Glad you’re finally here,” he says, pulling away and smiling down at me. A shiny Student Club for Appropriate Reading button glints from his shirt pocket. Wow. His mom might have made him help clear out the library, but this? This is all Graham. And I am so done with him.
I’m going to tell him what I really think, and it’s going to be awesome. I am. But right now I just need him out of my way. If you’d told me two months ago that I’d be avoiding him, I wouldn’t have believed it.
He shrugs. “I’m going to grab some breakfast. You want anything?”
“I already ate.”
“Okay. Be back in ten minutes?”
I smile. “Sure. That should do it.” In the time it takes him to stuff his face, I can distribute banned books to four people.
But when I round the corner, there are at least eight kids standing by my locker. They can’t all be waiting for me, can they?
Abby is front and center. Today she wears a different nineties rock band shirt and carries a tote bag that says I’D RATHER BE READING. The graphic is a colorful stack of books with an outline of a heart stenciled around it.
Property of the Rebel Librarian Page 7
