Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

  I snort. “Nice bag.”

  “I thought it was appropriate.” She winks.

  It’s like the world’s best camouflage. Flaunt it in the open and no one cares. I slip my bag from my shoulders. “Um, so, are you all here to see me?”

  Matt smiles. If this keeps up, I’ll need to set up a table in the hallway.

  I’m only one digit away from unlocking locker 319 when Abby plants her elbow across the frame. Before I can comment, Mr. Beeler rounds the corner, walkie-talkie in hand. “Good morning,” he calls out as he passes.

  This is how it all ends. Right now, surrounded by accomplices and books. I casually wipe my sweaty palms across my jeans.

  Mr. Beeler fiddles with a knob on his walkie-talkie, and then he’s gone. No questions. No stares. Mom always says there’s safety in numbers. Guess she’s right. We’re just hanging out before school—me and the kids I used to think were too cool to even talk to me. My life is getting weirder by the second.

  Abby steps away from the locker. “Well, that was close.”

  “How did you know he was coming? The dude crept in like a ninja.” I pop open the locker.

  She shrugs a shoulder. “Static on his radio. Dead giveaway.”

  I’m impressed. I’d never thought about that before. Then again, I’ve never really needed to be on the lookout for adults until now. “Here,” I say, handing the notebook to Matt. “Have them write down their code names. We’ll list the books they choose in a minute.”

  “Sure thing, Supergirl.” My cheeks flush a little when he says it.

  Kneeling down, I lift the compartment cover and scan the hallway. I balance the bag on my knee and use it to block my locker while I transfer the books to the shelf. Not unlike, I realize with a twinge of guilt, the way Ms. Bradshaw used to do it. But she could do it out in the open.

  Abby slips me three of her books at a time. A Snicker of Magic, Doll Bones, Blubber.

  I hold up the last one partly because it used to be on my shelf but mostly because I’m thrilled another person has read it, too.

  Abby shrugs. “I love Judy Blume.”

  I nod. “I read Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing until it fell apart.”

  This week is blowing my mind. I don’t think I’ve ever said two words to Abby or vice versa before now, and here we are talking about our favorite books when no one wants us to.

  The next handful includes Bridge to Terabithia, Better Nate Than Ever, and Number the Stars.

  And then finally, Wolf Hollow, three Goosebumps books, and Pax.

  I’m in heaven. I haven’t read half of these, but it would be selfish to hold them all for myself.

  “The books I’ve been bringing in…I sort of need to replace them—like a trade. Are you cool if I use a couple of these for that?”

  “Sure,” Abby says. “It’s all about sharing, right?”

  I nod and stuff a few into my bag to add to the Little Free Library later. “Thanks, these are great.” I glance at the surrounding lockers. To their credit, everyone waiting in line looks like they’re doing normal things before school starts. They’re talking about my rules, messing with backpacks, putting on ChapStick, and, of course, passing around my notebook. Matt leans back casually, his right foot pressed against the locker. To anyone passing by, he looks like a random kid. To me, he’s a lookout.

  “Incoming,” Abby whispers, and completely turns her back to me.

  I scan the hallway for the principal, but all I see is Graham striding to my locker, stuffing the last of his biscuit into his mouth. “Sorry,” he says. “The line took forever.”

  Matt and Colby give a nod to Graham as they stroll to the opposite end of the hallway.

  Graham looks around and tosses the biscuit wrapper into the trash. “What’s with all the people?”

  I shrug. “There’s no more than usual.”

  Graham puts his arm around me. “You won’t have to compete with the crowd much longer. Promise. You’ll be here plenty early when you ride to school with me.” He hefts my bag to his shoulder. “What do you have in here? Bricks?”

  My mouth twitches. “Textbooks.”

  Olivia nods at me as we pass by her. Does she know? All I need is for someone to ask about my locker right now, and it will be over before it even starts.

  But no one asks for books. No one even glances my way. Graham takes my hand in his, and I fight the impulse to snatch it away. My stomach is definitely not getting that flippy feeling anymore.

  Matt leans over the water fountain, then draws himself to his full height moments before we pass. As he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, his eyes meet mine. And then they flit down to my hand in Graham’s.

  His expression darkens. Then it’s gone, like a cloud that blows across the sun so fast, you wonder if the shadow ever fell at all.

  I don’t think much of it when the sign in the grocery store window reads SOLD OUT OF FLASHLIGHTS. There’s limited inventory in our town. It happens.

  When I get to school, entire groups of kids stop what they’re doing and smile at me when I walk by. Like, they’re talking and laughing one second, and the next, there’s a total silence that says That’s her.

  A few trail after me to my locker and make requests. A sixth grader asks, “Hey, June? I really need EngiNerds. I just finished my last Wimpy Kid book by flashlight last night.”

  I pause, then smirk. “Flashlight, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “How else am I going to stay up reading past my bedtime?”

  Everywhere I look, kids line the hallways with oversized textbooks in their laps. At lunchtime and after school, their sneakers dangle off sidewalk benches. I don’t have to look to see what they’re doing. I already know.

  Reading.

  And then I’m walking along, minding my own business, when Dan Fuller, the most popular guy in school, high-fives me in the lobby. My mouth gapes open as he walks away.

  That’s when I realize something has changed.

  This is no longer the same Dogwood Middle. It’s an alternate reality where reading is the coolest thing you can do and I, June Harper, am the leader of the cool kids—of the rebellion. I’m sure I’ll wake up any minute now and everything will be back to the way it used to be.

  But it doesn’t end the next day. Or the next. Or the day after that.

  I start to trust it, which is my first mistake.

  Dad strolls through the hall on his way to the PTSA meeting after band practice. I, of course, volunteered to put up appropriate-reading posters above the office doors. It’s what good kids do.

  “Make sure it’s straight,” he says. He beams at me.

  “You got it, Dad.” I’m back to being the good kid he wants me to be, and weirdly, it’s starting to feel normal living this double life.

  It’s quiet after he leaves. I wander over to the drink machine, buy a diet soda (no sugar in these machines, thank you very much), and crack it open on the bench. I just can’t get over the change in the lobby. There’s a picture of a homeless kid on a street corner smoking and drinking beer. Below it, it says DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR KIDS ARE READING?

  I choke, sending fizz sputtering out my nose like liquid fire. Who came up with this? There isn’t even a book in the picture.

  The next one reads THEY’RE BANNED FOR A REASON. It’s signed by the Student Club for Appropriate Reading. SCAR. I groan. These posters just keep getting worse. How old do you have to be to read what you want? That magical age might as well be a YOU MUST BE THIS TALL TO RIDE sign at a carnival.

  “You’re a liar,” says a soft voice to my left. One I’d recognize anywhere. Graham.

  I whip my head to face him. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” He slides into the seat next to me.

  “Is this your idea of a joke? I don’t g
et it.”

  Daylight filters in through the window and reflects off the SCAR button on his shirt. “June, I know.”

  My eye twitches. Nobody ratted me out, or they’d have had to tell on themselves in the process. He can’t know everything. There has to be something else I did to make him look so smug.

  I take a slow sip of my drink and try to stay calm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe I should walk you to your locker. Help you carry your books. You have so many these days.”

  My heart beats faster. Stay calm. He might not know everything. If he did, wouldn’t he have blabbed by now? The boy can’t keep a secret to save his life. I, on the other hand…“I can manage. Thanks, though.”

  “You said you wouldn’t.” He actually looks a little hurt.

  “I tried.” I give a one-shouldered shrug. “But I can’t.”

  “Can’t?” His voice wavers with fury. “Or won’t? Not that it matters anymore. June, you may not care about your life, but I care about mine.” He shakes his head. “How do you think it looks when—did you ever stop to think about me?” Graham leans back into the seat. “I don’t get it. I asked you not to sneak around so maybe, just maybe, we could spend some time together, and what do you do? You read every banned book you can find!”

  He doesn’t know about the locker! But he knows enough. I twist the tab on my soda can. I should’ve ditched him sooner. Now that he knows I’m still reading, anything could happen.

  “Is all this just to get back at me?”

  There are so many things wrong with what he just said that I don’t even know where to begin. “Yes, I spent hours planning this as payback after I saw you dumping books out of the library. You know me so well.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “Please. I couldn’t stop reading, but you know what? I’m not the only one. Kind of awesome, right?”

  He looks at me as if he’s never seen me before. “I can’t have this.”

  “You can’t have this?” I shake my head. “What are you, my dad?”

  “I mean it, June. I’ll make it simple for you. Choose: books or me.”

  Dust motes float between us, filling the gap just made larger by his words. The tightness in my chest builds with each passing second. All I can do is stare at him, and he doesn’t bother looking away, because he’s not embarrassed. It hits me then—if he cared about me at all, he wouldn’t talk to me like this. I take a breath. “You just chose for us.”

  I jump to my feet and take two whopping steps away before I freeze. He’s not really choosing. I had already chosen. I whirl back around. “What’s the matter with you? Reading books isn’t wrong. I’ll tell you what wrong is—it’s trying to control someone.”

  His cheeks flush ever so slightly. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”

  “Yes! You’re”—I scan the wall for just the right warning phrase—“well, there’s not a poster for that one. Someone call the PTSA!”

  “That’s not fair.”

  I crumple my soda can. It makes me feel a whole lot stronger than I am. “My point exactly. It’s not. And I’m done answering your questions.”

  He stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll question you if I want.”

  “Or what? Are you going to rat me out?”

  Graham says, “I don’t care about you or your books.”

  My heart is going to hammer out of my chest. I take a few deep breaths. When the words come, my tone is deadly. “You know, you say you ‘can’t have this,’ but you’re wrong about that. You can’t have me. I don’t even like you anymore.”

  Graham’s shoulders slump a fraction. He doesn’t look nearly as confident as he did a moment ago. “If you end this, we’re over for good. I mean it. There’s no going back.”

  I look deep into his blue eyes and slowly close the space between us. His apple Jolly Rancher breath catches and gusts in a warm burst across my skin. I lean in close, my voice soft in his ear. “I’ll make it simple for you. I. Choose. Books.”

  After the PTSA meeting, I lean against the cool metal door of Dad’s car. The smell of burning leaves is crisp, smoky, comforting. It brings me back to memories of hayrides with Kate. Marshmallows. Hot chocolate. Easier times before I realized just how strict my parents could be. Before I had a reason to notice. Maybe because they had two kids to focus on? This—all of this, the library, secrets, Graham, Emma—it would all feel so much easier if I had my sister to talk to.

  Dad emerges with a manila envelope tucked under his arm. “Hey, kiddo.”

  He slides into the seat and tunes the radio to the oldies station. Thankfully, I’ve had years of practice tuning it out.

  “And now,” the announcer says, “an update on the controversy at Dogwood Middle.

  “Parents are demanding answers as to why Natalie Bradshaw, the librarian whose actions sparked the movement against inappropriate books, is still employed by Dogwood Schools. The superintendent did not immediately respond to requests for comment.”

  Dad pushes the power button on the radio. “I heard you and Garrett Whitmore are getting close.”

  “It’s Graham. And no, we’re not.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Not happening.”

  I sneak a glance toward the driver’s side. Dad’s face is smooth and expressionless, not revealing the slightest hint of a storm brewing below the surface. He turns on his blinker and eases onto Willow.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about,” I say.

  He leans back in his seat. Less than two minutes until we’re home. “You know we have our reasons for not letting you date, right?”

  I nod. Yes. I’m too young. Got it.

  “Do I need to have a chat with his mom?”

  I whip my head to the side. “Dad!” I can’t read his face, which is still just as calm as ever. “No! You can’t do that. You’d ruin my life.” If he only knew how serious I am.

  It’s super-fast, but I think I catch the ghost of a smile flickering across his lips.

  * * *

  The next morning, Holes is waiting in the Little Free Library. Ms. Bradshaw said I’d like it. It’s about a kid who’s cursed with bad luck.

  I flip to the first few pages. There’s the message in blue ink:

  To Brendan, There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.

  Something flutters at the edge of the window of the house just as I tuck the book away in my bag. Someone saw me. I’m sure of it. I slip Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library into the box and grin. They have to like that one if they have a Little Free Library in their yard.

  I mull over the note in Holes. How do I fix a problem this big? My library is the only way I can fight back, but if the wrong people found out, everything would disappear. Graham got close enough. I can only imagine what would happen if he figured out I’m running a library. They’d take my books, I’d probably be expelled, and my family would kill me.

  Locker 319 has to stay a secret.

  * * *

  The air in the building is electric today, as if left over from last night’s storm. I don’t know what’s causing more of a stir: the kids packing the hallway leading to my locker, or Graham and Emma snuggled up on a bench with their arms around each other.

  My stomach lurches in a nausea dance.

  As if he senses my presence, Graham glances right at me over Emma’s shoulder. I don’t even flinch. I look back at him like, Oh, wow, look what YOU did. This is a demonstration, a show, a rebound meant to make me cry, which doesn’t make any sense at all. You have to lose something meaningful to cry. He doesn’t get it at all. I’m not upset about losing him. I’m upset about Emma.

  A light tap on my shoulder draws me away from the train wreck of my social life. “Hey,” a sixth grader I haven
’t met before says. “June?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  He runs his hand through his brown hair. “Do you have any Captain Underpants books?”

  I grin. “Nope. Not yet.”

  “It’s not for me,” he adds. “My little brother loves those books, but his school said they weren’t good for kids. I was hoping you might have it.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” What’s so wrong with a superhero saving the day in his underwear? It’s not going to make kids refuse to put on pants or anything.

  He shakes his head.

  “I’ve read those—what did the school think is wrong with them?”

  “They said they were offensive and couldn’t believe something with underpants in the title was in the school library.”

  I shake my head. “Oh no, not underpants! I do declare, what happened to decency?” I motion for him to follow. “They need to get a life. Seriously.”

  He frowns across the lobby at Graham. “Yeah, that’s a bit much right after breakfast,” he says.

  “Oh, I was talking about the elementary school,” I say. “But I see your point.”

  * * *

  Last year Emma borrowed my favorite white shirt, the gauzy one that made me feel as though I were floating, and dumped a whole glass of grape juice on it. Not on purpose, of course. She tried and tried to get the stain out, but it took hold of the fabric as if it had always been there. Nothing she did could fix it. She apologized for weeks afterward, and even though I told her it was okay, she still felt bad because she knew how much I loved it.

  I guess guys are different from shirts.

  Emma doesn’t speak to me when I get to art class because she doesn’t have to. Her face says it all.

  She won.

  I lost.

  The girl who stained my shirt is long gone.

  I think she sees the hurt on my face, because she smirks as she smears yellow acrylic paint over her sketch of a lopsided banana.