Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

  I grin. “You don’t say.”

  “So, if you knew some people who, oh, I don’t know, wanted a quiet space to read, I think you just found it.” Matt winks, and my cheeks feel even warmer.

  He’s right. It’s the perfect hiding place. It’s exactly what we need. “Brilliant. Let’s tell everyone about it at lunch.”

  He smiles. “Hey, I wanted to give you something, but it’s not for your library, okay? It’s something just for you.” He steps closer.

  “For me?” My voice comes out as a whisper.

  He digs in his bag and hands me a flat brown package.

  “Can I open it now?” I bite my bottom lip just the teensiest bit.

  He shifts his weight to the other foot before he looks up at me. “Yeah.” He smiles a crooked grin.

  I’m not someone who opens things carefully to save paper. I rip right into it and am left holding The Velveteen Rabbit in my hands. The corners are bent, and the finish is smooth from years of use.

  I have no idea what to say. “It’s perfect.” I don’t know what I was expecting. But this gift actually screams June Harper.

  He offers a shy smile. “I thought you could use a book your parents won’t confiscate. Or edit. You can read this out in the open and everything.”

  I trace the outline of the rabbit on the cover with my finger. The finish there is extra thin, as though tiny fingers have also traced the bunny over time. “Thank you. I don’t think they’ll take this one.”

  He shakes his head. “They’d better not rewrite it, either! It’s a classic.”

  I laugh. “That reminds me—did you know Old Yeller didn’t die?”

  The corners of his mouth twitch. “It’s a miracle!” He whispers, “June, I think you’re sitting on a gold mine.”

  “Shut up.”

  “It’s true. You have the only copy in existence with a happy ending. You could probably retire off that.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I’m so lucky.” A strand of hair falls into my eyes.

  “And I’m—” He lifts his hand to my face. Do it. Tuck my hair behind my ear. Oh my gosh, what is even happening? Breathe, June. Breathe.

  But he stops himself and drops his hand. “I’m so late. See you at lunch?”

  I tuck my own hair behind my ear and nod.

  “Okay. Wait a minute after I leave so no one notices.” He cracks the door and peeks out. “Catch you later, Supergirl.”

  I wave him on.

  The Velveteen Rabbit. I lean against the wall and open the cover. Matt’s name is written on the inside flap in large, childlike block letters. To the right, there’s a note scribbled on the title page:

  June,

  You deserve something Real because you ARE Real. You just don’t know it yet.

  —Matt

  Real. There’s that word again. Not beautiful, not funny, not smart. Just Real.

  A yellow Post-it note peeks out on a page toward the end. I flip to it and find an arrow pointing to this passage:

  “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

  I slide down to the dusty hardwood floor with the book in my hands, staring at the words. Those beautiful words I know by heart that make me cry each time I read them, even though I can’t tell you why. They look different to me somehow. Because they were Matt’s. Because he wanted me to have them.

  * * *

  For the rest of the morning, it looks like the school is preparing for battle with all the teachers stationed in my hallway. During every class change, they study the crowd with coffee tumblers in hand. There are so many people in this corridor, I can hardly get to my lockers.

  “Hey, hold up!” Abby jostles a few sixth graders out of the way and falls into step next to me. “I think we need to cool it for today.”

  I chuckle. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  She raises an eyebrow over her perfectly shaded eye makeup. “Yeah, well.” She gestures to the crowd and I can’t help but be jealous of her flawless black nail polish. I can’t wear nail polish without it chipping off five minutes later. I blame my flute.

  We both give silent messages to the kids around us. I give what I hope is an imperceptible shake of my head to Olivia while Abby silently encourages a cluster of eighth graders to keep walking.

  “It’s time for us to go somewhere else,” she says. “Like, tomorrow.”

  “I know. We should’ve moved locations the minute Graham and I broke up. I thought we were being careful, but”—I glance around us—“all he needs is this locker, and it’s over.”

  Abby lowers her voice. “That’s not going to happen, June. We’ll be gone before anyone catches on!”

  I grin at her. “I like the way you think.”

  The warning bell rings.

  “Gotta go,” Abby says. “See you at lunch!”

  Twisting the lock’s dial in semicircles, I tug down on the casing. It pops out of the joint and confirms to the surrounding authority figures that all is normal. I’m just a kid casually opening a locker with enough banned books to be expelled.

  With my face blocking their view of my slightly ajar locker, I grin. Here I am in the open, and they don’t even see me.

  My fingers brush the side that houses my green spiral notebook. But instead of cardboard backing and looped wire, I touch cold metal. I dig deeper, but I’m still empty-handed. What if I’ve left it somewhere? No, that’s silly. I know I put it back. I must not have put it in the right spot.

  Taking a calming breath, I peek inside as much as I dare to open the door, and run my hand over every square inch of the locker as fast as I can. Then I lock it behind me. There’s no point lingering where I can be caught.

  The notebook is missing.

  Somewhere out there, someone has enough ammunition to bury me.

  All it would take is for my notebook to fall into the wrong hands, and I’m finished at Dogwood Middle. Forget making it to thirteen. Forget high school. Forget finding out what Real means.

  But I have to stay positive. There’s a reason our names are nowhere in that notebook. All it says is Property of the Rebel Librarian, and that could be anyone. My stomach gurgles at the thought of someone connecting me to it. But there are no cameras anywhere near locker 319. They can’t prove a thing.

  Who could’ve taken it? And why? Do they hate banned books? There are more than enough students in the Student Club for Appropriate Reading. If word got to them, they might do anything. A chill passes over me, popping goose bumps out all over my arms. Could this be something more personal? This is like one of those moments on a TV crime drama when the officers ask if you know anyone who’d want to hurt you.

  I so do. Let me count the suspects:

  1. Graham. He didn’t know about my secret locker before, but what if he figured it out? He’s still angry that I didn’t choose him.

  2. Emma. If Graham somehow found out, then she knows, too.

  After that, I don’t know. It could be anyone. But whoever it is, they’ve stood close enough to learn the combination for the lock. It wasn’t broken, it wasn’t damaged, and it opened just like it always does.

  This means they know I’m using the locker. There’s no anonymous librarian. They know.

  The question is, what are they going to do about it?

  * * *

  By the time I get to lunch, I’m in panic mode. “But I just had it in my hands this morning.”

  Dan leans forward in his chair. “Are you sure you put it
back?”

  “Positive.” I scrape a little matted gravy off the top of the tofu goo the cafeteria is calling beef tips. Dad got an email yesterday talking up the nutritional value of school lunches. So much for brown-bagging it. “I checked out Rules to a seventh grader, and then”—Matt told me we had to go, and then what? “I put it in locker 319.”

  “Time for us to move,” Abby says.

  I nod. “Past time.”

  “How about we set up in the gym tomorrow?” Matt says.

  “The gym? Are you serious?” Abby says.

  “He’s talking about the old gym,” I say. “It’s been open this whole week.”

  Abby’s curious gaze locks on me, and warmth creeps into my face.

  Matt says, “I’m thinking we could have a lookout stationed outside the door just like we do in the hallway. Then inside, June could swap books out of her backpack.” He smiles at me, and I feel his written words all over again. “That way we’re not tied to the locker, and we’re not creating traffic jams between classes.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll be sitting ducks there,” Abby says. “What if the person who stole the notebook knows it’s us? What if it’s Graham?”

  “What if it’s not?” Dan asks. “It could be some random person.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” Matt balls up his napkin. “But either way, we can’t go back to that locker.”

  * * *

  “He’s right. It’s perfect,” Abby says when I take her to the old gym.

  “Yeah, I thought so, too.” I spot the corner of a sketchbook sticking out of Abby’s bag. “You draw?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Can I see?” We sit on the bleachers together.

  She nods and hands it to me. The first pencil drawing is a little boy on a swing that’s so lifelike, I gasp. “Oh my gosh. This is amazing.”

  She looks down at her feet and smiles. “That’s my brother. Carlos.”

  I turn the page again to find a small dog rolling over with a toy in its mouth.

  “And who’s this?”

  “Sophie, the world’s most rotten dog.”

  “She looks adorable.”

  Abby laughs. “She knows it, too.”

  I turn the page again and nearly drop the sketchbook. It’s a cartoon of Mr. Beeler in his suit, standing with his fist raised to the sky. The dialogue bubble says I MUST stop them from reading! Behind him, there’s a door that reads BATHROOM, and he has a book tucked under his other arm. The print is tiny, but I can still make out the title: How to Ban Books.

  I laugh until I cry. “Abby Rodriguez! You are so bad!”

  She grins. “I’m in good company.”

  “I had no idea you could draw like this. This is like really, really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I like art, too, but I’m more of a painter. My stuff is nothing like yours. Seriously, you could work for Pixar.”

  “You think?”

  “Definitely. I’d love to see some of your other work. Especially if it’s like this.” I laugh at the drawing again.

  She brightens. “You want to come over after school next week?”

  “Yes!” It feels amazing to make plans with a friend, and suddenly I’m hit by how much I miss Emma.

  “Do you have a sketchbook?” Abby asks.

  I nod. “Yeah, but my pencil drawings are terrible. I’m better with watercolor.”

  “Oh stop. You should bring it with you. I want to see your stuff!”

  “Maybe,” I say. I’ve never shown any of my friends my work before outside art class.

  No one’s ever asked. I hand the sketchbook back to her, the cartoon of Mr. Beeler reminding me of locker 319. “So, who do you think took the notebook?”

  “If it wasn’t Graham, then I have no idea. But I don’t think they’ll keep us wondering long.”

  * * *

  It’s impossible to walk by the diner without salivating over the smell of fat from the deep fryer. Which is why when Matt asked if I wanted to go there after band, I didn’t think twice about it. We’re just friends heading to the diner, and there will be plenty of other kids there so it will be like a group thing.

  The jingling bells clatter against the wooden door and announce our arrival to at least ten Dogwood Middle kids, and some from the high school. They’re already wolfing down platters of onion rings and ice cream sundaes with extra whipped cream. I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven if half of them weren’t wearing their SCAR buttons.

  Pictures of varsity football players hang on the walls alongside pom-poms and a few framed jerseys from the 1950s. If it weren’t for the high schoolers snapping pics with their phones at the booth in the corner, I’d think I’d stepped back in time. But I love it. It screams comfort and I’ll take all I can get. It would only be more perfect if they had a band hat or two on display alongside all the sports.

  Matt leads me to a booth with cracked red seats. To my left, barstools line the counter, and at the end, a jukebox plays tunes from decades ago. A senior I lent Six of Crows to during band yesterday waves from behind a menu. This thing is so big now, there are even high schoolers in on it.

  Matt’s brown eyes meet mine and I feel myself relax. There are people I’ve known my whole life that I’ve never really been comfortable around. And then there’s Matt. We barely said two words to each other before this month, but when I’m around him, I don’t get nervous at all.

  He leans back and stretches his arm along the back of the seat. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in here before.”

  “I’ve been grounded.”

  He cracks a smile. “The whole time you’ve been in middle school?”

  I laugh. “Just lately. Before that, they didn’t want me to eat too much junk food, and we only came here on special occasions.”

  “What can I get you to drink?” says a hard voice to my left.

  I whip my head around so fast my ponytail swishes against my neck. Madison stands by our table looking ticked off. Of course. Her family owns the place. If I were ever allowed to come here, I might’ve known she helps out after school.

  “I’ll take a chocolate milk shake,” Matt says.

  She looks slightly flustered. A normal response when you’re waiting on a cute guy who’s sitting with someone you picked on all through elementary school.

  “Cherry Coke, please.” She’s going to spit in it. I know it, just like I know a black widow spider will set up camp in our mailbox after the first tulips bloom this spring. It’s what they do.

  Her face stretches into a forced smile. It contrasts with the dark rings that rim her blue eyes. “I’ll have that right out.” And then she’s gone.

  “You know, when everything with the library started, Madison told our whole class that she hated it anyway and didn’t care. She doesn’t like me, either.”

  “That’s two strikes as far as I’m concerned.” He winks.

  I wish I could flirt back without looking like I’m in pain, but that’s biologically impossible. So I just grin and shrug.

  “Why does she hate you?”

  I open my mouth to speak and then stop. “I don’t—”

  “One Cherry Coke and a chocolate shake.” Madison places the drinks on the table and shifts her weight to one hip. “Know what you want yet?” She smirks. “Or should I get you a book while you think about it?”

  Matt’s jaw drops.

  “What?” I say.

  She dismisses me with a wave. “Oh, wait. I had that backward. You get other people books now, don’t you?”

  I shake my head while the color drains from my face and act like everything is fine. It isn’t fine. Madison knows. “I’d like the special, with extra-crispy fries.”

  “Make that two.”

  She walks to the counter,
impales the order on the metal spike, and spins the wheel back to the cook.

  “I can’t believe that just happened! June. She’s not someone we want to know about us.” Matt takes a sip of his milk shake. “What in the world happened with you two?”

  “We were friends when we were little, but all that changed when Emma moved here.” I shrug. “I started inviting Emma to play with us, and before I knew it, I was spending all my time with Emma. I didn’t mean for it to happen. But it did, and Madison has hated me ever since.”

  He frowns. “What made Emma so great?”

  In second grade, Emma moved here in the middle of the year and took the desk in front of mine. While she introduced herself at the front of the room, I spotted Beezus and Ramona and a Junie B. Jones book peeking out of her bag. I knew right then that we’d be friends. We bonded over books. And then there was so much more. Girl Scout camp, eavesdropping on Kate’s phone calls, learning to play flute together. When her grandmother was really sick in the hospital, I brought Emma a book and she cried when she saw me. But I don’t know how to say all of that. “We both loved books.”

  Matt shakes his head. “Really?”

  “Yeah, well, I guess things changed. For everyone.”

  “And Madison is still upset about it. Is she upset enough to break into your locker?”

  “I don’t think so.” I lean back in my seat. “You can’t say anything, okay? Right now you have”—I lean closer—“maybe a fifty-fifty chance of eating something without a loogie in it. I’d hate for you to up those odds.” I grab his wrists. “Save yourself!”

  He cracks up. I realize my hands are on his and release them as quickly as I found them. For just a second, I think about Emma. If she had seen that a few weeks ago, she would’ve been so upset. There’s this unspoken rule that you’re never supposed to like your best friend’s crush. But I don’t have a best friend anymore, and I don’t think she even likes Matt. I don’t owe her anything.