Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

Two sixth graders in front of us disappear into the building. In just a moment, we’ll be out of the rain, and I’ll find out if I’m going to live another day without breaking my parents’ hearts. I hope.

  Brooke’s eyes widen. “Oh my gosh! Do your parents know about Matt?”

  “Oh yeah. My parents know everything around here.” If they don’t know yet, they will soon. Wait. They should’ve known about today’s search. Why didn’t they say anything about it?

  “Oh. Okay.” She looks slightly disappointed. The doors open, and Brooke and I step inside. The rain drips from our clothing and umbrellas and adds to the substantial puddle spilling from the waterlogged welcome mats.

  The line leads to a table staffed by two security officers. We step up to the empty slot ahead. “Bags down first, ladies,” one officer says, gesturing to the card table in front of him. They have to have found books on other kids by now. That means they’ll be looking extra hard. “One at a time.”

  Brooke’s bag goes first while I stand there helpless, watching my bag move up in the queue. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I picture the look on Dad’s face when they show him my bag. The betrayal he’ll feel. Mom’s panic when I get a lot worse than detention.

  The officer runs his purple-gloved hand down the sides of my bag. But instead of placing his other hand on the opposite side to feel for gaps, he holds up the strap so he can shine his flashlight into the bag. Don’t see it. Don’t see it. I’m staring so intently at him that I don’t hear the other officer call for me to move forward. “Today, please,” he says.

  I do as he says.

  The officer finishes with my bag and pushes it to the end of the table. I’m just zipping it shut when a whizzing movement, like something being tossed through the air, catches my eye over the standing crowd. I follow it to the ground.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  A trash bin from the cafeteria overflows with novels. My novels. Mr. Beeler stands with his arms crossed, his eyes growing bigger with each book added to the pile.

  They found what they were looking for.

  Abby pulls the gym door shut behind me, looking genuinely worried. “You’re sure no one followed you?”

  “Positive. They’re too busy working the front doors. You could roller-skate down the hall right now and no one would say anything.” I squint at her in the dim light. “No flashlight?”

  “I don’t feel like being expelled.”

  “You can’t get expelled for standing in a gym. We’d get our hands slapped, tops.”

  Even in the shadows, I can see the irritation lining her features. “Um, have you met these people? I wouldn’t put it past them right now. They could expel us for the other stuff we’ve done.”

  “They’d have to prove it. Do you have anything with you?”

  “In my locker, but it’s only there because I had to babysit last night. If it had been any other morning, June, I’d be sitting in Mr. Beeler’s office now. You?”

  I pat the bottom of my book bag.

  She laughs. “I should’ve known.” She slouches against the wall. “Hardly seems fair, does it? We’re still getting away with it while everyone else gets busted.”

  “I know. I feel terrible.”

  “Right?” She sighs. “But they knew the risks.”

  “We all did. Rule number one: Don’t get caught.”

  We sit on the cold floor.

  “What are we going to do?” I ask.

  Abby shakes her head. “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t help them. We can’t get the books back. It’s over.”

  “Not yet, it isn’t. Mr. Beeler doesn’t know about the locker. And not everyone got caught, you know.”

  She chuckles. “Did you see Mr. Beeler’s face? Priceless.”

  “Right? They just kept piling up. I think half the school is in his office right now.”

  “As long as they remember rule number two,” I say.

  “Yeah. They’d better.”

  Don’t squeal.

  * * *

  All anyone wants to talk about is who got busted this morning. I don’t blame them. Not when at least three students from my science class are missing. Near the end of the period, Ms. Langford says, “Remember, it’s so important that you know this so you’ll do well on the state exam. It’s fifteen percent of your grade, so if I were you, I’d pay very close attention to—”

  The intercom crackles to life. Mr. Beeler’s voice barks, “Students, faculty, and staff, it is a dark day here at Dogwood Middle. We need your help.”

  Ms. Langford resigns herself to listening at her desk.

  Mr. Beeler clears his threat. “If you know of anyone in possession of banned books, please notify a staff member immediately. Remember, any student caught with illegal books will face severe consequences. There will be an emergency PTSA meeting immediately following sixth period today to address this issue. I hope you’ll all plan to attend.”

  My mouth goes dry. Since when do they want us to go to PTSA meetings? I try to stay calm, but it gets harder with every passing second. First, my parents had to have known about the search today, and they didn’t tell me. And now they’re coming here? They can’t know I’m involved, can they?

  The intercom hisses, and then Mr. Beeler says, “One more thing: any student providing accurate information will receive a free yearbook this year.” There’s a final crackle, and then silence.

  I keep my eyes locked on the whiteboard, but it doesn’t matter. The whole room stares at me.

  Whatever I thought I could get away with—whatever I dreamed I could build right under their noses—the game has changed.

  Mom barges into the band room as soon as class ends and makes a beeline toward my seat. “Well? Where’s this Matt?”

  I take a step back. “I haven’t seen him today,” I say in a low voice.

  She glances at the corner where Graham and Emma are hugging. Her features pinch together like she’s just seen something horrific. “We need to address public displays of affection in the schools. That’s next.”

  The loudspeaker blasts in the cavernous space and rattles against the walls. “Students, parents, teachers, and staff, the auditorium is now open. Please begin making your way there for this afternoon’s meeting. We will begin promptly at three-forty-five.”

  “Well, I guess we’d better head that way,” Mom says.

  There’s already a line outside the auditorium, and people continue to stream in from the parking lot. Mom probably led the charge on the phone tree to notify all the parents. I can’t believe how many students are here. There are usually a few like me who are forced to come on occasion, but this isn’t normal. They can’t all be part of SCAR. We take our place in line behind Ms. Gibson.

  I’ve stood in two lines too many today.

  “I guess you heard about this morning,” I say.

  “Heard about it? Ha! My phone’s been ringing off the hook. We’re all shell-shocked. I’m just glad it’s not you.”

  My throat feels like it has sawdust in it all over again.

  “Your father and I both are. Can you imagine how all those parents felt when they received phone calls today? They must be so mortified.”

  I shouldn’t say anything, but I can’t help myself. “It’s not like the parents did it.”

  She turns away from the growing crowd and looks me in the eye. “Like it or not, what children do reflects on their parents.” She wraps her arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. “Which is why we’ve never been so proud.”

  And I’ve never felt so guilty. I don’t deserve any of the nice things she’s saying. “I’m nothing special,” I say. My boots are so interesting right now, I keep my eyes fixed on them.

  “I mean it, June. You really stepped up this month. I know it wasn’t easy, but we wouldn’t have done it if it
hadn’t been for your own good. Trust me, you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids.”

  Even if I live long enough to have kids and grandkids, I don’t think I’ll ever under—

  The loudspeaker roars back to life. “Attention. Attention, please. If you are not staying for the meeting, you should exit the building immediately. Please report directly to the auditorium if you wish to attend the PTSA meeting.”

  The crowd surges forward, and we move with it.

  I want to crawl into a hole and stay there until summer. No, scratch that. High school. Unfortunately, that’s not an option.

  “Just think of it. We’re here at this meeting today to fix a school-wide problem, and you get to hold your head up high knowing you rose above it all. That has to feel pretty good.”

  “Fantastic,” I say. My voice betrays me with a flat monotone instead of the chipper response I was going for.

  We pass through the double doors.

  “Can we sit in the back?” I whisper.

  “Nope. I’m going to show you off.” She strides all the way to the very front, and I trail after her, silently wishing I had an invisibility cloak. Madison’s eyes follow me down the aisle. Guess she gave up a shift at the diner to witness my downfall. Or worse, to signal it.

  Off to each side of the stage, burgundy curtains are tied back with coils of golden ropes. Across the table in the center is a dark cloth topped with water glasses and a pitcher beading at the sides with condensation. The leaders of the PTSA sit at the table talking quietly among themselves, with Dad and Mrs. Whitmore to the right. Dad’s face brightens when he sees me. Mrs. Whitmore’s does not.

  Mr. Beeler is off to the side, novel in hand, locked in an intense conversation with a dark-haired reporter. A small camera crew stands in front of them, the little red light on their camera aglow.

  I slouch down in my seat. Eyes follow my every movement. I won’t react because I can keep a secret, even when my insides are churning. But can everyone else?

  The double doors creak to a close behind us, and the house lights flicker. Mr. Beeler taps the mic, sending a screech through the speakers.

  I cringe.

  “Good afternoon,” Mr. Beeler says. “We have called this emergency meeting to address a problem at Dogwood Middle. As many of you have heard, we collected two hundred forty-two novels from the student body this morning.” A collective gasp ripples through the audience. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t an isolated case of one or two books. It is far worse than that. This is a—a movement that has gripped our students.” He replaces his glasses and shouts into the mic. “And I want it stopped!”

  Mom nods.

  “Parents, you may have noticed your children withdrawing over the last few weeks. Are they spending more time in their bedrooms? Do they arrive at school early and stay late? We’ve all noticed an increase in hallway traffic in key areas of the building. Given the number of books discovered this morning, we have our answer. Which is why all lockers are being searched by the safety committee at this very moment.”

  I breathe in. I breathe out. I am the picture of serenity. My mother pats my hand as if to say, See why we were so hard on you?

  I try to picture locker 319 in my mind. The neat rows of novels stacked by genre in alphabetical order. They’ll have a field day with it, except for one thing: no one has any ties at all to the locker.

  Not even me. I cover my smile with my hand and fake a yawn. Even if the notebook turns up, so what? Our names aren’t in it.

  Mr. Beeler nods at someone offstage.

  A blue bin rolls under the spotlights, flanked by two eighth graders. The wheels squeak under the weight of the contents. Something deep inside me cracks.

  When it reaches the center area in front of the table, the guys tip over the bin. Books rush out in a mound. The auditorium is deathly silent except for the sound of rustling papers. So many books. I haven’t seen them all in one place since this whole thing started. It’s beautiful. And my heart is breaking because it’s just a matter of time before they find the rest of them.

  The guys give the bin a final heave, knocking out the books jammed at the bottom.

  Mr. Beeler rises from the table. “That’s all, boys. Thank you.” They disappear into the shadows. Mr. Beeler plucks a book from the pile. “I had no idea what was really happening in my school.” He holds the book up to the audience. “Doll Bones.” He grimaces. “What are these kids reading?” I glance over my shoulder, only to find an entire auditorium of parents nodding in agreement. There isn’t one reasonable adult in the whole place? I rest my chin on my hand and resign myself to watching. Mr. Beeler tosses the book down and snatches another. “The Lightning Thief.” He casts it onto the pile.

  I can’t help but think of Matt. What did he say about that one? He loved the Greek mythology and said it was funny.

  Mr. Beeler nudges the pile with his foot. “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Witchcraft.” His face contorts in distaste. “I expect better. I demand better.”

  Better than Harry Potter? Good luck with that.

  Mom gives a vigorous nod.

  Dad looks right at me and smiles. The skin around his eyes crinkles, which means he’s genuinely happy. I shrink down in my seat.

  The back door opens. Mr. Hawkins walks in with a loaded library cart and says the three words I most dread: “We found it.” There’s my library for all to see. My life’s work.

  The murmurs are deafening.

  An eternity passes with each step Mr. Hawkins takes toward the stage. People crane their necks toward me.

  Mr. Beeler crouches down while Mr. Hawkins whispers in hushed tones. Mr. Beeler nods, then stands to address everyone. “Ladies and gentlemen, it appears we have our answer.” He gestures to the rolling cart parked in front of the stage. “Locker 319.”

  Not one student makes a sound.

  “Locker space at this school, used to house illegal literature.” He mops his forehead with a handkerchief and stuffs it in his pocket. “Parents, I know you want answers. Unfortunately, there is no registered owner of this locker, which makes the offense even more serious.”

  More whispers from the crowd.

  “Some of you—no, many of you—know the identity of the person responsible for this. I would urge you now to come forward.”

  The hum of the heater rests on my ears. A single bead of sweat trickles down my neck.

  No one speaks. No one moves. With each passing moment, I grow more hopeful. Is it even possible that out of the whole student body, no one is going to squeal? Not even Graham or Emma? I’ve never felt more accepted than I do right now.

  Mr. Beeler stares at each quadrant of the audience. This is that thing teachers do when they want to see who looks away. Then they stare at everyone else until they spill what they know. When his gaze falls upon my row, I stare back at him without flinching.

  Each second stretches into forever while the air grows more and more stifling. Every nerve in my body is set to go off from sheer panic. I will not fidget. I’m innocent until proven guilty.

  “Folks, I guess that’s it for now. We’ll keep all of you posted if there are new developments. Have a good evening.”

  Mr. Hawkins darts through the side door ahead of the crowd, and the news crew follows behind him. I force myself to relax my shoulders. It’s over.

  “Wait!” A parent steps toward the stage, smiling broadly and waving a large manila envelope at Mr. Beeler.

  The crowd stops.

  “I just found this envelope under my seat. It’s addressed to you—from a Graham Whitmore and…”

  Heat creeps up my neck, straight to my ears.

  “Emma Davenport.”

  My mouth falls open. I can’t breathe. It’s like my lungs are getting smaller by the seco
nd. Mom nudges me with her elbow, her forehead creased with worry.

  Mr. Beeler perks up. “Oh?”

  The parent hands the envelope to him.

  Mr. Beeler tears into it and drops the shredded pieces on the floor by the mountain of books.

  He holds a green notebook in his hands, examining a few pages at a time.

  I’m going to be sick. All those times Graham stood next to my locker, he was memorizing my locker combination. How could I have been so clueless? And then he must have realized I didn’t have a lock on my locker anymore. He didn’t have to look very far to find it.

  Mr. Beeler turns the pages faster. “Well. I had hoped for the name of the person responsible for this. Instead, I know the reading preferences of every superhero in this school.”

  A low murmur ripples through the crowd. He shakes his head. “I don’t see one actual student name in this entire book. But I have dates. I have titles. And some of you, it seems, even have overdue books.” He snaps the notebook shut and frowns. “It’s one thing to run an illegal library on public property. But to write this on the cover?” He holds up the notebook with my distinctive scrawl for all to see.

  And there are those words I wrote just a few short weeks ago:

  PROPERTY OF THE REBEL LIBRARIAN

  Mom stiffens next to me. My handwriting.

  My reaction is crucial. One misstep, and I might as well confess to the whole auditorium. I glance up at the notebook with my best bored expression.

  There will be no confession tonight. Rule number one: Don’t get caught.

  And then Mom turns to me and speaks carefully measured words that echo over the rickety wooden seats into infinity. “Alma June Harper. How could you?”

  Suspension sounds like it could be fun. You get to stay home from school. Watch TV, play video games, spend entirely too much time on your phone—if you have one.

  Not in my family. After completing homework, my options are: practice my flute, fix dinner for the family, stare out the window, clean the baseboards (Dad’s idea), or scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush. And that’s just on Monday. I don’t go back to school until Friday, so it’s going to be a long week.