Property of the Rebel Librarian

by Allison Varnes

  He clears his throat again. “Item one. Natalie Bradshaw. She has been suspended due to her endorsement of unsuitable books for children. Tonight we will determine whether she will continue her employment here. Now, is Ms. Bradshaw present?”

  I sit up straighter in my seat.

  “I’m here,” she says, standing near the front and approaching the podium. “I would like to address the board.” She’s wearing skinny jeans, dressy boots, and a blazer. Underneath it, her T-shirt reads BOOKS MATTER.

  Definitely not the safe choice. She’s my hero.

  He sighs. “You have five minutes.”

  She places her hands on both sides of the podium and grips the edges.

  The light on the camera facing the podium blinks red.

  “When I was hired to be the librarian at Dogwood Middle, one of the requirements was that I provide access to books. I did exactly that.”

  There are a few snickers.

  “Did I use poor judgment? I don’t think so. You have so many bright young people who love books. And I’ve got news for you: letting your kids read about magic, about rebels, about subjects that may be controversial, won’t lead them down the rabbit hole to failure. It will grow their humanity.

  “That’s why I do what I do. I believe children should have the opportunity to find themselves in books—scary ones, stories with adventure, characters who show them who they can be. They can handle it. They should also have the opportunity to meet different people in books. Yes, even people different from you. Is that not what education is? Broadening your knowledge from the world around you? Somewhere along the way, that has been forgotten.

  “I’m sorry if some members of the community took offense at my actions. However, I stand by my choices. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

  My mother gasps.

  Ms. Bradshaw stands in silence and awaits her fate.

  The chairperson taps the microphone and clears his throat once more to stop the murmurs running through the audience. “On the matter of continuing Natalie Bradshaw’s employment by the town of Dogwood, how do you vote?”

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  I feel like I’m watching a train wreck in slow motion.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  Dad reaches for Mom’s hand. I can’t believe this is happening.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  It’s over. There’s a majority vote.

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  Ms. Bradshaw tenses, waiting for the final blow.

  “Nay.”

  Many parents in the audience begin clapping, but surprisingly there are just as many boos. “Order, order,” says the chairperson. “Let the record show that Natalie Bradshaw’s employment by Dogwood Schools is terminated immediately.”

  Ms. Bradshaw turns around amid the camera flashes and strides up the aisle. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her shoulders squared. She looks fierce. I lean over my armrest, and her eyes meet mine. She squeezes my arm, just for a second, and says one word over the deafening applause.

  “Groupie.” And then she’s gone.

  I could cry. She was the best thing about Dogwood Middle. No question about it. She gave me somewhere I could just be me—not someone’s crush, not a band geek, not the perfect kid. I could just be. And that made it the best place of all. My heart feels like it’s frozen in place, and everything in me wants to howl at the unfairness of it.

  Someone a few aisles up blows a foghorn in celebration and brings me back to Earth. Ms. Bradshaw is paying the price for my parents’ actions, and I can’t do anything about it.

  But I can tell them what I think.

  The chairperson speaks into the mic. “Next we have Alma June Harper, whose parents have arranged for her to speak. Ms. Harper, are you present?”

  My legs carry me toward the podium, but I don’t know how. They’re about as supportive as jelly. Adrenaline grips my heart, thundering through my chest and unleashing a tidal wave of panic that wracks my entire being. Already, the sweat trickles under my arms. I knew I shouldn’t have worn a sweater. I’m going to have pit stains down to my elbows before I even start. I pluck a note card from my back pocket with the apology that my parents helped me write.

  And then a folded scrap of paper is pushed into my left hand, and Matt winks at me from his seat as I walk by. I take a deep breath and unfold it at the podium. It reads:

  Who knew superheroes were Real? You’ve got this, Supergirl.

  My shoulders relax just a touch, and I set Matt’s message next to my speech.

  “You have five minutes,” the chairperson says.

  I nod. This is it. No going back now. “Last month, I committed Dogwood’s biggest crime. I checked out a book that some people thought was too scary for me.”

  The audience murmurs.

  “There was nothing wrong with that book. And I like creepy. But no one listened. No one cared. Instead, they started a witch-hunt and drove out someone who helped me love books even more than I already did.

  “So tonight, since we’re all here over a book, I’m going to tell you a story.” I crumple up my speech.

  If Dad’s eyes could throw daggers, I’d be covered in wounds. But it’s my turn to speak, and I have four minutes and thirty-four seconds left.

  “The author’s visit was canceled. Yes, that’s right. She was going to travel here from across the country just to see us, and now she probably thinks we’re ridiculous.”

  A man chuckles somewhere in a row close to me.

  “Then they dumped the books they didn’t like from the library. Our teachers had to fill out a form for every single thing we read that wasn’t a textbook. But the school didn’t stop there. They said we’d be punished if we had unapproved texts. In other words, no books allowed without permission.

  “What good is an education that doesn’t require us to think? You don’t want us to read certain books because then we might ask the wrong questions. Instead, you’d rather give us test after test and then say our teachers have failed us.

  “They have not.

  “Ms. Bradshaw did not fail us.

  “You are failing us.

  “We need to think so we can figure things out for ourselves. Adults are always saying how we need to be responsible citizens, but how can we even learn what that means if you put the library on lockdown?

  “I thought about all that. And when I found a book I wanted to read, I read it. Then other people asked to read it, so I said yes.”

  My eyes land on Abby in the crowd, and she gives me a knowing smile.

  “It got bigger. Before I knew it, I had dozens of books and an empty locker to put them in. And you know what? Everyone started reading. I’ve never seen more students read at school in my life. It’s now the coolest thing to do, all because you said we couldn’t. It doesn’t matter that you took our books away. We found more. Go ahead and rip down the writing on the walls if you want. But you can’t change that we read them. It’s in here now,” I say with my hand over my heart. “And no matter what happens, you can’t take that away from me. Or anyone else.”

  From the waist up, I’m perfectly still. From the podium down, I’m quite literally shaking in my boots.

  “You forgot something in the middle of all this. We may be kids, but we’re smarter than you think. We will always find a way to get around what you say if we don’t agree with it. If you push, we will push back. If it’s not me, it will be three more kids just like me. It’s not going to go away. That’s the reality. You can let us make reasonable choices about what we read, or you can wrap us in Bubble Wrap and watch us find a way around it.

  “So what are you going to do? Are you going to keep punishing the whole school bec
ause we thought outside the box you tried to put us in? Will you do it in front of the entire nation?” I wave my arm toward the cameras. “They’re watching.

  “I’m not some troubled kid trying to destroy the community.

  “I am outraged.

  “I am censorship gone wrong.”

  I take a deep breath, brace my shoulders, and look directly into the camera lens. “I am the Rebel Librarian.”

  A collective gush of breath escapes the auditorium like air from a balloon. Lights pop in short bursts all around me, blinding and white and leaving dark splotches of brilliance when they go out. It overwhelms my senses. I focus on the video lens. It’s the one camera without a flash in this whole place.

  There are a few claps here and there, and then they morph into a slow clap. The beat grows faster and faster, rising over just as many boos. There’s never been anything so divisive here. At least not while I’ve been alive.

  The chairperson’s voice rings out over the sound system. “Quiet, please! Quiet!”

  He combs his fingers through a few wisps of white hair, his fair skin turning a rosy red. “Young lady, I don’t care if you are on national television. When you address the board, you should do it with respect!” He nods to the rest of the board.

  I don’t dare look at my parents. I can guess what they think about what I said. But I’m not ready to face that. I’m focused on this moment. On getting my chance to speak.

  “Wait just a minute, Ms. Harper,” a younger board member says. “You said a few things that I would like to address. Standardized tests are mandated by the state. We have no choice about that. I’m sorry if that clouds your idea of an ideal education, but it is what it is. And as for the books, we had every right to take them because they were found on school property. You lost all claim to them the moment you brought them on campus.” He nods at the chairperson.

  “You may be seated, Ms. Harper,” the chairperson says.

  I turn around to more popping lights. Every eye—human and electronic—in the entire place is on me. I slip into the aisle seat next to Mom and Dad. I can’t help it. I’m completely shell-shocked.

  “Item number three. Community members who wish to speak. Is there anyone who wishes to say a few words?”

  Abby stands in the front. Matt raises his hand and stands a few rows away. Dan pops up on the right. Then Olivia, who’s still waiting for me to find one of the Warriors books. Colby. Brooke. Ryan, who told me how much he loved The Crossover. One by one, they rise until I can’t see the school board members on the stage. Even Ms. Gibson stands, which blows my mind. I thought she taught The Crucible for a reason, but I wasn’t expecting this. Then I notice the other English teachers also rising to their feet. There are probably eighty students standing, but I can’t be sure—I can’t see above the mass of people. So I stand with them.

  Dad reaches out and tugs at my arm. I yank my arm away and remain standing.

  The cameras bathe us in more light.

  The chairperson’s voice echoes off the walls. “What is this?”

  More students stand.

  “I don’t know what kind of stunt you think you’re pulling, but you cannot all speak.”

  I think we’re speaking anyway.

  “Sit down!”

  “No!” comes a cry from near the front. “Listen to us!”

  The cameras keep clicking.

  “We have taken care of all official business. I see no one over eighteen standing who is actually a contributing member of the community, so I move to adjourn. All in favor?” I guess teachers don’t count, either.

  Wadded-up pieces of paper whiz through the air toward the stage. This is going to turn ugly fast. Everyone standing hollers in protest.

  The votes run through the table, all “ayes.”

  Someone darts to the podium, but I can’t see over the guys standing a few rows ahead. “My name is Matt Brownlee, and I came here to speak tonight because your policy says I can. What you’re doing is wrong, and you know it.”

  Pride swells deep in my chest. I peek at my mother out of the corner of my eye. She’s frowning and shaking her head.

  Matt says, “But it’s not too late. You can still do the right thing and fix this. Whatever you do—”

  “Point of order!” the chairperson yells, his complexion deepening to scarlet. He motions to someone offstage. “Cut the mic!”

  “Whatever you do, we’re just going to find a way—”

  The mic goes dead, and the telltale screech pings on my eardrums.

  “Meeting adjourned. Thank you, and good night.”

  “You can’t do that!” someone yells.

  But the board has already disappeared behind the stage curtain.

  “Let’s go,” Dad says. “This is getting out of hand.” He and Mom nudge me along and out the double doors into the lobby.

  The door shuts behind us, muffling the crowd’s protests.

  Reporters swarm like locusts the moment we emerge. “June! Tell us how you’re feeling now. Do you agree with the verdict of the board?”

  “Thank you, we’ll be going now,” Dad says, pushing his way through the crowd. “Excuse us.”

  I take a step to follow him and then stop. I think about Kate. There are cameras everywhere, and all I have to do is speak. “Wait.” The reporters turn back to me. “I have something to say.”

  “June!”

  “Sorry, Dad.” I turn to the cameras. “I’m devastated. Ms. Bradshaw wanted us to think, so she didn’t censor what we read. And it cost her her job. There’s so much wrong with that, I just—I have no words.”

  A woman with ABC on her mic says, “June, talk to us about why you chose Rebel Librarian to describe yourself. Is it because you don’t believe in rules?”

  I blink a few times. “No, that’s not it at all. I believe in the freedom to read. Most people around here would call that rebellion, so I thought I’d beat them to the punch.”

  “So if you could say one thing to America, what would it be?”

  I glance over at my parents, who wear expressions of quiet horror. Then I take a deep breath. “Don’t tell me what to read.”

  The reporter pivots and speaks into the lens. “Don’t tell her what to read, folks. Live from Dogwood Middle, that was June Harper, the Rebel Librarian.”

  * * *

  I sit at my favorite spot at the top of the stairs. Downstairs, Mom’s and Dad’s voices are clear.

  Dad says, “Well, that was a disaster.”

  “It was. And the whole country saw it.”

  “Oh well. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

  “I thought about taking her out of school.”

  “NO!” He laughs. “Then she’d be here with us all day.”

  “I wish we could protect her forever.”

  Dad says, “We can sure try.” He sighs. “I’m just so disappointed in her.”

  I drop my face into my hands and fight back the tears. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard my parents say they’re disappointed in me.

  Mom says, “The way she carried on like that in front of the whole world, and after we tried to guide her on what to say.”

  “I know,” Dad agrees.

  “Kate was so easy,” Mom says. “She never did anything like this. I didn’t see it coming.” My sleeve is wet from wiping my face, but I can’t pull myself away. I can’t be Kate. I never was.

  “You know what I think?”

  “Hmm?” Mom says.

  “I think June gets it from you.” I look up midsniffle. My mom? A rule breaker?

  “No, I think it’s you!”

  Dad laughs. “I’ll tell her a story or two when she’s older.”

  “Oh no you won’t!”

  They both laugh.

  “She did a
good job at the podium,” Mom says. “Even if it wasn’t what we wanted her to say.”

  I rest my chin on my hand. I wish I could’ve said what they wanted. I just couldn’t.

  “She did. Our kid is something else,” Dad says.

  “Which is why we have to ground her. Again.”

  “Absolutely. Can’t wait to see what she does in high school.”

  “Bite your tongue.” Mom sighs. “I’m just worried about—do you think June will ever look at us the way she used to?”

  “Having regrets, are you?”

  “No. We did the right thing. You know we did.” Mom pauses. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive us?” I lean my head against the wall and sigh. It’s going to take some time, but I’ll love them no matter what. They’re my parents.

  “Someday she will.”

  “But not today,” she says.

  Dad laughs. “Not a chance.”

  * * *

  The shrill ring of the kitchen phone the next afternoon hurts my ears. I ignore it, just as I’ve been directed to ignore it all day long. Dad’s checking the caller ID for the foreseeable future.

  A sticky note on the counter says Call your sister. I pitch it into the trash and do a double take. Under a pile of coffee grounds and orange peel, I can make out the word READ printed on newspaper. I glance toward Dad’s office and back toward the stairwell. I fish what’s left of the Dogwood Gazette out of the trash.

  DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO READ is the headline. Below it, there’s a picture of me standing at the podium. Another picture shows most of the students in the auditorium refusing to sit. There are even more students than I thought. And finally, there’s a picture of Ms. Bradshaw’s face when she hears the final vote. She looks heartbroken but not defeated. Resolved but not angry.

  I take a trembling breath and will myself to read the words.