She took a breath and began again. It sounded as if she’d given this speech many times too. “Some of the more popular types of items we loan out these days include musical instruments, sports equipment, and specialized cooking tools. Many New Yorkers like to give the occasional fondue party, for example, but they don’t want to devote the cupboard space to a lot of fondue pots. Or if you’re thinking of learning to play the piccolo, you might borrow one to see how you like it. In the late nineteenth century, specialized silver services were very popular. In the 1970s, it was wood lathes. Lately there’s been a run on—oh dear!” She broke off as a girl around my age appeared from between a pair of cabinets with a slip of paper in her hand. “There’s another one, I bet.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Callender. Dr. Rust is out and there’s a patron who needs to borrow something from the Grimm Collection. Can you handle the deposit?” asked the girl.
“Of course. Thanks, Anjali.” Ms. Callender turned to me. “I’m sorry, hon, we’ll have to finish up later. Here, I need you to fill out these forms. You can leave them with Anjali when you’re done, and I’ll see you—let’s see, when’s your first shift? Tuesday. I’m so glad to have you with us, honey—it’ll be a big help. And I hope you’ll come to love the repository as much as we do.” She shook my hand vigorously and vanished between a pair of cabinets.
“She seems friendly,” I said.
“Ms. Callender? She’s a honey,” said Anjali.
Marc grinned at her.
I sat down at one of the heavy oak desks to fill out my forms. Anjali leaned against it. She was medium height, with cascades of black hair, amber-tan skin, and brown eyes under perfectly arched eyebrows. I had always wanted eyebrows like that. Mine are straight and kind of plain.
“I’m Elizabeth Rew,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. I’m Anjali Rao.”
“Hey, can I ask a question?” I asked.
Anjali and Marc intoned in unison, “The one who asks questions does not lose his way!” Then they smiled at each other.
“What’s the Grimm Collection?”
The smiles vanished and they glanced at each other. “Don’t worry about that for now,” said Anjali.
“Oh. Okay,” I said, feeling a little snubbed. There was an awkward silence. “So,” I tried again, “what do they pay us around here?”
“Eighty-five percent of minimum wage,” said Marc.
“How can they call it the minimum, then?” I objected.
“It doesn’t seem fair, does it? We’re students, so they’re allowed to pay us less,” said Anjali.
I thought about it. “I guess it could be worse.”
“You could get more flipping burgers—but then you’d have to flip burgers,” said Marc. “This place smells a lot better.”
“Except Stack 8,” said Anjali.
They both snorted. I wanted to ask what Stack 8 was, but I didn’t want to risk being told to mind my own business again.
“So, Elizabeth,” said Anjali, “where did you put the memorial button?”
“The what?”
“The button with human hair.”
“It’s downstairs with Dr. Rust.”
“No, I mean what category did you put it in?”
“With the things made of animal parts. Why, where did you put it?” I asked Anjali.
“Mid-nineteenth century. But now I think it should have gone in eighteenth. Doesn’t matter, I still got the job. What about the barrette?”
“What barrette? There was no barrette, just buttons. Oh, and a zipper.”
“A zipper! How interesting. I wonder what that means. What about you, Merritt, did you get a zipper or a barrette? Do you remember?”
“I got a belt buckle and an electric switch,” said Marc. “And the memorial button.”
“Really? That’s two extras besides the button box. I only got one.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Doc was too happy when I put the belt buckle in with the nails. I think the electric switch was like giving me a second chance to prove myself.”
“What nails?” I said.
“Oh, you didn’t get any nails?” said Anjali. “I did. They were in the button box.”
A pneum thumped into the basket. She went to get it.
“Are you on 9 with us now?” Marc asked her. “I thought you were down in the Dungeon today.”
“I am, but it’s okay, I’m on break. I have another ten minutes.” She handed Marc the slip. “Do you think Doc ever flunks anybody for sorting the buttons wrong?”
“Wrong how?” asked Marc.
“I don’t know, maybe if you did something really obvious, like lining them up by size.”
Marc looked a little embarrassed; I wondered whether he’d lined the buttons up by size. I knew how he felt—I’d done it myself. Well, I’d used size and color together, but close enough.
He studied the slip and headed off down the room. I gazed after him, admiring his walk.
“So you go to Fisher with Merritt?” asked Anjali.
“Yes, where do you go?”
“Miss Wharton’s School,” she said. It was a fancy all-girls’ private school near Fisher. When I went to Chase, we used to be in the same sports league for the girls’ teams. I wondered whether she would be stuck up—Miss Wharton’s had that reputation. But she seemed nice enough so far.
I finished the forms and handed them to her. “That’s it, I guess. How do I get out of here? This building’s a little confusing, and I don’t have a great sense of direction,” I said.
“Just take the elevator to the lobby.”
I looked at the three little elevators doubtfully. “What elevator?” I asked.
Anjali laughed. “Oh, did Merritt make you climb up all those stairs? He’s such a he-man! I didn’t mean the dumbwaiters—I meant the real, live, person-size elevator. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I put on my coat and followed her through a fire door. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s about time they finally hired somebody,” she said.
That made two people today who’d told me they were glad to have me around—the first two in years. I had a feeling I was going to like this place.
“It’s been extra busy since Mona disappeared, and sort of spooky,” Anjali whispered.
“Someone disappeared?” I asked.
“Mona Chen, one of the pages.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I don’t know. Ms. Callender thinks she went back to Taiwan with her family, but she never said good-bye, and that’s not like her. Marc and I are trying to find out what happened to her. We think it may have something to do with . . .” She stopped.
“With what?”
“I’m sorry. Never mind. You’re going to think I’m crazy. And I don’t want to scare you away before you’ve even started! But I did think I should warn you.”
“Warn me about what? Scare me how?” There was something almost gothic about this place, with the mysterious collection Anjali and Marc wouldn’t tell me about and now a disappearing page. I was less scared than intrigued.
Anjali paused. “Well, there are some wild rumors about a—about a flying creature that’s been following some of the patrons and pages around. They even say it snatched a repository object right out of a patron’s hands.”
“A flying creature? What do you mean?” This did sound crazy. Was Anjali fooling with me? She looked serious.
“I’ve heard it’s like a giant bird,” Anjali said. “At least that’s what they say. I don’t know if it’s true. But then Mona disappeared, and she was really scared about the bird and so I thought . . .”
“Wait,” I said. “Have you seen this bird yourself?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But sometimes I get the feeling something’s watching me.”
“That sounds pretty scary,” I said, not knowing how seriously to take her.
“Yeah, well . . .” She punched the elevator call button. “I don’t mean to freak you out. Just
, watch out for . . .” Anjali looked at me and smiled.
“For enormous birds that steal objects and kidnap pages,” I finished.
“Yeah, I know it sounds nuts. But after you work at this place for a while, you’ll start to get used to some pretty unlikely stuff.”
The elevator arrived and I got in. “See you Tuesday!”
“See you Tuesday, have a good weekend!”
Anjali waved as the doors closed. New friend or weirdo? I wondered. She seemed nice, anyway. It wouldn’t be so bad, I decided, if she turned out to be both.
Chapter 3:
A suspicious page
Dad was home alone when I got back from the repository.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “Are you just getting home from school?”
“School got out hours ago, Dad. Today I was interviewing for my new job,” I said. “Remember? I told you about it last week.”
“Oh, that’s right. Where is it again, the Historical Society?”
“No, the New-York Circulating Material Repository,” I reminded him. Dad used to remember things I told him, back when it was just the two of us.
“That’s that private museum with the beautiful stained-glass windows,” he said. “They’re famous. I’ve always meant to go see them.”
“It’s wonderful. You would love it; it’s your kind of place. You should come, especially now that I work there. I bet I could show you around, give you a tour,” I said.
We heard Cathy’s key in the front door and she burst into the room.
“Michael! Come look at the colors I’m considering for the bedroom.” Cathy was constantly repainting the apartment and was never quite satisfied with the results.
“Sure.” He followed her out.
“So you’ll come with me to the repository, Dad?” I asked.
“We’ll talk about it later, Elizabeth,” he said. I wondered if we ever would.
I went to my room and did my homework, rushing through my French so I could take my time with social studies. I wanted to read praise in Mr. Mauskopf’s brown ink when I got the homework back—well argued instead of sloppy thinking. I wanted to deserve it.
At lunch the next day, I stood with my tray listening to the roar of the cafeteria and feeling even more lonely than usual. I looked around for someone to sit with. I saw Mallory Mason across the room. If only I liked her! She would certainly be willing to sit with me, but I didn’t want to be her friend—she was as mean as the kids who picked on her, just less powerful. And sitting with her would spoil my chances of making other friends.
I looked around for other possibilities and spotted Katie Sanduski, a girl from my French class, but she had a book propped up against her backpack. She looked pretty absorbed.
At a table by the window, three girls from math class were talking and laughing and throwing the occasional corn chip at each other.
Should I interrupt Katie’s reading? Should I try to insert myself into the merry chip-tossing trio?
Katie, I decided. Interrupting one person should be easier than interrupting three. But just as I made up my mind, Katie closed her book and got up to bus her tray.
Nothing else for it, then. Maddie, Samantha, and Jo. Gathering my courage, I threaded my way toward them. Before I could reach them, though, three more girls—ones I didn’t know—descended on the table with shrieks and claimed the last three spots.
I turned aside and sat at the nearest empty seat. A couple kids glanced at me, then glanced away. A puddle of spilled soda divided me from them. I ate as quickly as I could and left the cafeteria.
I was ten minutes early to social studies. Peeking through the window in the door, I saw Mr. Mauskopf sitting at his desk alone.
He saw me too. “Come in, Elizabeth,” he said, beckoning with his long arm.
“Hi, Mr. Mauskopf.” I shut the door behind me. “Want my homework?”
“Thank you. So? Did you take the job at the repository?”
I nodded. “I start Tuesday.”
“And how do you find it so far?”
“Pretty interesting,” I said. Weird was the word I really meant, but I didn’t quite feel comfortable saying so to Mr. Mauskopf. “All those zillions of objects. The people there seem really nice. Ms. Callender’s so friendly. And the building is cool too, with the marble floors and all the fancy carved doors. It’s so much bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside.”
“Did you see the famous Tiffany windows?”
“No, my dad mentioned them, but I haven’t seen them yet. Where are they?”
“In the Main Examination Room.”
“Oh. Is that in, like, the medical section?”
Mr. Mauskopf laughed, although I wasn’t aware I’d made a joke. “Make sure you see them next time,” he said. “They’re spectacular.”
Then the rest of the kids came back from lunch and class began.
That afternoon I wished more than ever that I had some friends at school, since there was no one to notice the big event of the day: the great Marc Merritt greeting me in the hallway. At least, I think it’s fair to call it a greeting; he didn’t say anything, he just nodded at me.
I took that as permission to say, “Hi, Marc.” He was with some of his tall friends, though, so I didn’t press it. I heard him explain, “Girl from health ed,” as they walked on.
When I got to the library on Tuesday, Anjali was sitting behind the circulation desk. She sent me upstairs to find Ms. Callender on Stack 6, where the librarians—all except Dr. Rust—had their offices.
Ms. Callender showed me the time clock, a boxy machine mounted on the wall next to a rack of cards with names on them. I found my card and stuck it in the clock’s jaw. The machine chomped down violently, stamping it with the time.
“I’m going to start you off on 2, which is textiles—Textiles and Garb,” said Ms. Callender, punching the elevator button. “Stack 2 was always one of my favorites back when I was a page. If you feel the urge to try things on, well, I won’t tell. I never could resist when I was your age. Just stick to cotton, linen, and wool—they’re pretty sturdy—and make sure you pick the right sizes so you don’t rip anything.” She winked at me.
We went out through a fire door into a long, dim room, like Stack 9, only much more gloomy. “Why’s it so dark here?” I asked.
“We keep the textiles below ground level because of the light. Daylight is terrible for most fibers. It can make them fade or even fall apart. There are desk lamps, though, if you want to read. And the ladies’ room on this floor has a full-length mirror.”
The aisles between the cabinets stretched out into darkness. I heard footsteps echoing a long way off. “It’s spooky,” I said.
Ms. Callender smiled, making her round cheeks bunch up into apples. “You think so?” she said. “Most of the pages find Stack 1 the spookiest. Now, the first thing to remember: always wash your hands and wear gloves. The oils and acids on your skin can damage the cloth.” There was a sink near the dumbwaiters, along with a supply cabinet full of cotton gloves, padded hangers, tissue paper, and cardboard boxes stamped Archival.
“I don’t get it,” I said, washing my hands. “This is a circulating library, right? So people are checking out the clothing and wearing it. That’s got to be worse for it than me touching it with my hands.”
“Yes, you’re right. Technically, almost all of our holdings circulate,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean people can just do what they like with whatever they borrow—they have to return it in the same condition they received it in or they pay degradation fines. And the most valuable objects require a deposit.”
“How much do you have to pay if you get finger acid on something?”
“It depends what you’re handling. Not much if it’s just a T-shirt, more if it’s something like Lincoln’s hat or Marie Antoinette’s wig. With the important holdings, we have so many restrictions that nobody really borrows them but museums, and they certainly don’t wear them. We have an actuary on staff
to figure it all out.”
“Marie Antoinette’s wig! Can I see that?”
“Sure.” Ms. Callender touched a button and a dim light illuminated one of the aisles. We walked down it to a door marked *V, which she unlocked. “This is the Stack 2 Valuables Room—*V for Valuables,” she said. The room was crammed with labeled cabinets. She unlocked one and showed me rows of wigs on what looked like china heads. There were blond ones and black ones, wigs with intricate braids and simple buns, long curly wigs like the ones judges wear on British TV shows.
“I won’t take it out, but that one’s the queen’s,” said Ms. Callender, pointing to a white wig. It was tall and rather plain.
“Wow! Was she wearing it when she had her head cut off?” I asked. I looked for bloodstains but didn’t see any.
“No, no,” said Ms. Callender. “Ugh! No, that’s just one of her simpler weekday wigs. She gave it to a lady in waiting, who escaped the revolution disguised as a wig maker and made it to England, where she married a fur trader from Vermont. One of their descendants donated it in the 1960s. He got a tax write-off.”
“That’s amazing! Where’s Lincoln’s hat—can I see that too?”
“Maybe another time. Ask me again when we’re not busy, okay, honey? Now let me show you how to run a call slip.”
Ms. Callender locked up the *V Room carefully and we went back out to the Stack 2 staging area, where the sink and elevators were. A guy about my age was inspecting a call slip under one of the desk lamps.
“Hello, Aaron,” said Ms. Callender. “This is Elizabeth. I’m showing her how to run slips. Mind if we take that?”
“Not at all,” he said, handing her the paper. She spread it on the desk.
It read:
“For your purposes, the most important part is the call number,” said Ms. Callender. “It tells you where to find the object. We use a modified Dewey decimal system to organize the collection, like a conventional book library. The objects are grouped by subject. The first segment of the call number, the prefix—II T&G in this case—identifies the stack and collection: Stack 2, Textiles and Garb. After the prefix comes the Dewey decimal number.”
The Grimm Legacy Page 3
