The Fantastic Library Rescue and Other Major Plot Twists

by Deborah Lytton

  “You can ask her if you want,” I respond. Mom always says it can’t hurt to ask. I suppose that’s true even here, even with Mrs. Sablinsky. Maybe she has eight copies of something that is on our list.

  A bigger problem is bothering me though. I can’t stop thinking about what Mrs. Xia said about the library. A library without new books would be like a world without sunshine. What if students stop going because there isn’t anything new to read? Then Mrs. Xia would be all alone day after day. That’s why I say, “Daisy’s right. Let’s go back to the library.”

  I want to ask Mrs. Xia more questions about the budget cuts. And how long they will last. But when we get to the library door, we see a sign that reads New library hours: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday only.

  The budget cuts must be more serious than I thought. I hold the door open for everyone. My friends head for the shelves of fiction books. I hurry to the front desk where Mrs. Xia is repairing old books.

  “I saw the sign on the door,” I tell her. “Is that because of the budget cuts?” Mrs. Xia nods, and her mouth pinches on the sides like she is trying to keep her words in.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. Then I point to the stack of damaged books. “Can I help?” I love repairing books. It’s a way to give them new life so they can reach more readers.

  “I can always use help from my favorite junior librarian,” she says as she hands me the little bottle of special book glue.

  I take the top book off the stack. When I open it, the spine and the pages come apart. I use the little brush in the bottle to smooth a thin layer of glue onto the spine. Then I press the pages into place and hold.

  “What are you reading right now?” Mrs. Xia asks.

  “That’s sort of the trouble,” I admit. “Nothing. Either we agree and can’t find enough copies, or we can’t agree at all.” I don’t want to make her feel worse about the library not having enough copies for our book club so I think of something else to say. “I probably should be reading poetry though.” I sigh, remembering the blank page with only my name at the top. “We have this assignment where we have to write a poem. I come up with ideas and even write a few lines, but that’s all.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Xia claps her hands together and gets that book-people twinkle in her eyes. “Poetry is the most creative of the writing forms. Have you read much of it?”

  I shake my head. Other than the few poems we read in class, I haven’t read much at all.

  Mrs. Xia brushes the glue on a loose book page and slides it into place. I help with the single pages sometimes, and I am really careful to make sure the page numbers line up. No one wants to be on page 10 and then skip to page 35 just because the page was glued in the wrong spot.

  Mrs. Xia sets the repaired book to the side. “I have a whole shelf of poetry. Would you like to see?”

  She seems so happy that even though I am really enjoying gluing the books, I grin and say, “Absolutely.”

  Mrs. Xia takes me to the back of the library. I don’t usually spend much time in this section because most of the books are word puzzle books and books about computer games, things like that. Mrs. Xia points to the very last shelf near the bottom. There are about ten books of different shapes and sizes on it.

  “Maybe you will get some inspiration from these,” she says as she hands me a small white book that says Poems for Kids in letters made out of flowers on the cover.

  “Thank you,” I say as I sit down in the small chair near the window. Then, “Can I ask you something?”

  She smiles at me. “Of course, Ruby.” I know she expects that my question will have something to do with books. And it does. Kind of.

  “Is the district going to close the library?” This is my greatest fear. The one I have been afraid to even think about.

  Mrs. Xia sits down beside me. “I shouldn’t have told you about the budget cuts. It wasn’t appropriate for me to speak of such things with students. But the library isn’t closing. We’re just going through some changes. That’s all.” She pats me on the shoulder. “I don’t want you to worry. The library will always be here. And I’ll do my best to repair every book so that we keep as many as possible on the shelves.”

  Mrs. Xia leaves me alone after that. I open the book of poems and read through the first few before the bell rings. One thing I notice is that they don’t all rhyme. I also notice that nature is very popular. Some of them are even kind of funny.

  Siri and the rest of my friends meet me on the way to class. No one is holding a book, so that’s not a good sign.

  Charissa crosses her arms and gives me the report. “Here’s the thing. Unless we want to read a book of fairy tales, there isn’t anything here with more than three copies. Nothing we agree on anyway.”

  I’d read a book of fairy tales, but I can tell from the expressions on everyone else’s faces that this is a definite no. So we still don’t have a book to read. And now our days at the school library are limited. All in all, not the best lunch ever.

  • • •

  When we return to the classroom, something really unusual happens. Mrs. Sablinsky actually puts me in a good mood. She reminds us that tomorrow is Pajama Day. So everyone can come to school in their pajamas! (I love Pajama Day because everyone acts like it’s a giant sleepover even though we aren’t eating popcorn and staying up all night. You know that feeling when you are at a sleepover and you really want to go to sleep but you don’t want to be the first one? So you keep your eyes open even though they are as heavy as dictionaries. That’s the worst part of a sleepover. The best part is everything else!)

  After the exciting Pajama Day announcement, Mrs. Sablinsky tells us that we can have the rest of the day to work on our poetry assignments. Yippee! Mrs. S hands out our works in progress. (That’s a writer term.) When she gets to me, her lips pinch closed and her eyebrows rise so high that they disappear underneath her hair.

  “Ruby, this time is to write your poetry, not to daydream.”

  I nod. “I am working on it. I just started over, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Sablinsky’s eyebrows come back to their usual places. “Very well. As long as you’re making progress. Remember, it has to be finished in class.”

  “I know,” I say as I take the paper with my name on it. And nothing else.

  Which is exactly how the paper looks when Charlotte comes over to see how it’s going. Her poem is finished now too. She has written about books. Books? That’s my thing. Why didn’t I think of that?

  She asks me to read her poem. I have to admit, it’s really good. It rhymes and everything.

  “It is most impressive,” I tell her in my fake British accent. “I expect high marks for this poem.” When I use my British accent, I like to throw in some fancier words than usual. Sometimes it’s fun to try being someone else. Especially when the someone you are can’t think of a single subject to write about!

  “Thanks!” Charlotte says with a shy smile. I know reading hasn’t always been her favorite subject, even though it is now. I also know I had something to do with it.

  That’s why I add in my regular Ruby voice, “Seriously, Charlotte. I wish I had written this.” I do. I wish I had written anything!

  After she leaves, I look over at my neighbor, Jason. He’s sleeping as usual. Wait a minute. He’s filled an entire sheet of paper with writing! How in the world did he manage that without waking up?

  I look around the room. Everyone is writing except for the students walking around. Mrs. S lets us share completed creative writing with our classmates to get feedback. So that means all the students walking around the room are finished. That’s at least half the class. Even Will B is sharing his poem.

  Arrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhhh! I stare at the blank sheet.

  Poetry. Poetry. I remember the examples I read at lunch. They were all about feelings. Thoughts. I write fiction stories that are all about ad
venture. I think of the poem I wrote for Grandpa’s birthday. I could do something like that, I guess. But it wasn’t a poemy kind of poem. It was a birthday card kind of poem.

  I lean my arms on the desk and rest my chin on them. Maybe I could write about not being able to write.

  Or maybe I could write about…

  Mrs. Sablinsky cuts into my writer’s block by saying, “Only poems submitted on time will be eligible for the Poetry Read.”

  Great. Just great. Now if I don’t hurry up and write something, I won’t even get to read out loud. Then Grandpa and Gram will be sitting in the audience, and I won’t even be onstage.

  I am sitting in the classroom with a giant block of ice on the center of my desk. My imagination is completely frozen inside the ice. I can see dragon kings and talking gardens and islands made of jewels. The only way to free my imagination is to melt the block of ice. I just can’t figure out how. If only I could turn into a fire-breathing dragon. But without my imagination, that’s impossible. I tap my green pencil on the side of the ice. Nothing happens.

  And so my paper stays blank.

  Chapter 5

  Pizza and Dog Fur (But Not Together)

  Wednesday nights are Mom’s book club nights. Charlie’s Pizza delivers the weekly order of three pizzas at exactly 6:00 p.m. (two for us and one for book club). Between my writer’s block and the library news, I am really in the dumps so I don’t even run to the door when I hear the doorbell.

  I’ve been sitting on my bed telling Abe my sad story. Abe is the best listener. He looks at me with his big, brown eyes and doesn’t say a word until the entire story is finished. I know he can’t really speak. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he did one day. He’s just that smart.

  I admit I might even cry a little. Abe’s fur is a good place to stash tears when you don’t want anyone to see them. I’m not ready to talk about all of this yet. It’s still working its way through me, and I know sometimes if I share too early, I’m not able to hear advice. Right now, I don’t want to hear lists of the things I could write about. Because I’m the one that actually has to write the poem. Mom and Dad can’t write it for me. (They wouldn’t anyway because they are all about us doing our own work so we understand what we are learning.)

  “How can I be a famous author when I grow up if I can’t even write one teeny poem in class?” I whisper. “And what if everyone gives up on the Unicorns and Macarons reading together? Will they quit our book club completely?” That almost happened once before. And it was really and truly awful.

  I wrap my arms around Abe and hug tight. He is absolutely the best dog in the world. Just then, my brother Sam comes into my room. “Pizza’s here,” he says. “Want to watch Cupcake Champions with me?”

  Cupcake Champions is our favorite television show. In each episode, two teams compete to bake cupcakes with all these crazy ingredients. Then the judges decide which ones are the most delicious. The winning team moves up to the next level. Eventually, there will be a final bake-off and the winning Cupcake Champions will get a lot of money for their bakery.

  I shrug. I’m not really in the mood right now.

  Sam waves at me to come with him. “You know I can’t watch without you.”

  I sigh. “Fine.” Abe is off the bed before I am. He gets more excited about pizza night than anyone else in the family.

  The pizza is on the kitchen counter, so Sam fills his plate with five slices. I take two. Then we go into the family room. Connor is already waiting for us. He doesn’t like the show as much as we do, but he watches it anyway. That’s just how it is with my family. We take turns a lot.

  Sam flips on the television, and the show starts. The host wears really bright-colored suits and acts super-happy to talk about cupcakes. He introduces the judges and then the teams.

  We all sit on the sofa together. Abe manages to squeeze in between me and Connor. I like to tell myself he doesn’t want to be too far from me since he knows that I had a tough day. But I know he’s mostly here for the food.

  I bite into my pizza. It’s still hot and gooey. The cheese drips off the slice onto my plate. The host pulls a tablecloth off the table to reveal the special ingredients the bakers have to use in their cupcakes. “The Champion Challenge items for today are: chili flakes, mangoes, and bacon.”

  “Ewwwww! How will they possibly use bacon in cupcakes?” I ask Sam.

  Sam squints his eyes like he’s thinking about the possibilities. “It can be done. Bacon would pair nicely with chocolate. So would the chili flakes.”

  Chocolate and bacon? I don’t think so. Now chocolate and pickles would be another story.

  I see myself as a challenger on Cupcake Champions. I wear a bright-pink apron with my signature logo in the middle of it—a sparkling ruby. The three special ingredients I must use are: basil, cranberries, and pickles. No one has ever seen a more difficult challenge than this. But I know I can bake something scrumptious. I whip up a chocolate and pickle cupcake with cranberry and basil buttercream frosting. Then I top the cupcake with a candied pickle seed. The judges declare me the grand winner, and my cupcake goes in the Baking Hall of Fame.

  The bakers start sharing their ideas for their masterpieces and mixing them up. One baker is adding chocolate, just like Sam suggested. The other team is making more of a tropical cupcake with pineapple and coconut.

  Mom pops her head into the family room. “Book club is starting. Are you joining?”

  I turn to Sam. “Can you tell me who wins this round?”

  “You got it,” he answers. “But I already know it’s the chocolate cupcake.”

  “If you already know how it’s going to turn out, then let’s watch the news,” Connor suggests.

  “No way,” Sam answers.

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell Mom. I know from experience that a good read can fix almost anything. So I grab my notepad from my room and join Mom in the living room.

  Our living room is usually set up with a large sofa and two matching chairs facing the fireplace (which we almost never use) and a low wood table in front of them. Mom keeps some special books on the table. Big books about art in Italy and castles in Ireland.

  On book club nights, she moves chairs from the dining room into the living room and opens up the couch area so that there is a big ring of seating. The books on the table are replaced with a pitcher of lemonade, one large pizza, cups, plates, and napkins. Most of the group is already here. There are ten members altogether, but tonight only eight are here. Jessica’s mom just joined the book club, and the other ladies are Mom’s work friends.

  I say hello to everyone the way Grandpa taught me. I walk around the room and look each one in the eye while shaking hands. Grandpa says a good handshake should be direct and strong. Not too wimpy, but not too grippy. Then I sit down in a chair near Mom.

  “Is everyone finished with the book?” Mom asks.

  Hey, that’s my question! No, not really. I actually stole the question from Mom.

  Everyone is finished and ready to discuss the book. Even though I haven’t read it, I can learn a lot from listening. Everyone is ready with questions. Jessica’s mom asks the first one, “What was your takeaway from this read?”

  Mom leans over and whispers to me, “She’s asking what idea stayed with each of us after finishing the book.”

  I write a note on my notepad, “What was your takeaway?” I like that question. I’ll have to use it at our next meeting. If we ever find a book, that is.

  Each person shares a thought about what they learned from the book. Even though I am in fifth grade, and Mom’s book club is all grown-ups, our meetings aren’t that different. (Except that their meeting won’t be forced to end early because of a food fight!)

  Here’s what I learn:

  1. The book is nonfiction (so it’s a true story that really happened).

  2. It’s a
bout two friends who wanted to make a difference in the world.

  3. The friends began sewing special fancy quilts that they sold all over the country.

  4. They took all the money they made from selling the quilts and started a school that mothers could go to for free.

  5. Two of the first women to graduate from their school went on to become doctors, and two others became teachers.

  It sounds like a really good book. I am going to ask Mom if I can read it too. The story of the two friends gives me an idea about me and my friends. We might be able to make a difference too.

  I am sewing a quilt together. Only instead of flowers and checks, my fabric consists of all my favorite books. I am weaving the stories together. I sit in a chair sewing and sewing because my list of favorites keeps growing. The pages fit together in a pattern that creates its own story. One day, an art expert sees my work and asks to put it in a museum. My name is on a plaque above the quilt. Ruby Starr, Story Quilter.

  Dad’s home by the time the book club meeting is over. So we help Mom clean up the living room. I carry the cups, and Dad carries the plates.

  “I saw you were busy taking lots of notes tonight,” Dad tells me. He can balance all the plates in a stack on one hand. (He worked as a waiter during college.) Me, I can carry only two cups at a time, one in each hand.

  “It was a good meeting,” I answer. I set the cups in the sink. Then I turn to my dad. “Do you think one person can make a difference?” I run the faucet and rinse the cups. Dad sets the plates on the counter. Then he puts the rinsed cups into the dishwasher.

  “I do, Ruby. In fact, that’s what made me want to be a journalist. I wanted to be able to share true stories about people to inspire other people. When you hear about what is possible, it makes you believe.”

  Dad gives me one of the plates from the counter. I rinse, and he keeps loading the dishwasher.

  “Have you ever had writer’s block?” I ask before I know the words are out of my mouth. I have a habit of speaking without thinking. I thought I didn’t want to talk about the nonexistent poem, but I guess my heart wanted to talk even if my mind didn’t.