school bus brakes startled me awake. I had fallen asleep on the way to school, curled up on a bus seat all by myself in the third row. My eyes were so very heavy. Staying up all night discussing dragons with an elf you discovered in your pantry really takes a lot out of you.
I sighed. Another day of school beckoned. I typically loved school, though my pride would never let me admit this aloud. But after yesterday – well, the tasks of my usually daily life now seemed so mundane, so colorless. The skinny folding door at the front of the buss whistled open. Even though I was close to the front of the bus, I was waiting for everyone to vacate first. I never perfected the aisle shuffle – I ought to be able to just pop up and fall in with all the other kids deftly zippering into a straight line down the bus’s narrow central aisle. But I invariably felt like I was cutting off those behind me. And who am I to cut them off? So I wait.
I avoided looking up as each of my schoolmates shuffled past me. I didn’t dare betray the weird secrets I kept this morning. I feared if anyone stared at my face for longer than four seconds it would be revealed that I was harboring a wizard-like elf and that just yesterday I had missed all of third period because a dragon had appeared outside of math and I witnessed a magical floating rock in the park a few blocks away.
These were not things I felt like divulging. Accidentally or otherwise. So, I kept my head down. I hugged my black-covered sketch book in one arm against my chest, my other hand holding onto the strap of my backpack.
When I finally stood up, my left leg, which had been tucked under me, had fallen more deeply asleep than I had. Pins of needles shot through my leg and I squealed in discomfort. I nodded awkwardly at the bus driver as I clumsily stomped on my left foot a few times to try to force healthy feeling back into it.
The bus driver, a rectangular older woman with a few mustache hairs hiding in the shadow cast by her low baseball cap, just shook her head and repositioned her hands back on the giant steering wheel. Thinking my leg was no longer asleep, I started forward again. And completely missed the first step of the bus’s narrow stair leading to its open door.
“Geez, girl, watch it, would you?” the bus driver barked. “You’re ok, come on, I gotta get on with it!”
I don’t know why those few steps have to be so steep, and why that door has to be so skinny. But they are steep, and it is skinny. And my increasingly dilapidated backpack strap caught the metal railing as I tried to exit, and down I went again.
My backside hit the grooved steps hard. I dropped my sketch book; pages scattered everywhere. My midnight sketches of Baert and Dragon were exposed to the world! I yelped and hopped about, trying to retrieve the pages now dancing in the gusts of wind made my braking busses. My head was down, eyes focused only on the white sketch papers outfitted with my best recollection of peridiote. I ran straight into a pair of plaid-trousered legs. Mr. Simmons and his gross mustache were staring down at me.
“Eve. School is that way,” his nose hairs hissed at me. “Or am I catching you attempting truancy?”
What a way to begin the day.
I didn’t look up. I just crumpled the drawings in my hand and tossed them in a recycling bin as I trudged to the school’s austere brick entry. I walked through the main corridor, and something was different. I felt heavy. Not heavy of heart or spirit, like physically actually heavy. Like a zillion pounds heavy. My feet seemed unwilling to detach themselves from the glossy linoleum.
I clutched the straps of my backpack tightly; I was certain they were going to rip under this new unexplained weight and wondered if I had absentmindedly filled my pack with cement blocks. But where would I get cement blocks. Eve, you hilarious, ridiculous bird. I could hear my mother’s voice saying this, as she did so often, giggling a bit and shaking her head.
I was sweating. Great. Let’s add sweat to this banner day. I had gone maybe 20 feet and I was short of breath. Breathing hard, I focused on one leg at a time and forged ahead, slowly, dizzily. Kids whizzed past me.
A dreamscape unfolded in front of me: An eighth grader pushed aside a line of sixth graders blocking the vending machine. Mr. Kilpatrick, one of the history teachers, stood in the morning sea of arriving students waving vacantly to no one, just waving, waving. Tyrone from the debate team was timidly holding a sign soliciting new members. Some guys from the track team were pointing and laughing. Libby and her lemmings were sitting in a circle in the middle of the hall whispering sloppily into each other’s ears and then bursting into shrieking giggles.
Could they see my struggle? Everyone was right next me, before me, behind me, yet I seemed to hear their voices through a tunnel, sounds arriving at my ears muffled and distant. Each seemed oblivious of my presence. I spotted Jonah in his signature beanie and hoodie. I felt instantly tired, drowsy. Strange. Even though my night had been disrupted by a pantry elf, I had felt pretty well rested when I awoke this morning. (Oh. That’s right. I have a Nutter Butter-eating elf hiding at my house.)
I continued to heave one leg in front of the other. Must… make it … to … art …. I gasped for breath. Then yawned. WHY IS MY BODY SO CONFUSED RIGHT NOW? Jonah and Mr. Kilpatrick were now in deep discussion just ahead of me. Jonah’s brow was furrowed; I could see this even with his beanie pulled down tight. Mr. Kilpatrick slumped against the drinking fountain, his arms folded awkwardly across his lean body. They engaged in a sort of a stare-off, then nodded and walked off together. I don’t know why this exchange fascinated me so; it was just so random and awkward, the misfit tough kid and the brooding but tidy academic, the grungy beanie and the expertly creased pocket square.
My gaze was fixed on Jonah and Mr. Kilpatrick walking off. The further away they got, the louder the crowds of middle schoolers around me became, and the lighter my feet seemed to become. I forged ahead, feeling my own weight dissipate a little. Finally they were out of sight completely. Out of nowhere, like some force had been holding down a volume control for Life, every possible decibel increased around me. I heard the roar of students jostling about me, the sound of a soda can dropping through the vending machine, the slamming of doors, the relieved screech of the busses as they let off their brakes and started driving away outside. I found myself accidently running, surprised by my sudden liberation from that weighted-down sensation.
“Watch it, monster girl! You, like, so almost spilled my Pellegrino!”
It was Libby’s shrill voice, her exclamation met with a vapid echo from her subjects.
“Yeah! Watch it! Pellegrino, right!” they all chorused together.
I wanted to mock her choice of beverage – seriously? Italian sparkling water? In the morning? When you’re 14? – but I just shook my head and continued past them, trotting now. She did not like this. I heard a wave of “haayyyyyeeeeee!”s and more “OMG!”s behind me.
I was focused on getting to one place. Art would have to wait. Partly because I was a teensy bit more skillful at pretty much any medium than anyone else in that class, and partly because my brain was on overload and I just needed solitude. I needed undisturbed quite. I needed my sanctuary. The Library.
I heaved open the library’s double doors, wishing always to be granted a bit more pageantry in this action. They were just two standard-size blue metal doors with regular handles and the skinny pane of thick plastic window adorning each one. I wanted them to be forebodingly giant, maybe made of some ancient wood, and have a mighty handle on each and make a loud and distinct creeeeeeeeak when pulled open. I make my peace with the actual doors being so lackluster by insisting they both be flung open simultaneously to maximize drama and flair. Heaving them both open, though, is easier said than done. For I had to position my bag on the floor in front me, use both hands to heave both doors, and then swiftly kick my bag over the door’s threshold and enter the library before the heavy metal doors came swinging shut on me or my bag. I made it in, satisfied at how coordinated my door heaving was becoming. The lights turned on as I entered. Perfect. No one is here.
I liked being the only person in the library for a lot of reasons. But one of my favorite reasons is because the lights are motion-controlled. I often walk around the perimeter of the unlit room and zigzag in and out of the aisles, feeling powerful and regal at the notion that my mere presence turns darkness into light. And once I am gone from an area for a while, those lights shut off as if to reverently mourn my absence. My head held high, I marched around the tables and crisscrossed through the computers, casting my hands high, directing – nay, commanding – the heaving shadows to give way to royal brightness. Angling around my loyal subjects the bookshelves, I shot my arms to the right – lights! – to the left – lights! – straight in front – lights! … and Baert?!
“How ye daein?” Baert hopped upon a neighboring table and smoothed his purple poncho, relieving it of a tremendous amount of crumbs.
“Baert!” I hissed, “You can’t be here!” I grabbed him by his tiny arm and pulled him behind the big cart of unshelved books. I glanced frantically around to ensure we were alone.
“Boot I am here,” he responded calmly. “Aye, what might that be?”
In a single crouching leap, he bounded up to the top of the highest shelf before us. He peered down at me from his perch, his outer vest releasing even more crumbs as he gave me a dainty wave. His wiggling fingers were definitely mocking me.
“Baert, don’t!” I started.
He laughed and danced around, his little feet releasing a cloud of dust that sent a few spiders scurrying down the side of the old, metal shelf. It swayed gently under the elf’s pitter patter, a few books on its lower levels sliding ever so slightly out of their soldiered lineups. The sign designating their category came crashing down from its heights just as one of the library doors swung open.
In walked Ms. Neally. Her thick dark hair was still wet and swept into a bun atop her small head. She paused to sweep a strand of wiry hair away from her face, tilting her head toward the bookshelf nearest me. I stiffened and shuffled backward around the shelf away from view. The librarian’s office was to the left of the double doors, so she ought to be going in the opposite direction. She started this way, then paused.
Don’t turn right don’t turn right don’t turn right I silently pleaded. She adjusted her tortoise shell glasses, shifting the weight of her books and bags from both arms to just her left. Her tiny lovely face looked in my direction and she headed right toward me though I was certain she hadn’t actually seen me. She walked unwaveringly up to me, turning around the bookshelf I was so stoically statuesque behind.
“I sensed this would happen,” she finally said in almost a whisper, staring unblinkingly at me.
I squeezed my hands together tightly behind my back, rocking nervously from side to side. What I wanted to say to her was, How the deuce did you know I was right here? But I kept my mouth shut, searching for something else to converse about. Did this woman ever blink? Could I ask her that? My eyes darted upward toward Baert … Baert! Where had he gone?!
Ms. Neally was still staring at me in a way that made me finally believe the word “expressionless” to be real. I had heard this word applied to people before, in books or movies or even conversation from my mom. But I always rolled my eyes at it. Like, the human face is very revealing – you’re always emoting something. But not Ms. Neally. She might as well have been one of those stamped female outlines you see on bathroom doors. Blank. Totally expressionless. I went from being wildly nervous to genuinely fascinated. I wanted to poke her in the cheek, snap my fingers in front of her vacant eyes.
She finally let out a little cough, smiled at me, and walked forward. Her dainty healed loafers stopped before the fallen bookshelf sign. She frowned, gently set her armload upon the tiled floor and bent down, the folds of her floral skirt puffing out dramatically as she did so. Dusting off the placard, Ms. Neally reached as high as her small frame would allow, poised on the tips of her toes. She balanced the plastic, faded sign upon the second-to-highest shelf, then stood back and looked at her small task with great satisfaction.
“This entire section – Latin History – I curated myself, you know,” she said proudly. She pulled a dusty book off the second highest shelf, and, blowing a bit of dust off of its leathery cover, handed it to me.
“But I didn’t ask…,” I started, but Ms. Neally cut me off, forcing the book into my hands.
“Yes, curated this myself! The entire section,” she repeated self-importantly.
[For the rest of my life, and probably several lifetimes beyond that, I will hate, regret, rue, and cringe with despair and shame over saying what I said then.]
“Oh. I, um, really like curated ham.”
Ms. Neally looked sideways at me, her eyebrows raised, her face bemused now.
“Oh, Eve! You really are clever!” She burst into a fit of giggles and chortles, her guffaws remarkably loud for such a small person. Why was she laughing so hard?
I heard a snort from up above. I caught Baert holding one hand over his mouth, his small eyes squinting with laughter, his other hand slapping his little knee ferociously.
I shot a glare his way, pursing my lips, and gesturing violently for him to be quiet. Ms. Neally took a little handkerchief from her bag and wiped the lenses of her glasses. Still chuckling, she shook her head, reset her glasses on her delicate face, and, arming herself with her load of books and bags again, set off down the nonfiction aisle toward her office. I could hear giggle follow her as she walked away.
“Curated ham!” Baert burst out in a fit of laughter, rolling around precariously atop that still very high shelf, little clouds of dust dancing around him with every new roll and chortle. I left him up there, wheezing and gasping for breath in between in his hysteria.
Holding the mystery tome under my arm, I retrieved my backpack and started to stomp away. Then thought better of leaving a rogue elf loose in my middle school library. Sighing, I spun around, still glaring at him.
“Well? Are you done laughing at me for whatever reason?
“Only if you’d like tah eat some … some …” he broke off into wheezing glee once more. “CURED HAM! Yah like cuuuuured ham!” he finally blurted out, back to laughing and rolling about.
My face reddened. I, Eve, a dragonologist, publicly declared to enjoying curated ham. Not cured ham, all salty and delicious. Curated. Ham. CURATED.
“Uuuuggghhh,” I groaned, my face red. Baert’s snarky giggles continued as I trudged back toward him. I knew I wasn’t supposed to swear. But if ever I were going to, it would be in this moment of supreme humiliation.