When Eddie and Alfie and Min returned home to the crack-in-the-wall, they were greeted with a welcome such as you have never seen. The excitement was incredible! Never since Grandma Ruth’s Great Escape from the Glass Tank had there been such a glorious adventure in the family.
For the stay-at-home relatives, the weeks of waiting had been painful. So when all three adventurers walked in, alive and happy, it was almost too much to bear.
“Min! Eddie! Alfie!” came the cries. There was grabbing and hugging and clutching and clinging, and even a bit of crunching as everyone mobbed the arrivals.
“Back now!” hollered Pa finally. “Back off! Give them air, for gosh sake.”
“Pa’s right,” said Ma. “Get back!”
She swatted away a few grubs, and the rest of the family settled down.
Their faces all said the same thing.
Tell!
Please tell us the story of where you have been, and what you have done, and how you have managed to return from the Great Scary World of Outside.
And so began three days of stories.
Yes, it took that long.
To keep everyone going, there was a three-day feast. As it happened, there had been a pizza party in the classroom on Friday, with cake for dessert. Pa had led a few brave buglets on a daring raid before the Cleaner came, so there were plenty of bits and pieces to snack on when anyone felt hungry.
“So,” said Ma. “Tell us everything.”
Well, of course, as you know, there was a great deal to tell—far too much to repeat here. As Min and Eddie and Alfie started to describe their adventures, they realized that between them, they had experienced not one story, but many. Eddie was the one who gave the stories titles, and as you were there for the whole thing, you will probably recognize the titles he made up:
Aunt Min’s Terrible Accident
Eddie’s Heroic Journey
The Sinister Spider
The Great Page Turn
The Attack of the Killer Mop
The Secret of the Yellow Stickies
The Mysterious Midnight Mouse
The Ghost of Ferny Creek Library
Alfie Rides a Shoe
Actually, you may not recognize that last title. Even Eddie and Min didn’t recognize it.
“What?” said Eddie when Alfie first mentioned it. “What are you talking about? What shoe?”
“It’s how I GOT THERE,” said Alfie. “Nobody ever ASKED!”
It was true, Eddie realized. He had never asked. He had always assumed that Alfie had traveled to the Library the same way he did. A long, hard hike. One foot after another after another.
“I’m asking now,” said Eddie. “How did you get to the Library?”
“When I got to the classroom DOOR,” said Alfie, “it was SCARY! I was all by myself, and I didn’t know WHICH way to go! The hall was so BIG!”
“I know,” said Eddie. “So what did you do?”
“Nothing,” said Alfie. “I just WAITED.”
“For what?”
“For some CHILDREN,” said Alfie. “And then they came, and they were in a LINE, and they were carrying LIBRARY BOOKS!”
“And then?”
“One of them STOPPED to tie his SHOELACE. So I ran to his other shoelace and used it to crawl up. Onto his SHOE! It was like riding a HORSE, Eddie. Remember that story about COWBOY SMALL? It was like that! I hung onto the shoelace, and I RODE THE SHOE—all the way to the LIBRARY!”
Eddie was gobsmacked. So was everyone else. There was a moment of silence, then a cheer broke out from all the little bugs and grubs in the room.
“YAAAAAAAAAAAY!”
Eddie joined in. He couldn’t believe he had missed Alfie’s shoe story.
“Alfie,” he said. “I am sooo happy you followed me.”
Ma, of course, had a different reaction to Alfie Rides a Shoe. It was the same reaction she’d had to the Mop, Mouse, and Spider stories.
“Holy Egyptian scarab! What were you thinking!”
But she did listen—all the way through. And at the end, she always said the same thing. “Thank heavens that’s over, and you’re home safe.”
Eddie could tell, though, as he watched his mother, that she really did love the stories. She shushed anyone who interrupted, which was usually Alfie. And she often asked to have a part repeated. What she loved most were the stories about family. Anybody’s family, but especially her own.
Her favorite story, though it never got a title, was how Eddie had rescued Aunt Min from the drawer. After Ma heard that, she walked straight over to Eddie and gave him a hug.
“Oh, my brave little bug,” she said proudly, right in front of everyone.
Hearing that, Eddie remembered another moment, not long before, when he had stood on a book on the story-time carpet and read the following words:
“Oh, my brave little son,” said Mrs. Little proudly, as she kissed Stuart and thanked him.
“Thank you, Eddie,” said Ma now, with a big smile.
Eddie felt warm all through.
It turned out that everyone had a favorite story. Aunt Min loved The Great Page Turn. When Eddie showed how he had pushed, pushed, pushed to get the page to flop over, she clapped with such excitement that she flopped over sideways herself.
As for the younger bugs, well, most of them were like Alfie. They liked to be scared. They especially enjoyed The Attack of the Killer Mop. Eddie found himself exaggerating some bits, making the tidal wave even bigger than it had been, and the water even filthier. And when he demonstrated his swimming technique, his siblings couldn’t stop clapping.
Eddie loved telling stories to his family. But he couldn’t help wishing they could be written down somewhere, too, so they would last. Like the stories on the shelves of a Library.
“Well, why not?” said Min when he mentioned this longing. “Think of the writing you’ve done so far.”
“Oh, that wasn’t much,” said Eddie. “All I can write is tiny bits.”
“A writer’s a writer, no matter how small,” said Min.
Eddie smiled.
“And besides,” said Min. “I think you’re forgetting something.”
“What?”
“Your favorite word.”
“I have a favorite word?”
“Well, you use it in . . . difficult moments. You say it whenever you get into a jam.”
“Really?” said Eddie, puzzled.
“Yes, dear. Think about it.”
So Eddie did. He thought about the days on his big adventure when things had gotten tough. He thought about times when he’d felt that he just couldn’t do it. Too small. Too young. Too dreamy. Too green. He remembered that he had often felt useless or hopeless. He had even felt ready to give up.
“Thank you, Aunt Min,” he said, when at last he remembered the word.
He didn’t know what would come next. What he might do. Where he could go. What he would read, or write. But as Aunt Min had reminded him, he did know a word that would help him on his journey. He had known it all along. Funny, he thought, what a difference a word could make.
The first thing he was going to do when the family celebration was over was find some tools. A yellow sticky. A juicy berry. He would start by writing a message to himself. He would stick it up beside his sleeping place in the crack-in-the-wall, just like a poster in a library. He would read it every day.
His message would be simple.
One word.
try