The sun was out that day, shining down radiantly upon green grass and snotty children. The sky was a pure blue, with a few pristine white clouds darting across its surface. Families picnicked, dogs barked, the park was filled with life and sound. St. Luka’s Library of Learning, on the other hand, sat ignorant of the outside glory, preferring to keep an aura of isolation and complacency.

 That's where I was: cooped up in a lifeless library with almost nothing to do, forbidden from enjoying the sheer splendor of the outdoors. Instead of the chirp of birds, I got to hear the erratic beep of the scanner; in place of the open air, I got the constant buzz of the air conditioner keeping the place at sub-zero temperatures year round. I didn’t want to be there that day. Hell, I didn’t want to be there any day. The only reason I took the job was because it was within walking distance of my house, and  I needed to pay my mom back for pouring an entire mug of water on my computer.  At least the pay was shit. I was receiving less than the legal minimum at 6.50 an hour, with a promise that “once we get more donations, honey,  the first thing we do will be to pay you in full for all the hard work you’ve done!”

Those were the words of my dreaded manager: Carol Ann. As far as I was concerned she was Satan incarnate, wearing faux snakeskin and cowgirl boots. Every part of the awful woman was modeled after the South. She had massive and stringy bleach-blonde hair, a huge red-lipstick covered gob, and a face full of plastic.

That day she had me organizing the microfiche slides for the third time in a month. This time she wanted them alphabetical by writer instead of by year. Next, she’d have me sorting them by relevance to the rise of Bruce Springsteen. I sat under the archaic machine surrounded by articles about everything from the best way to trim your hedges, to how to make it big in the cobbler business.

She clacked on the linoleum floor over to me, saying, “I also wanted to let you know that if you see anything referencing lobsters, destroy it. I don’t need those sea rats cluttering the collection”

“Right-e-o boss.” I said, unfazed at this point by her bizarre requests.

“It’s Ms. Ann to you,” she said,. In this light she looked like a cross between Angelina Jolie and Steve Buscemi. Or maybe Dave Bautista.  

 Luckily, I wasn’t alone in my monotony. I had a friend at St. Luka’s, at least I think he was my friend. Elijah Woodard. He was the only one in the entire Library that actually wanted to be there, besides for Carol Ann maybe. He lived a five minute walk away from St. Luka’s and made the trek in his tattered Reeboks almost daily during the summer. Being a scrawny, socially awkward sixth grader with no friends, he had nothing else to do besides keep his nose buried in every mystery novel in the place. He told me he had read the entirety of all the Sherlock Holmes stories the summer before, and I honestly didn’t believe him until I saw the rate at which he tore through Agatha Christie. He’d start And Then There Were None one day and be halfway through Endless Night the next. 

Our relationship consisted mostly of me working and him reading in close proximity, ignoring me as I mused out loud about anything that came to mind. Sometimes he would chime in on what he thought about whale sharks being pets or bringing the moon a few inches closer so we could see it better, but for the most part, as he was doing right now, he stayed silent. 

Despite how engrossed and absolutely invested I was in my library duties I was distracted by a sound that was only heard in the library a few times a day. The slow whrrr of the sliding doors. Perching on a stepstool, I poked my head out above the historical fiction section trying to seem like I wasn’t creeping on the new arrival to St. Luka’s. 

Then she walked in. Like the royalty of old England, she commanded the room simply with her presence. She wore a white blouse fit for Victoria herself, a black skirt swirling with astrological signs of every color, and with each thud of her dark blue Doc Martens’ on the tile flooring I felt my heartbeat quicken ever so slightly. No one like her had ever walked through those doors before.

I promptly fell off the step stool, tumbling to the ground and crumpling a few microfiche. I hoped they were about lobsters.

“Oof,” said Elijah, not raising his eyes from The Maltese Falcon.

I clambered to my feet, hoping I hadn’t made too much of a racket. I listened to the silence of the library around me, praying she hadn’t heard and wasn’t coming to investigate. This couldn’t my first impression. After a few seconds I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and turned to clean up the mess I had made.

“Is everything okay back there?” a soft voice called from just behind the shelf.

I bolted.

Running from the historical fiction section, I took a left and came to the only place I knew I’d be safe. The Playroom.

It was always a mess in there, as none of the kids ever put their toys away and trying to keep it orderly was a futile effort that even Carol Ann had abandoned years ago. Now she just pretended it didn’t exist. In July this room was especially messy as the traffic of kids increased with the institution of St. Luka’s Delectable Daycare (name chosen by Carol Ann of course). The only rules were that one adult had to be present, and no one outside of the library staff and the children were allowed in. The employee on watch duty was ancient Mrs. Hallowitz and I’d only seen her awake probably five times in my life. It was a perfect haven.

The kid in the daycare wanted to be at St. Luka’s even less than I did. As a result, we bonded over our shared hatred of the wretched building. We played together regularly, their favorite game: Trial. I served as judge, a young girl named Gabriella the bailiff. That day we had a particularly interesting case.

“Ms. Gabriella, what is today’s case?” I said, in my best judge voice.

“Your honor!” she said, saluting me and giggling through her words. “Today the state of North Mississippi is accusing one, Mr. Garfield--what’s his last name?”

“Um--the Cat?”

“Oh, right--One Mr. Garfield the Cat of several accounts of tax evasion!” she said.

In an unusual turn of events the jury actually issued his harsh sentencing, and the poor orange cat was executed by the popular method of immediate defenestration. Instead of being commended for our valiant act of justice, Carol Anne acknowledged our existence for once and broke into the courtroom. She gave us a lecture about “respect for government property” and I tried to explain to her that we were only doing our civil duty by getting these depraved, lasagna-crazed, Monday-hating vagrants off our streets, but she refused to listen to logic. I suspected she might be a Garfield sympathizer. She continued to berate me not only for executing the wretched scum of a cat, but also for leaving the microfiche a mess. Apparently, some “girl covered in satanic symbols” had organized them after I left. I immediately realized she was talking about the girl from earlier, the satanic symbols being her skirt of astrological signs. God, I hoped those signs didn’t pertain to my future. I was then ejected from the courtroom.

Shit. Now I had to find another place to hide. I scanned my immediate vicinity, looking for any sign that she was near.

“She’s in the historical fiction section, next to the small fish machine”

I whirled around and came face to face with Elijah. Well, face to book. He was still reading.

“Jesus,  Elijah, you can’t just do that to people!” I said, “What makes you think I even want to know where she is, anyway?”

He glanced up from a copy of  The Cask of Amontillado “You literally hid with children to avoid her.” He continued reading  “Just go talk to her.”

He was annoyingly right, like usual. “Well, Elijah, some of us are emotional cowards and don’t know how to process our feelings, so get off my case.”

“Or you can keep hiding from her and never know what love feels like. Your choice.” He turned and began to walk away, reading all the while.

“Yeah well, what do you know about love?” I called after him. “And by the way, it's called microfiche not small fish,” But he was already gone.

This was it. Hiding was stupid and dumb and I was only acting on my monkey brain’s impulses. She was just a human being, how hard could she be to talk to?

            I made my way back to the historical fiction section, my heart racing but nothing in my mind but determination. I was going to talk to this girl. I was going to be charming. I was going to be funny. I was going to come off as a likable and easy going gal to her.  But before I could be any of these things though, I was accosted by a woman in a mustard skirt suit with permed, brown hair, already spewing gossip at me.

            “You will not believe what happened, darling!” She said, seizing my hand and dragging me away from the historical fiction section towards the sitting area.

            “Janet, I’m sorry this is not the time.” I said struggling to free myself from the vise of her hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip, probably developed from grabbing at her four children.

            “But you always listen!” She said, forcing me into a rolly chair “And I’m sure you want to listen now”

            Janet was, at her core, a busybody. She always needed to know what was happening in everyone’s lives. Who they were with, who they had been with, what was the worst thing they had done, were they at risk for breast cancer, whatever happened to their third cousin twice removed, etcetera, etcetera. And she would do anything to be in on a secret, or some inside joke, or anything of the sort. Her desire to know everything about someone was only overridden by one other thing. Her desire to spread what she knew.

Janet wore a skirt suit not to be professional or because her work required it, she only wore it because it made her feel more “vintage,” whatever that meant. More power to her I guess. She came to the library because she liked to escape her four children. She loved them, she said, but they were just so damn loud sometimes. I always agreed with her, like I had kids of my own. For some reason, she believed that (along with every other lie I told her) despite the fact I’m only 17. I wonder how old she thought I was. Janet also came to the library to spew hot gossip to the only person who would always listen: me. That day I was not the normal compliant audience member I usually was, but after a little coercion, I decided to stay. A part of me wanted to hear what she had to say anyways.

“Can you believe that Sandra really thought Marie wouldn’t notice? I mean, she had just bought her daughter the same doll just the week before, and if Sandra thought she could get away with that, honey, she has another thing coming.”

“Well that’s Sandra for you.” I said, not knowing who Sandra was.

“I mean it’s bad enough that both their daughters are playing with them now, but what makes it worse is that they’re absolutely hideous! I wouldn’t let my little Becky be caught dead playing with anything before the astronaut Barbie era.”

She talked at me for a few minutes until she finally realized that she had forgotten to have anyone watch her kids when she left. A+ parenting right there, Janet.

Ironically, her poor maternal skills had saved me. Free from her dirty laundry, I continued my trek to the historical fiction section. The short walk now felt like a pilgrimage, me forcing my legs to move each step of the way. My previous determination had left me completely.

I turned around a bookshelf and there she was.

She sat cross legged, her Doc Martens hidden in her skirt. Next to her sat a neat stack of microfiche slides and, next to that, a small pile of bent and broken ones. Her champagne hair hung over her face as she peered down, engrossed in some massive tome in her lap. As I drew closer I recognized it as The New Annotated Works of H.P. Lovecraft, probably the thickest book we owned in that library.

I came to a sudden stop a few feet away from her, my legs refusing to take me any closer no matter how hard I tried to make them. Eldritch monsters from the very book she held churned and twisted in my stomach, grasping their hands upwards and around my rapidly beating heart, choking me, telling me I had to turn back around.

“Say something” hissed a voice to my left.

It was Elijah, his head between two books in the shelf, yet still turned down at whatever mystery novel he had moved onto. And I decided to do just that.

I prepared myself, ready to ruin any chance I had with this girl. Then, I opened my mouth, words tumbling forward.

To this day I still don’t know what I said. Maybe a short quip about how sick Lovecraftian stories are, despite his inherent racism, or maybe I delved into my extensive knowledge of Catherine the Great’s love affairs. Whatever it was, for some reason, and lucky for me, she found it cute.