Chapter 7 #2
I knock at my thighs with my fists, trying to release some of the frustration that’s starting to roil in me like a hot pot of water. “They all look like this. Everywhere but the den, at least.” That room gets a lot of sunlight and has more windows. That must have helped the paint dry.
“Big yikes.”
My wince is almost painful. “For the last time, you’re using that wrong.
” My mother loves to try to master whatever slang is currently popular.
She claims it’s relevant to her field of study on social media and communication, but I secretly think that she wants to be one of those “cool” teachers who can connect with her students.
Her eyes pan over me. “Why don’t you get out for a bit? You can look into that library job you were telling me about. Maybe see more of the town? I’ll tackle these walls after I get some coffee in me.”
“I can do them better.” My voice squeaks a little at the end. I feel like I’m being fired from a job. And I don’t fail at things. If I’m not sure I can do something one hundred percent right, I just don’t do it.
Mom squeezes my arm. “Painting in the summer is the worst. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I know you’d get them fixed up perfectly. But you don’t have to. You should get to relax. Enjoy yourself a little. We’ve had a long few days.”
I don’t know what she expects me to do for fun in this tiny town where I don’t know anyone except a dude with a ghost obsession (whose new video I refuse to watch, no matter how many times YouTube notifies me it’s available).
But I do want that library job. That at least could make this summer feel a little more like the one I had to give up.
To Mom’s delight, I reluctantly agree and head back to the den to change into something that says more clearly Hey, I want this job than my torn Taylor Swift T-shirt and an old pair of black bike shorts.
I settle on a red sundress with short sleeves and a tiered skirt, then add some white sneakers so I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.
My hair is tied back in a low ponytail with a few of the shorter layers framing my face.
I time my departure with the sounds of my mother washing up in the bathroom to avoid an interrogation about my outfit.
She’d want to go buy me a suit, even though it’s just a little part-time job, not the beginning of my career.
The air outside is sticky and warm, but it’s tempered by a gentle breeze that makes me decide to open the windows on the Pilot and switch off the AC. With Ariana Grande’s version of “Popular” crooning from the speakers, I bump my way down our long dirt road to the street.
The library is in the opposite direction from Carbs with Holes, and my maps app weaves me through the northern part of Harlow’s Rest, which is mostly full of large properties, like the Harlow Homestead, though these farms seem like they’re still active.
I pass fields full of leafy plants, and others with rows of cornstalks.
At one open gate is a sign inviting people to come pick their own strawberries.
A few more turns away, I spot a large paddock with horses grazing on the bright green grass.
The next farm over has a pasture full of cows across the road from a large red barn that apparently serves the best homemade ice cream in the state, if you believe the billboard out front.
Affixed above the entrance is a giant black-and-white cow holding an ice cream cone, with the shop’s name, à la Mooooooode, written below her in a red childlike font.
It’s not even eleven in the morning and already the gravel parking lot is half full and there’s a line forming at the door.
I make a mental note to drag Mom here sometime this week. We share the same goal of finding the perfect scoop of cookie dough ice cream.
I reach the library a few minutes later.
It sits across from town hall and the police station on a quaint little Main Street that has done its best to maintain its colonial charm.
Most of the buildings are two-storied, rectangular, and boxy.
They’re painted cream or white in color, with vibrant front doors in shades of yellow and red.
Every one is affixed with a historical plaque that lists all the notable people who lived or worked there.
In contrast to the other buildings, which are practically standing on top of each other, the town hall and the library are both surrounded by lots of green space and parking spots.
Town hall is large and sprawling, with a number of new additions, including the entryway with a pillared porch.
Its bright white paint and black shutters look recently redone.
The library has maintained its colonial architecture, but unlike the others with their muted colors, it’s bright blue with a canary-yellow door.
There are flower boxes in the windows that add bursts of pink and white and purple, and blooming hydrangea bushes line the front.
There’s a spot right on the street, so I grab that and rush inside. Partly to keep from melting in the humid air, but also because I love libraries and I’m dying to see what this one looks like.
A bell chimes over my head and a wall of cold air greets me as I open the door. My muscles relax immediately, like I’m a creature who has just rediscovered its natural habitat.
Extensions have clearly been added to the back of the building to accommodate the stacks, and the interior walls have been removed so the first floor is one big room.
To the left of the entrance sits the circulation desk, and to the right, two long tables with desktop computers separated by dividers offer patrons some privacy to browse online.
The center of the space hosts study tables and cozy reading chairs, and the entire back half of the building is rows and rows and rows of bookshelves.
Next to circulation there’s an elevator with a sign that directs people to the children’s collection and activity spaces upstairs.
Two middle-aged women sit behind the big wooden desk, and someone who looks about my age has a stool pulled up at the end and is sketching in a large pad.
One of the women looks up and smiles at me. Her skin is deep brown and her curly hair cropped close to her head is streaked with gray. Gold-rimmed glasses dip toward the edge of her nose, and behind them her warm, dark eyes seem to smile too. Her name tag reads Loretta.
This is the woman Theo mentioned.
Everything about her is friendly and welcoming, but my mouth goes dry, and panic fizzes in my brain. For a second, I don’t remember why I’m here, until the job flyer crinkles in my clenched fingers.
“Can I help you?” she urges.
“There’s a job?” I blurt out. The second the words are free, I want to stuff them right back in. Why didn’t I just say hi? Or, you know, smile? And why is my arm so desperate to hold the flyer out like a shield?
I hate how hard this is for me. No doubt, I’m going to spend the next few weeks reliving this moment over and over, my brain rehashing every single thing I did wrong and imagining how they laughed at me once I left.
Heat burns at my cheeks, and shame has turned to a molten rock in my stomach.
If I didn’t want this job so badly, I’d literally run away right now.
“The part-time one?” Loretta asks kindly.
I nod. Just tell her you’re interested if it is still available. “If it’s— I’d be— Is it available still?” Close enough, I guess. You know, if I hadn’t shot the words out of my mouth like a machine gun.
Still, Loretta seems unfazed. She probably deals with all kinds of people in her job. Which is exactly why I want to be an archivist. Mostly it will just be me and a bunch of old books, plus the occasional history or literature nerd, who, hopefully, will be as awkward as I am.
She stands up. “It is still available. Have you worked at a library before?”
I shake my head. “I was supposed to this summer, but then my mother and I had to move.”
Loretta nods.
“But,” I rush on, “I plan to get a library science degree and I’m happy to do whatever you need. I’m a quick learner too.”
Loretta smiles. “The job is yours if you want it. It will mostly be reshelving books and answering questions for patrons. Some light dusting from time to time. Just keeping the place running.”
“I can do all that.” Though I suspect I will suck at interacting with patrons.
“Oh, I’m Amity, by the way.” I stick out my hand to shake hers.
People still shake hands, right? “I probably should have said that at some point.” A flush rushes back to my face.
There should be some kind of script available online to help guide people through interactions with strangers.
Here’s what you do when you’re inquiring about a job.
Here’s what to do if they randomly start talking to you out of nowhere…
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Amity.” Loretta takes my hand, then points to her name tag.
“I’m Loretta. The library director. And that’s Patty.
” She gestures toward the white woman with a shock of orange-red hair behind the circulation desk.
Patty waves, and somehow I manage to make my hand do the same in return.
“She’s one of the other full-time librarians. ”