3. Nicole
Chapter three
Nicole
I return to my office after meeting with Herb. I’m feeling … slightly discouraged. While technically I got the green light for my project, or at least to officially propose my project, Herb’s concerns around it make me uneasy. It feels like he assigned Adam to babysit me. His explanation about college leadership breathing down our necks doesn’t make me feel better. Herb doesn’t trust me to do this project in a responsible way.
And I hardly know Adam. We’ve spoken maybe a handful of times. He’s usually so quiet and serious. Given our profession, I assume he’s also a bit nerdy, which is certainly not a negative. It’s not like I’m the coolest woman on the planet. Frankly, I’ve never given Adam much thought until now. We’ve rarely interacted in the year I’ve been working here. I’m just not sure how well we’ll work together and that makes me anxious. Not that I need a specific reason to be anxious. It’s pretty much my default setting.
I pull out my phone to text my sisters in our group chat.
Nicole:
Pitched the graphic novel idea, and Herb gave the okay, but assigned me a babysitter [eye roll emoji]
Olivia:
yay but babysitter?
Nicole:
Yeah, the cataloging librarian Adam. Herb pretty much said Adam is supposed to keep me from picking any titles the college leadership will find offensive
Olivia:
offensive? you? [Laughing with tears emoji]
Olivia:
they’re on to you
Okay, point taken—I’ve never been one to shy away from controversy.
Nicole:
Thanks so much.
Olivia:
i’m just saying a babysitter isn’ t the worst idea
Olivia:
is he cute? [wink face emoji]
Olivia:
eww wait is he old
Nicole:
lol. No he’s not old. Maybe 30? But not really cute either
I pause. Is Adam cute? I shrug. Not so much that it’s caught my attention up to now anyway.
Nicole:
Where’s Molly? I need her to weigh in here
Olivia:
[shrugging] locked in her lab testing samples or whatever it is she does?
Nicole:
Fine. Molly text me laterrrrr
Molly:
Sorry. I’m here
Molly:
Maybe he’ll be helpful?
Molly:
Keep an open mind
Molly:
And congrats!
Nicole:
Thanks!
Molly is my older sister—she tends to keep me balanced with her calm, measured advice. She’s three years older than me at twenty-eight, and an environmental scientist, focused on coastal research. She’s pretty single-minded about her work. Olivia, who everyone except our family calls by our last name, Delaney, is our younger sister. She’s twenty-one and in her senior year of college. She lives in Austin with our parents as she finishes her degree in … I think exercise science? She’s changed majors a couple of times, so I’ve honestly lost track.
I take Molly’s advice to “keep an open mind” with me into my first meeting with Adam the next day. We agree to meet in my office at two o’clock. I’m shuffling through some papers in my top desk drawer when I hear someone clear their throat. I look up and see Adam standing in the doorway. I check the clock on my computer screen. Two o’clock on the dot.
“Come on in,” I tell him, gesturing to a chair by my desk. I realize too late that there’s a stack of books, graphic novels in fact, on the chair. “Oh,” I say. “Sorry. You can just move those anywhere.”
As Adam scoops up the books, I study him. He has thick, brown hair that’s short and neat, the longer strands in the front combed to one side. He looks to be average height, taller than my five feet five inches by at least four inches. He’s wearing khaki chinos and a hunter green pullover cardigan, the collar of his black, plaid, button-down shirt folded neatly over the sweater on the back of his neck and around to the lapels. He’s lean but not overly skinny. As he sits, his eyes catch mine—light brown with long lashes behind square, black-rimmed glasses. His face is clean-shaven.
Adam looks at me expectantly, and despite my commitment to keep an open mind, I feel irritated and on edge.
“Hi,” I say, not smiling.
“Hi,” he answers hesitantly.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I blurt.
The corners of Adam’s mouth tip up slightly, but he answers seriously. “I didn’t think you did.”
“Apparently Herb does,” I grumble, now regretting this approach.
“Nicole,” he starts, and something in the way he says my name catches my attention. I can’t put my finger on it, but it sounds … practiced, maybe? “I don’t think you need a babysitter. I’m positive you could do this all on your own. That being said, Herb assigned me to work with you, so,” he shrugs, “put me to work. As far as I’m concerned, you’re in charge, but I hope I can still be useful.”
“I think that’s the most words I’ve heard you say at once.” I realize with a gasp that I’ve said this out loud and quickly backpedal. “I mean, we just haven’t worked together much before this…” I trail off, feeling the heat in my face.
“I’m usually quiet,” he says softly, his cheeks reddening slightly .
I instantly feel guilty for embarrassing him. I take a deep breath, recommitting to the whole “open mind” thing.
“How familiar are you with graphic novels?”
“Not very,” he admits. “I don’t read them personally and I’ve never cataloged any. But I’ve been looking at the online catalogs of other academic libraries with graphic novel collections. There aren’t a ton, but enough that I got a sense of some best practices.”
“Oh.” Maybe Adam will be helpful after all. He certainly has done his homework. “What do you read?” I can’t help but ask, even though it’s taking us slightly off topic.
He cocks his head a bit as he answers. “History mostly. Nonfiction. Especially World War II.”
Well, that seems to be on brand. I nod. “I can recommend some graphic novels that are related to history,” I offer. “Actually, there’s a massively popular comic called Maus that’s about World War II, specifically the Holocaust.”
“Are comics and graphic novels the same thing?”
“Well, yes and no. Technically, comics are shorter, serialized stories and graphic novels are longer and more stand-alone. But often we use the word comics to talk about the story itself rather than the medium. So graphic novels are comics, but comics aren’t necessarily graphic novels.”
He nods, looking at me seriously. I can really get going when I’m talking about this, and I’ve often seen a distinct glazed look on the faces of others when they’re listening politely but aren’t really interested. That’s not how Adam is looking at me now. I get the impression that I have his full attention, so I continue, leaning in and making eye contact.
“There are, of course, graphic novel series, where each individual novel stands alone but also connects into the other stories in the series. There are several well-known kids’ series, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Dog Man . But there are series written for adults, too.”
“Are there nonfiction graphic novels, too, or mostly fiction?” Adam asks.
“Both. I’ve seen quite a few memoirs and biographies. There’s some discussion about the use of the term novel to describe nonfiction in comics, but it’s mostly from people who are outside the genre, not writers, illustrators, or fans. And if Truman Capote could call In Cold Blood a nonfiction novel back in the sixties, I don’t see why graphic novels can’t be nonfiction…” I trail off, realizing that I’m maybe getting carried away. “Anyway,” I blush. “I’ll step off my soapbox now.”
“No,” Adam protests. “I don’t mind. I’m interested in learning about it, and I can tell you’re not only an expert, but have a passion too. I like hearing interesting people talk about their interests.”
He smiles then. A genuine smile that shows his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes. It transforms his face, and I find myself staring at the way the corners of his lips push the apples of his cheeks higher, his eyes creasing with enjoyment.
“In that case…” I laugh but don’t continue. He laughs, too. I find that I’m not feeling irritated anymore. I’m almost at ease. Maybe this will work out after all .
“Would our graphic novel collection be mostly nonfiction?” he asks.
“Well,” I answer, “mostly, I think, but it will depend on why we’re selecting each particular title. Titles for the history department should be nonfiction, or close to it, but titles for the art department could be anything as long as the illustrations are particularly noteworthy.”
“That makes sense,” he says. Then, more unsure, “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Okay,” I answer, bracing myself.
“I’ve been looking at graphic novel collections at other libraries, especially academic, and I see that there’s no clear convention for classification. Some libraries are using author last name, especially for fiction collections, and some academic libraries are using Library of Congress.” He pauses here and focuses his eyes on me, as if watching for my reaction. “We should use Library of Congress, so it matches the bulk of our collection upstairs and makes it clear how the graphic novels fit into our collection academically.”
“But not shelve them with the rest of the collection, right?” I ask carefully.
“No. No, they can still be their own collection on their own shelf but ordered on the shelf and with call numbers that align with the larger collection. So, like, the Holocaust book you mentioned would be D 804 whatever.”
He’s talking about organizing the books by subject, rather than author or something else, using the Library of Congress classification system, which is the system most academic libraries use for their nonfiction collections. Almost everyone knows, at least by name, the Dewey Decimal system, which assigns numerical numbers to books based on subject and determines where they are placed on the shelf, but many don’t know that Dewey Decimal is mostly used by public libraries and doesn’t work as well for the deeper, scholarly collections at college and university libraries. I have to admit, I’m impressed that he pulled that classification number out of the air, matching it seamlessly to books about the Holocaust. I mean, I haven’t fact-checked him, and I certainly don’t have categories memorized, but I’m assuming he’s right.
I haven’t yet responded to his idea, and he’s still watching my face closely. I wonder what it’s telling him. I don’t want to be overly enthusiastic—I’m still a little bitter about the situation as a whole—but it isn’t really Adam’s fault that Herb assigned him to babysit me. He’s just trying to help.
“That works for me,” I finally say.
Another smile, smaller this time. “Okay, good.”
We coordinate schedules to set our next meeting. We need to start making a list of specific titles for the pilot, and the liaison librarians will need a chance to look at those title suggestions before we finalize the proposal.
The next couple of hours pass quickly, and soon I’m walking home. It’s a cool November evening. Cool for Florida in the fall, anyway, a brisk sixty-five degrees as the sun starts waning. I pull out my keys as I walk up the short flight of stairs to my apartment. Opening the front door, I dump my purse on the entry table and head to my bedroom to change .
Now in joggers and an oversized Harkness T-shirt, I collapse onto the couch, letting myself relax for a few minutes before I figure out dinner.
Without prompting or permission, my brain starts replaying the interactions I had at work that day, like the brief run-in I had with Samantha, another librarian, in the breakroom. Making small talk, she said something about the cinnamon raisin bagel she was eating, and I told her I didn’t like raisins. I consider how the tone of my voice sounded when I said that. Hopefully friendly and not argumentative or dismissive. I mean, I don’t like raisins, but I don’t know why I said so. Why not just make a noncommittal comment about my lunch or the deliciousness of cream cheese or anything that would invite connection instead of being off-putting? Ugh. Why am I like this?
I wonder what Samantha thought of the interaction.
I take a breath then—deeply in through my nose and then out through my mouth. I remind myself, or rather I hear the voice of my old therapist from Texas inside my head reminding me, that the people around me do not spend time dissecting their interactions with me. I am not important enough in their lives for them to even remember the conversations more than a few days later. I understand that on a cerebral level, I do, but on an emotional level, I’m still left spiraling a little. Maybe they don’t remember the words or the tone of voice or give it much thought, but surely each interaction gives them a subconscious sense of me that combines to form their overall impression. Like, “Oh, Nicole? Yeah, she’s that awkward woman who’s always talking too much in meetings.” And they don’t even know how they arrived at that estimation of who I am, but it was built up over many small, forgettable moments of me saying or doing something weird.
Anyway. Yay, anxiety. The medication I take helps a bit with the spiraling thoughts, especially early in the day, but mostly it helps keep the serotonin and dopamine levels in my brain to a decent level. When I’m particularly stressed, I try to proactively do more things that bring me joy, like eating certain foods, being outside in nature, or reading. My body will actually start craving these things. The eating thing can get me into trouble though. I’ve never had a very fast metabolism, and my “little treats” add up. I am what would be considered “slightly overweight” for my height, but I’m trying to eat more like an adult and less like a teenager, even though I don’t have much self-control when it comes to the food that makes me happy.
Speaking of—I force myself off the couch and make my way to the small galley kitchen. Dinner. I really should plan my meals better, but with just myself to worry about, I can’t seem to find the motivation. Taking stock of the pantry and refrigerator, I pull out a box of pasta, a jar of fancy tomato sauce, and some steam-in-the-bag frozen vegetables. Easy. And a much better option than ordering take-out. Good job, Nicole at the grocery store three days ago!
When everything is ready, I carry my plate out to the small balcony just off the living room and set it on the table. I don’t have a dining room or space in the kitchen for a table, so I mostly eat my meals outside. If it’s raining, I eat on the couch or stand at the kitchen counter .
I step back inside to grab my tablet. Settling into a chair in the cool, evening air, I pull up an e-book on the tablet, setting it on the table next to my dinner plate.
I like graphic novels in print form, but for my other reading, I love e-books. They’re convenient, don’t take up space in my small apartment, and have the added bonus of being discreet. Truth be told, I’m a closet romance reader. I’m not sure exactly why I feel I need to hide it. I don’t even read too much of the “spicier” stuff, though I do read some. My college boyfriend knew and teased me about it. Looking back, it may have been more mocking than teasing, really. We were both English majors, and he felt that genre fiction was beneath us, somehow. Like the only books worth reading are the literary ones; the ones that say something profound about people, about life. I do like literary fiction and appreciate how the words come together in beautiful ways, but nothing matches the joy I feel from reading a book with a guaranteed happily ever after. It’s almost freeing that instead of eschewing the cliché, romance writers proudly advertise what tropes readers will find in each book. And readers love it, seeking out recommendations for books with their favorite situations and plot lines. I certainly gobble them up, that’s for sure.
I sigh contentedly, enjoying the evening, my simple dinner, and my book.