Chapter 23
Theo
The library looked like a tornado had hit it, which happened every year when the seniors got their research paper assignments.
Mount Vernon High’s twenty-five-page senior project was legendary—a rite of passage that required students to choose between literature, history, or science topics and then spend the next two months living in the library.
It was the one time all year when teachers from different departments actually collaborated on a joint graded project.
I still wasn’t entirely sure how they divided up the grading responsibilities, but I knew my library became ground zero for stressed-out eighteen-year-olds who suddenly discovered that Wikipedia and AI weren’t acceptable sources.
“Mr. Jamison, I can’t find anything on the Harlem Renaissance that isn’t in a textbook,” Madison complained, dropping into the chair across from my desk with the dramatic flair only a teenager could muster.
“That’s because you’re looking in the wrong section,” I said patiently, leading her toward the 810s. “Literature is sorted by time period and cultural movement . . . and remember, textbooks count as sources—they’re often the best starting point for understanding historical context.”
“But Mrs. Peterson said we needed at least fifteen sources.”
“All right. That’s fine. Still, textbooks can be one of them. Think of them as your foundation and then build from there.” I pulled down a volume on African American literature. “Start here, then check the bibliography. See those little numbers? Each one leads to another potential source.”
Her face lit up with understanding. “Oh! So the books tell me where to find other books?”
“Exactly. Research is like following breadcrumbs.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. By the time these kids were seniors, they’d written dozens of smaller papers.
Every last one of them—with the possible exception of the least motivated football players—had darkened my library door many times over the years.
To just then be learning what citations and footnotes meant left me a bit baffled as to what these students were actually retaining.
Twenty minutes later, Madison was armed with six volumes and a much better attitude. I’d barely made it back to my desk when Trevor, the star pitcher on our state championship baseball team, appeared looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Mr. J, I’m supposed to write about the Manhattan Project, but everything I find is either too basic or way too complicated. Like, what’s a neutron bombardment?”
I suppressed a smile. “What’s your specific thesis?”
“Uh . . . my thesis? That, uh, the Manhattan Project was important and shit?”
Laughing at students was never a good thing, but a barked chuckle flew out faster than one of Trevor’s pitches. “And shit? Really, Trev? You’re a lot sharper than that, and we both know it. That’s not a thesis; that’s a statement of fact . . . and frustration.”
Trevor’s eyes fell. He was a good kid who took coaching well on the field.
He got yelled at as much as any athlete and never seemed bothered, but if a teacher questioned his academic efforts, he curled into a miserably cute little ball.
I’d seen his lack of confidence many times with other athletes who were unshakable while holding a bat or ball and knew I’d need to give him a little boost if I hoped to see better results.
I schooled my expression and asked, “What about it was important? How did it change science? Politics? Society? What about the relationship between government and research?”
Trevor stared at me blankly.
“Why don’t we narrow it down?” I suggested, walking him over to the science section. “Start with this general overview and then pick one aspect that interests you, maybe the ethical debates among the scientists? The secrecy protocols? The international race for atomic weapons?”
“Oh,” he said, his expression brightening. “I could write about whether the scientists knew they were basically creating a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Now that’s a thesis. Here’s your first source.
” I handed him a biography of J. Robert Oppenheimer.
The weight of the book in my hands reminded me of the first-edition Wilde Jeremiah had pointed out, the reverence in his voice when he’d talked about his mother reading to him.
The book in my hand felt about the same weight, and the worn binding of the hardback was worn in a couple of the same spots, as though a single reader had thumbed the pages of both books a hundred years apart.
I found myself smiling at the memory.
“Read the introduction and then come back and tell me what questions it raises.”
The day continued like that—one student after another, each needing guidance, encouragement, and the occasional reality check about their research timeline.
I loved senior paper season. It made me feel useful, an integral part of a teaching team who basically ignored me and my stacks most of the year.
Next came Emma, who wanted to write about “all of Shakespeare” until I helped her focus on the evolution of his tragic heroes.
“Mr. J, you okay?” Emma asked as I pulled down a particularly large anthology from one of the higher shelves. “You look . . . happy.”
“I’m just pleased you found a good topic,” I said quickly, though I could feel heat creeping up my neck. “You’re asking the right questions, Emma. That’s how good literary scholars think—they don’t just accept surface meanings; they dig deeper.”
Emma beamed at the praise, and I watched her confidence grow as she made the connection between Hamlet’s and Macbeth’s character arcs.
Goth, punk rocker, loner, and all-around misfit Marc thought he could knock out a paper on the Civil War in a weekend until I showed him the eighteen volumes we had just on battlefield strategy.
As I watched him realize the scope of his task, I was reminded of Jeremiah’s expression when he’d first showed me all those rare books—that mixture of awe and slight overwhelm that made my chest warm.
My lips curled again.
“I know it feels overwhelming,” I told Marc, noticing his discouraged expression.
“But remember, you don’t need to read eighteen volumes.
You need to find the three or four that will give you different perspectives on your specific question.
Unless you’re planning to become the world’s leading expert on Civil War artillery by Thursday—in which case, carry on. ”
Marc laughed. “Maybe I’ll stick with the three-book plan.”
“Wise choice. Your brain will thank you, and so will your eyes.”
God, I’m such a nerd, I thought as Marc walked away grinning. Who makes jokes about Civil War artillery? No wonder these kids think I’m ancient.
I noticed Sophia, the orchestra’s piccolo player, sitting quietly at a corner table, staring at her notes with frustration. She was one of our shyer students, the kind who rarely spoke up but always had thoughtful insights when she did.
“How’s it going, Sophia?” I asked, settling into the chair next to her.
“I can’t figure out how to organize all this information about the women’s suffrage movement,” she said quietly. “There’s just so much, and I don’t know what’s important.”
“That’s a great observation,” I said, and watched her look up in surprise. “You’ve identified one of the key challenges most historians face—how do you determine significance? What criteria are you using to decide what matters most? Is your method sound?”
Twenty minutes later, she had a clear outline and a much better understanding of how to evaluate historical sources.
“Dude, what’s with the goofy grin?” Julian asked from the next table over, where he was supposed to be researching the Industrial Revolution. “Did you get laid or something?”
I nearly choked on my own tongue. “I—what—that’s completely inappropriate—”
“Whoa, Mr. J, chill. I was just saying that you look really happy today. Like, abnormally happy, especially for a librarian.” Julian was grinning now, clearly enjoying my flustered reaction.
For a librarian? What’s that supposed to mean? We’re happy, damn it.
“I’m always happy to help with research. It’s kind of my jam,” I managed, my face burning. “Though I notice you’re asking about my personal life instead of working on your paper about steam engines. Procrastination much?”
Did I just say, “That’s my jam”? What am I, twelve? These kids probably think I’m trying too hard to sound cool. I cringed internally.
“Hey, I’ve been working,” Julian protested. “I found like three whole sources.”
“Three sources for a twenty-five-page paper? What are you planning to do, write in really large font?”
The nearby students snickered, and Julian had the grace to look sheepish.
“Right,” Julian said with the knowing smirk of a teenager who’d definitely hit a nerve. “Research. Sure.”
By now, half the students in the library had looked up from their work, sensing drama the way sharks sense blood in the water.
“Julian’s right,” Madison chimed in from across the room. “You’ve been like, glowing all day, Mr. J.”
“I don’t glow,” I protested weakly. “I mean, I did try a new moisturizer this morning . . .”
Moisturizer? Really, Theo? Are you trying to be the gayest teacher in school?
“You totally glow,” Trevor added. “It’s like you’ve got some secret or something. It’s very suspicious.”
“The only secret I have is how I manage to keep you people focused on actual schoolwork and keep from swatting you with a very large, very painful encyclopedia,” I said dryly.
“What’s an encyclopedia?” someone asked.
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
“Maybe he won the lottery,” suggested Alexis.
“Or he’s got a hot date,” Julian said with obvious glee, apparently deciding to double down on embarrassing me.