The Rebel and the Bookish – by Stephanie Scott
THE REBEL AND THE BOOKISH
BY STEPHANIE SCOTT
Valerie
The telltale click of the stairwell door echoes through the library basement.
My spine jolts to attention. “What was that?” I’ve been consumed by sorting through donations for the charity book sale. This dank (but not actually dusty) lower level of Derby Public Library is where I feel most at home.
But that door closing is a problem. I left it cracked so I wouldn’t get accidentally locked in.
Taking the steps two at a time—okay just the first step since these knees aren’t what they used to be—I push against the door. Locked.
“Frick on a stick!” The time on my phone shows a few minutes past closing.
Usually I’m the one locking up, but I’m not officially working today.
In fact, it’s a Friday night where I could be doing anything else.
What does a forty-something divorcee do on Friday nights?
I wouldn’t know—I’m at the library where I’m not even getting paid overtime.
I pound on the door. “Alan!” He has to know I’m down here. I waved to him when I walked in an hour ago. Sure, he was working with a patron at the time, but he saw me, right? Surely, he knows I’m here. Alan wouldn’t leave me.
Wait. Would Alan leave me? We’re both up for head librarian. Would mild-mannered, Pomeranian doggy daddy Alan have the guts to lock his competition in the basement?
I knock my fist against the door a few more times. “Alan! I’m here! It’s Valerie!”
Nothing. He’s probably got earbuds in listening to that dog training podcasts he’s obsessed with.
I only planned to put in a couple hours down here. Not that I have anything to go home to tonight. My kids are each with friends—Mason at an overnight with scouts and Ella at her best friend’s house for the evening. I’m at that age where even my kids don’t need me around.
“Alan!” I whack the door again. “I’m down here!”
The deafening silence answers for Alan. He’s not coming for me.
I kick the door with my Doc Martens. “ Bob Saget! ”
A sound like a snicker makes me turn toward the basement again. My breath catches. “Who’s there?”
I hear nothing. I’m losing it. It’s been two minutes and I’m already losing it.
I return to my book sorting area. One single bar of connectivity exists on my phone. I’ll just call for help. Only I don’t have Alan’s personal cell number. I never saw the need. Scrolling through contacts, I reach a familiar name: Doreen Fisk.
Doreen. I can’t call Doreen. What do I tell her— I let myself get locked in the basement, now please hire me as head librarian to take over for you?
If you think Doreen Fisk is the type of person to laugh off a situation like this, you do not know Doreen Fisk. I’ve been trying to prove my worth to her for years, but I always seem to fall short of her very specific expectations.
And I’m an awesome librarian, so it’s really her loss.
Well, it’s my loss too. I want that head librarian job and she’s the one to grant it.
Being stuck down here is not a great situation, but on top of that, it’s also very dumb. I can’t believe I allowed this to happen.
One saving grace—at least there’s a bathroom down here. It’s only ever used by staff, and a place I’ve perhaps hidden out a few times when Doreen is in a mood.
That’s my plan. I’ll use the bathroom and then figure out how to get out of here without alerting my boss. I can do this. I can do this!
I reach for the door. Scuffling sounds come from the other side. I hold my breath. A rat? Do we have rats? Do I even want to open this door? What if a rat runs out? What if one runs over my shoe? If a librarian screams in the basement, will anyone hear?
Woman up. I fling the door open and scream.
It’s not a rat. It’s a man.
Ian
I burst out laughing. It’s her. Of course it’s her. “Hey, Val.”
She’s shocked by the sight of me. Truly. Mouth lightly parted, a mix of confusion and surprise on her face, and something else I can’t name. “You’re not supposed to be down here. What are you doing?”
“Seems like you’re the one who got yourself stuck. Alan isn’t coming to your rescue?”
“Alan—” she sputters. “This is a restricted area. Why are you here?”
“Bathroom?”
She crosses her arms. “The public bathrooms are upstairs. You know this.”
I do know this. I also happened to spy the open door to the basement, and well, I had time to kill and a curiosity I couldn’t. I’ve always had a soft spot for the library. Any library really, but especially my hometown library.
I guess I can’t resist a little bit of trouble.
She smooths back her hair in her already pristine, low ponytail. Her hair is shorter now than in high school. A bit of gray mixes with the dark brown. It suits her.
When I came back to Derby for good three years ago, one of the first things I did was to take the kids to the library.
Right inside the door stood Val, parked by a book cart.
I even remember what she wore: a black dress with thick turquoise tights and chunky black shoes.
It was like I’d been transported back to high school.
There was Val, looking as at home as ever, still with her own style.
She starts to speak, then starts over. “You don’t seem bothered by the fact we’re both trapped down here.”
I look past her to the old card catalog, now a relic forced into retirement. “Come on. We’re not trapped. I’m sure there’s a way to get that door open.”
“If you’re so sure, go open it.”
I run my hand over the vintage wooden cabinet. Not a lick of dust. “I don’t work here. Don’t you know how?”
“It’s locked from the other side.”
“Then call someone.”
“I…” She stares at my hand. “Stop touching that. It’s library property.” She makes a little harrumph , but my instinct tells me it’s less annoyance at me than something else going on in her head. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. “Why are you so calm?”
“I’ve always wanted to come down here,” I confess.
“Is this Midcentury?” I open a tiny drawer and inhale a breath.
Dozens of yellowed catalogued cards still exist, all filed in order.
Incredible. “Amazing how quick things jumped from physical to digital. We were right in the middle of it. No cell phones, but we had internet, if you had the money for it. Wi-Fi wasn’t even a thought. ”
She presses a single finger against the drawer until it shuts. “Nice flashback, Ian. But that doesn’t get us out of this basement.”
She called me Ian. “Ah, so you do know my name.”
Valerie rolls her eyes. “Of course I know your name.”
She hasn’t said my name since I’ve been back.
I’ve seen Valerie a dozen times at least. At the library.
At Derby High for events. Her son and my daughter both play in the school band.
I tried to steer Angelica toward guitar or drums, but she chose clarinet.
I’m out of my depth there, but the least I can do is make it to all her performances.
One day I walked straight toward Valerie in the grocery aisle and she kept on going without a glance. As if I didn’t exist. Man, did it cut deep.
Maybe that’s the real cost of fame. When you lose it, even the people who knew you before don’t bother to look your way.
“You act like you don’t know me when you see me.” I lean my arm against the card catalog.
Her cheeks go pink. What strikes me most is how pretty she is. Her flush brightens her skin and her hazel eyes blaze. Fine lines around her eyes are the only tell that she’s not seventeen anymore.
She’s not the shy flower I remember lurking in the shadows.
Hanging at the back of the crowd when my band performed.
Never at parties, but she always showed up at our public performances: high school talent show, local festivals, a few church youth group events, that sort of thing. Back when we were nobodies.
She steadies her gaze on me. “I know everything I need to know.”
“Oh? And what do you know?”
She smirks. “That your ego is bigger than the Ramones.”
I laugh. That’s one of our old songs: Bigger than the Ramones . Which of course we never were. Not even at our peak. “Nice one. But the ego thing? Not really.”
“Your name is Ian Heartbreak . I mean, the audacity.”
“It’s a stage name! It’s ironic!” I clutch my heart. “The Stone Hearts and our stone-cold, black hearts, incapable of love? It was a whole vibe!”
She doesn’t have a counter for that.
“You came to my shows. Like, almost all of them.”
She blinks. “You remember?”
How could I forget? “Of course I remember.”
She shakes her head. “No. I was invisible to you.”
No way. Not a chance. “You were not invisible to me. I’ve always remembered you, Valerie Quinn.”
Valerie
I turn from Ian and face the boxes of books I’d been so intent on sorting tonight. Of course Ian remembers me. Derby is a small town, so we all grew up knowing each other. But back then, if he saw me at all, it was only as some groupie angling for a snatch of attention from a budding rock star.
I knew he’d be a star. Everything about him screamed it. He could sing, play bass and guitar, and just had that thing that musicians who make it big embody. Charm. Ego. Incredibly good looks that guarantee they won’t stay long in a small town like Derby.
And he didn’t. After graduation, he took off to New York, then L.A.
For years, I kept up with Ian through SPIN magazine, Pitchfork reviews, and indie music forums online.
MTV music videos on 120 Minutes . The Stone Hearts weren’t mainstream but popular in indie music circles. And they were very, very cool.
“Why do you ignore me, Valerie?”
His question is insistent, but soft in its demand.
I hate that it strikes a chord, reverberating across my skin.
The truth is, I do ignore him. I don’t know how to act around someone who grew larger than life as a bonafide rock personality.
All these years later, it’s honestly embarrassing.
I’m a grown woman who’s still nervous around her high school crush.