A Library Card
Ihad hoped—briefly—that I might get to know some of the kids at the club, but it became clear from my first day there that I was not about to be included in their circle of friends. The tennis girls seemed to come from a whole other planet from me—as far removed as the models in Seventeen magazine.
Never mind, I told myself. I knew the place I could always go to when things were difficult.
All my life, the library had been my place to escape. That first day, I’d pedaled past the beautiful old stone building with the sign over the lintel: Lake Catherine Township Library. I took it in as a welcome sight, the final confirmation of how perfectly everything was turning out that summer.
Sometime around Week Two, I parked my bike in front of that wonderful old stone building again and stepped inside.
“I’d like to get a library card,” I told the librarian.
“Are you a resident?” she asked me.
“I’m here for the summer,” I told her. “I work for the Emersons.”
“In that case, there’s no problem,” she said, taking out a stiff white card and a pen. “They’re some of our biggest supporters. We’ll keep this on file for you.”
I made my way into the stacks, breathing in the familiar library smell, and headed over to the section labeled “J through M” to choose a new selection from the Stephen King shelf.
Not even a mile down the road, the tennis girls would be hitting balls out on that red clay court. But here was the place I always fit in.
I reached for a book, scanning the description on the inside flap. Sex. Money. Murder. All I needed. Some forms of adventure didn’t require a membership fee. They took place in your own imagination.
Outside, I set my selection in my bike basket and made my way back to the club. It was time to pick up the children.
Once I saw how little interest the other kids at the club had in getting to know me, I started bringing a book along with me to read during lesson times. The story was so gripping, I wouldn’t have minded if the children’s lessons had gone on for hours while I was reading it.
Sitting in my usual spot on the hot tar next to the tennis court, bent over my book, I could hear the thunk of tennis balls hitting racquets, the voice of the pro calling out pointers.
“Follow through, Jessica.”
“Eye on the ball, Walter.”
“Samantha! Watch your grip.”
From further off came the sound of children splashing in the pool and mothers calling out to them to stay in the shallow end.
In my book, The Stand, the family of a security guard was frantically trying to get out of a town overtaken by a deadly virus.
A butterfly landed on my thigh. I imagined that someday I’d write a book myself, for some girl like me to read.
Now came the voice of the tennis coach. “That was a perfect shot, Gabrielle,” he called out. “I think you just got yourself some topspin.”
As compelling as the story I’d been reading was, I had to look up. I had no idea what topspin was, or why the players sometimes used the word love when calling out their scores.
People spoke a whole other language in this place.
An unopened can of tennis balls sat on the bench next to me. I popped it open and took out a ball and rubbed it over my cheek, feeling the fuzz. Wilson Number Three. For no particular reason, I stuck it in my bookbag. I wanted that tennis ball, was all. Or what it signified.