I'm Your Girl (20 page)

“C
ramps”! I never would have guessed, though the kid was right about something. My back is
killing
me, and that usually means my time of the month is a few days away.

What a strange day! I mean, I usually get a couple strange questions, but nothing like this. I have barely had enough time to catch my—

The white man with the nice eyes is coming this way with his magazine and steno pad.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” I say. I am a professional librarian. I do not say, “Hi” to anyone.

“I was wondering…”

That voice. I’ve heard that voice before. I look at his hand. No ring. No, it couldn’t be…I glance up at his face. Same face. I think. He had a beard then, but…those eyes. They’re…he’s…and I didn’t—

It’s Mr. Shaggy White Man without the Shaggy.

What, has he been stalking me? And where’s his wedding ring? What was his name…? Think! I’m so stupid. He reads all those African American authors, and then he walks around with
Essence
likes it’s his security blanket or something, and now…What is he saying?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must be tired. Could you repeat your question?”

“Oh,” he says, with a breathless little laugh, “I didn’t ask a question. I was just saying that I was wondering if every day was like this for you. I couldn’t help overhearing some of the questions people were asking you.”

Is every day…like this, with another person asking me “normal” questions? “I guess.” He has such an old face for such young, blue eyes. “Um, it’s actually been pretty normal.”

“This was a normal day?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you keep a straight face.” He drops his eyes. “I’m sure you heard me laughing at the guy who wanted to know if the
Wall Street Journal
had a business section.”

“I did.” Dag, is this a shy man or what? But he
is
talking to me. That’s not a shy thing to do. And where’s his wedding ring?

He touches the counter with his fingers, his nails neatly trimmed. “Anyway, I, uh, I admire your patience. You would make a great teacher.”

Where is this going? Is this a come-on? “I would?”

He nods. “Yeah. I teach…well, I used to teach fifth-graders.”

“Used to teach” sounds…bad. “You no longer teach?”

“I’m on kind of a permanent sabbatical.”

He was fired.

“By my own choosing,” he adds.

He quit.

“They keep calling me in, but…”

Wait a minute. They…want him back? He only retired? How old
is
he? Young eyes plus old face equals…stress. Fifth-graders must take their toll on a teacher. He can’t be a day over thirty-five.

He pulls his hand back from the counter. “I’m sure you have work to do. I didn’t mean to bother you.” He turns to go.

“What are you writing?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He turns. “Hmm?”

“You were taking notes.”

He steps closer but not as close as before. “Just…researching.”

I look at the magazine. “Using
Essence
?”

“Well, sort of, I mean, yeah.”

I know he’s hiding something, so I wait for him to explain.

He doesn’t explain.

“Well, I guess I’d better be—”

“What are you researching?”

Why can’t I let this man just…leave? Maybe it’s because I’ve been answering so many questions today that I have to interrogate someone, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s because he’s hiding something. And he
has
been stalking me. Who stalks librarians? Or maybe it’s the fact that he says “he’d better be” going, which I wouldn’t let him say for some reason, only he doesn’t move. When most people say, “I’m out,” they
go
. Not this guy.

He smiles that nice smile of his. “You’ll probably think it’s crazy.”

I blink. “I work here, remember? I listen to crazy all day.”

“Oh, yeah.” He steps close enough for me to notice how stiff his pants are. His teenaged wife must have discovered starch and couldn’t find the “off” button. “I’m researching a character for my next novel.”

Next
novel? I’m in the presence of a novelist. He doesn’t look like a novelist. But what’s a novelist
supposed
to look like? I mean, Stephen King looks perfectly ghastly as a horror writer, but some of the others—

“And…um,” he looks into my eyes, “you’re it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m researching a character, and you’re it.”

I have trouble catching my breath after that one. “I’m…it?” As in, “tag, you’re it”? What kind of thing to say is that? And who gave you permission to use me in your book?

He looks at his hands. “I told you it was crazy.”

At least he’s honest. Rude, but honest. “I don’t know. It’s not
that
crazy.” It’s actually kind of flattering, except…the man’s been stalking me. And where exactly is his freaking ring? “What’s your next book about?”

He shoves both hands into his pockets and sighs. “Well, I’ve only written three chapters of it so far, so I’m…I’m not really sure. I can tell you that it’s a romance, though.”

This might be a scam. This might be some sneaky way white men lure women to…to what? I decide to play along. “And I’m a character in this…romance?”

He nods. “You have a lot to offer.”

What did he say? I have a lot to offer? What am I offering? And to whom? One day he’s shaggy, the next day clean as a whistle. I can’t help but widen the heck out of my eyes. I hope he didn’t see—

“I meant, you have a lot to offer as a
character
in any book.”

He saw my eyes. “Oh.”

“I mean, for one, you have a job everyone can relate to. Who hasn’t made contact with a librarian?”

Contact? My hands are starting to sweat. “True.”

“And, two, you’re, um, African American.” He holds up the magazine. “The reason, um, I’ve been reading this.”

I nod, though every fiber in my being wants to ask him one simple question: “Why are you writing about African American women, especially since you thought there was an African American fiction section in the library?” Okay, two simple questions: “Why are you reading
Essence
when you could be talking directly to me?” I know I’m not representative of an entire race, but I’m more of an average African American than any sister in that magazine.

“And, um, three, well, you’re, I don’t know how to say this, but, um, you’re very attrac—”

“Is your other novel here in the library?” I interrupt. Lord, why did I do that? I had no right to interrupt a compliment; I mean, I get so few. It’s just that…I’m afraid where the rest of number three might be leading. I felt a compliment coming on, and I don’t do compliments from strange white men who are shaggy and wearing a wedding ring one day and clean shaven, shorthaired, and ringless the next.

“Oh, it’s not due out until April.”

I grab a pad of Post-its. “What is your novel’s title?”

He squints.

“Oh,” I say, “I just want to know the title so the library can preorder it. You’re a local author, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

I poise the pencil over the Post-it. “So, what’s the title?”

“It’s called
Wishful Thinking
.”

No…way.

This kind of thing doesn’t happen.

I break the tip of the pencil and get another. I must have heard wrong. “What’s it called again?”

“Wishful Thinking.”

No. This
is
happening. This is D. J. Browning. This is the writer I trashed the other day. This isn’t someone else. My hand shakes as I write down the title. “And, oh, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Jack Browning.”

I don’t look up. Whew. Wrong name. Blue Eyes here didn’t look like a “D.J.” He looks like a “Jack,” which makes no sense, I know. So, his book is titled the same as the other one, which is kind of strange, and they’re both bound to come out at about the same time, but there aren’t trademarks on titles—

“The publisher is using only my initials.”

Is Jack Browning D. J. Browning? I have to know more. “Is, um, do you have a middle name?”

He squints. “Actually, Jack is my middle name. My first name is David. Why do you want to know?”

David Jack Browning. D. J. Browning. Oh, they really went all out disguising him. “Oh, just curious.” Talk fast. “Why’d they want you to use your initials?”

He shrugs. “I guess they were afraid or something. I mean, it’s not every day a white man writes, um, multicultural fiction.”

No, it isn’t. Jesus, help me!

“I originally wrote
Mr. Pace and Ms. Clarke
—that was my working title—and it was about two dysfunctional white people.”

That explains a
lot
.

“My agent and editor, though, they thought it could be…transformed—that was the word they used—transformed into a multicultural romantic comedy.”

They transformed it into something, all right.

“Anyway, they want me to write another, and, well, I’d like to model my main character after you.”

That’s so sweet, but—

“You were so helpful that day I came in looking so…bushy.” He laughs. “I normally look this way.” He looks down. “Not like Grizzly Adams.”

Oh, God, I wish he were a jerk or something. He’s nice! And I’ve written so many reviews, but I’ve never come face-to-face with any author I’ve criticized, and here he is—in all his skinny white flesh—and I have a review trashing his book—

Which won’t post for another three days.

Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I can get Amazon.com not to post it. That’s what I’ll try to do. And then I’ll read the entire book, cover to cover. Maybe I was a little too judgmental in my assessment—

But then again…the book wasn’t that good, the parts I read of it anyway. And now that I know it was meant to have two white people getting together…No, I can’t let on in my review that I know that. Oh, geez, he’s still talking, and I haven’t been listening.

“…six months without a haircut. I won’t let that happen again.”

This is crazy! Calm down, girl, calm down. Everything will be okay. And anyway, here’s a man who is hiding his wedding ring. He’s a dog. He’s no good, even if he does have some fine blue eyes. I look up. “I’ll bet your wife is proud of you.”

His eyes fall.

Aha! Gotcha!

“She was.”

Past tense. Was. She
was.
Separated? Divorced? What?

“She isn’t proud now?” I can’t believe I’m prying.

He turns away. “I don’t know. She’s…I have to be going.” He takes a few steps away. “Um, it was nice meeting you, Diane.”

“It was nice meeting you, too, Jack.” Or should I say “D.J.”? No. I can’t let him know I know what he doesn’t know. Did that make sense? No! This is all so confusing! “Uh, Jack, could you give me your phone number?”

“My what?”

I’m asking for this possibly divorced/separated okay/so-so novelist’s phone number. What am I thinking? “Um, your phone number. So that…the library can contact you, say, for a reading or even a book signing.”

He looks at his feet. Nice shoes. They look comfortable. “I don’t think I’ll be doing any readings or signings. I’m, um, supposed to be anonymous.”

“Oh, yeah.” Think! “Well, then, why not just…” What am I doing? I’m about to ask him for his phone number. But why? “Why not just give me your number?”

He doesn’t move.

“I mean, um…” I can’t think! “So I can call you…”

He moves closer. “So you can call me?”

“Uh, yeah, you know, so you can give me…” What? Give me what? Whew. Thank God I’m a librarian. “So you can give me the ISBN number and the Library of Congress control number for the book. It makes it so much easier for us to preorder your book.”

He moves to the counter. “You could get the ISBN number from Amazon.com.”

I should have thought of that. “But not the LOC number.” And now I’m speaking in abbreviations.

“Okay.”

He gives me his number, I write it down, and this time my hand doesn’t shake. It vibrates. It literally hums. “Thank you, Mr. Browning.”

“You’re welcome, and please call me Jack.”

“Okay, Jack.” And I don’t know Jack, do I?

“Bye.” He walks away.

Say something! “Um, say hello to your little boy for me.”

Jack’s shoulders slump as he nods and continues toward the stairs.

That was strange. Maybe his wife has the kid and he won’t see him for a while. That’s so sad! I should have kept my big mouth shut.

As soon as Jack’s bobbing blond head disappears down the stairs, I put up my sign and leave the counter. I have to find an open computer in the Internet Room—

Damn. Sorry, Lord! They’re all taken! These…people without computers in their homes should be shot, and I mean it.

Okay, I don’t really mean it, but, well, today—now, this
second
—I do. I have to undo my review until I’ve read the entire book, Lord. I wasn’t fair in my review. And I know that I still might hate it even if I read the entire thing, but…

Somebody finish! Click-clickety-click your way out of here! These computer hoggers are just as bad as those cheap people who come into the library to make copies from cookbooks. They’re just as bad as people who return books with toilet tissue or used Band-Aids or condom wrappers for bookmarks. They’re just as bad as those snot-nosed children in the big chairs downstairs coughing up phlegm on every book their grimy, disease-infested hands touch. They’re just as bad as anyone who comes into the library only to take a dump!

“Excuse me!”

I see a computer hogger waving his stank hand at me. I’m not on duty here! No one is on duty in here since we don’t have enough funding! I walk over anyway. “Yes?”

“I’m having trouble getting on Yahoo!.”

I look at the address line. He has typed “Youwho.com.” I smile. Fool. “There must be something wrong with this computer, sir.” I switch it off without properly shutting it down. Kim would have a cow. “We’ve been having lots of trouble with this computer, for some reason.”

“Oh,” he says. “It was running real slow, too.”

Yes, now run along like a good dog.

“But all the other computers are taken.”