The Grimm Chronicles, Vol.1 (16 page)

I took the stairs with ease, skipping the top one and nearly bumping into a toddler and his mother ready to descend. I weaved my way through the Young Adult section, into the rear of the second floor where the Children’s section was. It looked like a tornado had passed through. Big, square children’s books were spread across the beige carpeting, sitting atop the three colorful plastic tables in the corner, and more yet under the tables as well.

“At least they’re reading quality material,” I said, grabbing the wayward copy of a Roald Dahl book sitting at the edge of the table. I went into the Young Adult section and re-shelved it, then re-shelved the other Young Adult books cradled in my arms. This section always felt more alive than the other sections. Each of the shelves had books that looked used—their spines were bent, some had been grabbed and then haphazardly replaced, and a few more yet were sitting on top of their brothers and sister. It was definitely the most used section, especially during the summer.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder just how many young kids were missing out. Books were competing with so many other things nowadays: TV, Internet, cell phones, games and of course those ridiculous cell phone games like
Castle Cats
, which was apparently the newest craze. Heck, even my giant rabbit helper pal was addicted to the Internet now. Who knew what he was looking up while I was here?

I went back into the Children’s section, crawling across the carpet on my knees to collect all of the scattered books. With no one to talk to, I kept thinking back to the tense fight with the frog creature. Who had sent him? Had he known where I lived? Would he harm my parents?

A chill ran down my spine. I felt guilty that it had taken so long for all of this to sink in. Even now, after so much, it still didn’t feel entirely real. I mean, here I was on me knees in a library putting away kids’ books. Just days ago, I’d been drooled on by a frog monster who nearly killed me because my stupid saber had broken in half.

Speaking of which …

I finished tidying up just as another small pack of wild kids made their way up the stairs followed at a distance by a slightly frazzled-looking mother. She gave me a look—save me from these little monsters!—before plopping into one of the little plastic seats at one of the tables.

Downstairs, more people had shown up to use the computers. I knew the sound of each finger on the old keyboards drove Fran insane. I could see it on her wrinkled old face every time I returned to the check-in desk to retrieve books.

Click. Click-click-click.

“Fran,” I whispered. She looked up from her computer. Click. Click-click. “Do you mind if I take my break a little early?”

“Why?” she snapped. Click-click-click. Click. Her frown tightened.

“I just wanted to look something up before I forget.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly curious in an oh-so-hostile sort of way.

Well, I want to figure out why the saber I designed with my magic pen broke while I was saving the world from a hideous frog monster. “Just something fencing-related,” I answered.

“Fine. Go ahead.” She waved me away. “You’ll just have more work when you get back.”

I fought the urge to sigh dramatically, instead forcing a smile on my face. “Thank you.”

I went into the little Sports section in the far corner of the library, out of the watchful eye of Fran and just about everyone else. All of the shelves along the wall reached up the ceiling. Most people used the step stool when they needed something from the top shelf. Me? I just jumped. Then jumped again. Then jumped again. Finally, on the fourth jump, my fingers gripped the spine of the right book.

The designs inside the fencing book were pretty clear. The saber was just like the foil, only with a slightly different blade that more closely resembled a sword. I scanned the diagram again, wondering if I just didn’t understand it as well as I’d thought. The blade screws into the handle. The bell guard screws in, too. The bell guard protects the hand. All the components are made of steel.

Then I saw it:

The blade of the saber can snap easily, but is easy to replace.

“Crap,” I muttered. Not reading through the entire text had almost gotten me killed. I thumbed through the remainder of the diagrams. There had to be something more here, something that I could use to create a sturdier weapon of choice next time a Corrupted happened to appear.

There! On page 75. It was clear as day: a history of the saber. Curved sabers from ancient Persia. Generals’ sabers from the Napoleonic era. And it had diagrams, too. I could modify my design with ease: give the blade a slight curve and strengthen it by making it just a little thicker. The blade and hilt could also be molded out of a single piece of steel and then the bell guard could be attached. Leather could be wrapped around the hilt and a pommel could be screwed on.

Heck, even
without
my magic pen, I bet I could build one of these. If I had a forge and knew how to hammer steel, I suppose.

“Excuse me.”

I looked up and it took all of my willpower not to scream. Fran was standing between the rows of books, hands on hips, frowning her terrible frown. As if on cue, a heavy cloud passed under the sun and the light coming in from the windows between the bookshelves suddenly dimmed. Spookier and spookier!

“You’ve been back here for fifteen minutes,” she said. “Why on earth would you be allowed fifteen whole minutes of break time when you’re only here for half a day?”

“I didn’t realize so much time had passed …”

“Well it has,” she snapped. For a moment, the clicking of keyboards stopped and the entire library was silent.

Can you say “embarrassing”?

“I think you should go back and get started on checking in everything that’s come back today,” she continued. Her voice was loud. Everyone else in the library could obviously hear her. Didn’t she understand how mean she was being? I mean, jeez! I was eighteen years old, for cryin’ out loud. My image was
important
. And I
didn’t
like being portrayed as some slacker, either.

“OK,” I said.

“And don’t leave your purse on the floor. I nearly tripped on it.”

She was following me now. I had to fight the urge to start running. Where or where was Mary, the “good librarian”? Why couldn’t she be here whenever the library was open? Maybe she could just put a little bed in the office behind the checkout desk and live here and then Fran could retire or return to whatever hole she crawled out of. Mary could be the live-in librarian. Yeah! She didn’t have to leave. Wait, did she have a husband? Well, no matter—he could live here, too. He could put a TV in the little office if he needed it.

“And don’t forget to check the book drop at the shopping mart,” she added. I was almost at the desk now and she was still hot on my heels. Maybe a quick rear kick to the upper leg and I could reach the door before … no, no … no using Briar’s karate moves on librarians, Alice.

“With pleasure,” I murmured.

“What was that?”

I turned to her, mustering up all my courage. Come on, girl! You’re a
hero
! “I said I will more than happily check the book drop at the shopping mart.”

She put her hands on her hips, glaring at me. My body was tense, like it was waiting for Fran to lunge at me, claws sharpened and ready to kill. There was a young woman and son standing at the checkout desk with a stack of books, waiting patiently. The son seemed blissfully unaware of the awkward scene unfolding beside him. The mother? Well, she was looking at me with a mixture of pity and terror.

“Just don’t take too long,” Fran finally said. Before my big mouth could get me in bigger trouble, I spun and made my way for the exit.

Outside, a few light drops of rain had begun falling. Little wet dots appeared on the sidewalk as I walked down Mooreland Road to the big grocery store three blocks away. The library book drop was a big red metal box right next to a Redbox DVD rental machine. Twice in the last two weeks, someone had dropped their DVD into the library book return box. My response was the same both times: “Jeez!”

Today, there were only a dozen books in the box, but a couple of them were heavy hardcovers, so I stacked all of them and carried them into the store, where I politely asked for a paper bag. The lanky red-haired boy bagging groceries in lane 3 went to my school and gave me a wry smile as I set down the books next to a customer’s gallon of milk.

“Shouldn’t you bring a bag with you when you come collect everything?” he asked.

“Yes, you’re right,” I said. “Thank you so much for pointing that out.”

He nodded, obviously pleased with himself. But he handed over a paper bag, which was a good idea on his part because I was seriously on the verge of giving him a solid kick to the rump. Lots of thoughts about kicking people—that was what working with Fran did to you, I guess.

Outside, it was raining even harder. I stood under the overhang next to the book return box, watching shoppers run to and from their cars in the parking lot. Heavy raindrops seemed to explode when they pelted the ground. There was no way I was running in this. Actually, running in the pouring rain and carrying a heavy bag sounded like a terribly
fun
challenge, as weird as that sounds. I think Briar’s little “fitness” games were getting to me. Whether we were playing “tag” in the woods and dodging obstacles or sparring in the pitch-blackness of night (stars and moon not withstanding), I found that I had an intense desire to push my body to its limits.

It was probably the only reason I’d been able to think on my feet so well when the frog creature attacked. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the pelting rain and imagining the new and improved saber that I’d read about in the fencing book. Next time, it wouldn’t break. Next time a giant monster frog knocked me over, I was going to flip him like a sack of bricks.

“Just what are you doing?”

I turned around, ready to throw the entire bag of books right at Fran’s terrifying little head. But it wasn’t Fran at all; it was just an elderly woman with white hair, berating her hunched-over husband for grabbing a little basket instead of a shopping cart.

“We’re buying
cat litter
,” the woman said. “You know you can’t carry that around the store, you old goat.”

The man mumbled a response, following her through the sliding doors and into the store.

Gawd, I thought, this librarian had me on edge. I could only imagine what might happen if I showed up with a soggy bag full of rain-drenched books. She would probably explode.

When the rain finally lightened up twenty minutes later, I hoofed it back to the library, deftly managing the heavy bag of books, nearly slipping twice on slick patches of smooth blacktop road, and arrived back at the library no worse for wear.

Fran was sitting in the office with the door closed. The shades of the little office window were open. That was strange … she never left the checkout desk except to yell at me or order me around. I walked carefully toward it, setting the bag of books next to the barcode scanner, and risked a glance at the window again. She was sitting in the chair, her head resting on one hand while the other held the old black library phone to her ear.

When she hung up, I quickly stepped away from the office, grabbing the paper bag and pulling out the books one by one.
Cloud Atlas
by David Mitchell …
Economics 101
…
Ramona the Pest
by Beverly Clearly …

“What are those?” she asked, closing the office door behind her with a slam that probably made everyone in the library jump out of their socks.

“The books from the drop box,” I said.

“Oh. Right. Why did it take so long? Where were you?”

I turned to her. Her eyes looked red, as if she’d been crying. Who had she been on the phone with? “It started raining before I could get back,” I explained. “So I smoked a few cigarettes and played dice games with some hoodlums.”

Her eyes widened. “You
what
?”

I smiled weakly. “It was a joke. I waited until the rain let up.”

She grabbed one of the books from the bag, examining it closely. Searching for a droplet of rain, no doubt. But guess what, Ms. Grumpazoid? I folded the top of the paper bag shut to keep the books safe. Ha!

“Well, check them in and put them away.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I watched her walk back into the office, then scanned the books and re-shelved everything.

The rest of the afternoon, I stood behind the desk and checked out books for people. It wasn’t my job. Heck, I don’t think I was supposed to do it at all! But Fran stayed in the office with the door closed, making phone calls with the same distressed look on her face.

I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder once in a while. I mean, sure, she was a grouch. She could have been nicer. Her perfume stunk, too. But whatever was happening was bad, and I found myself feeling guilty for letting her attitude get to me at all. She still wasn’t as grumpy as any of my bosses from the previous summer when I was cooking French fries for eight hours a day.

When the door finally opened again, it was time to close up. Fran was clutching a wet tissue in one hand and exhaled deeply as she glanced around the empty library.