(Spring 2023 Bruce C. Souders Contest Honorable Mention)

I’ve always listened to my dad. Mostly, I mean. A steady rock, and to misbehave was unwarranted; who would kick a stone? Our apartment was at the top of the building. My sister and I were Not supposed to run up the stairs; our home is shared with others, and our feet would be running and tumbling into their personal lives. But my sister wanted to run because she knew reaching the door first solidified her coolness. I wanted to impress dad, to not bother our neighbors’ worlds, to do it all just right, but being like Alyssa trumps all else. I wanted to be like her, so I ran, too. I was never a real match against her. Her elbows would hit against my ribs, and my ankles slid against the upcoming step, their combination an early test of my stability against the world so much bigger than me.

We all three would burst through the door together. Alyssa would gather our Bratz and Barbies with dad’s Smurfs and Star Wars figurines from when he was a kid. Their mismatched manner against one another is hardly noticed. Dad would start dinner, with soft musical notes from speakers mixing with his hums. I would stand in awe at the books. They overflowed from their shelves, lined our walls, and pleaded from each corner, Pick Us Up! In a way, the best part is also the worst part: deciding where to begin. The books had helped me create whole persons, each with their own little voice in their own big world. They, and my grandma, were my best\ friends. And we wouldn’t even know we could have all this, really share their worlds, if it wasn’t for Ms. Jensen, my librarian from school. She taught me all about trust, and how she puts her trust in me when she lets me borrow her library books and bring them home. It is a big Responsibility. My class goes to the library, for Library Day, every 9 days. I always get 3 books because that is the absolute most I can borrow at once. The library books stay on my desk, and my books don’t mind because they know that I still love them. I could never replace them, and the only reason they don’t get the nice desk spot is so that Ms. Jensen’s books really know that she’s right to trust me.

My grandma was dying that year. Really, I guess, for all the years I had of being me, her body had cancer in it. My mom was a really good daughter about it; she would pack herself, all 5 of her kids, and her mom in the car for grandma’s Charlottesville doctor appointments. My brothers and sister would go with our mom to a park, or they would ride around filling the time with more car games or stop for food and put together a picnic. But I stayed with our grandma. For each appointment, my library books balanced in my lap. While I would hold her hand, waiting for our time to begin. I always was her protector, despite the well-trained nearby doctors and their Helpers. Time was always at its slowest as I would wait for her IV to be placed, looking at the front of the books, tracing the titles with my finger, and waiting for their colors to move.

This one is red, the green hardly there but still the best part, the brown of his fur coming to life. I swing my feet, then stop, trying to be as quiet as a mouse, then start to swing them again because I can’t help it if I’m nervous and I’m always nervous even though it’s always fine. Her doctors and their Helpers leave. It is just me and her, so I open the first book.

“Corduroy is a bear who once lived in the toy department of a big store,” her hand tightens in mine, her way to remind me that this is one of her favorite worlds, too. When I say his name, it comes out all kinds of wrong still, more like, ‘Cow – dee – woy.’ Ms. Himelright, my speech therapist, is still helping me not mix up and confuse my Rs for Ws and my Ws for Rs, but it’s hard. My grandma doesn’t mind, though, and I’m not embarrassed when the letters don’t form the way they should. She knows what I’m saying every time I talk, never a reason to repeat myself.

“Day after day he waited with all the other animals and dolls for someone to come along and take him home.” We continue and imagine the walls around us are that of the store rather than the hospital: the beeps around us fade and the machines connected to her become the background; the bear is all we need. Lisa runs up her 4 apartment stairs, and I think of mine. I think of the way Corduroy managed to reach the top of the store even though his legs are too short. Their world is so much like mine. Mine will be good, too.

“I like the way you are… but you’d be more comfortable with your shoulder strapped fastened,” a doctor walks in before I can finish the last two lines. That’s okay, I check this one out lots.

Mom picks us up and we go home. We play less car games on the way back because it is kind of hard to stay awake and everybody is starting to make everyone else annoyed a little bit. That’s okay. We know Saturdays are just hard days.

My sister hates when I read aloud at our house because my voice changes too much. She doesn’t get that’s how the books want to be read. And, anyway, I have to practice because it will make the words come out right, Ms. Himelright says so. I’ll be able to say ‘Corduroy’ one day without even trying! Ms. Jensen showed me to read that way, to help the characters have their lives outside the page. She helps me find books I haven’t read before and doesn’t mind if I seem to get the same book too many times. She is kind and I love her, but I don’t tell her that, I just tell her I love the books, because that’s also true.

Ms. Jensen’s Helper is a good one, and I always smile and say hello and ask her how she is doing because I know that Helpers make it easier for things to go the way they should. Without Helpers, it would be harder for me to check out the library books, and it would be harder for my grandma to get her IV. Ms. Jensen’s Helper doesn’t always smile back, so the kids think she is mean, but I know Saturdays aren’t the only rough days just because they’re mine.

When Monday comes, I bring back Corduroy for Where the Wild Things Are. I still have Rainbow Fish and I Love You Stinky Face at home, but Ms. Jensen read Where the Wild Things Are to us during our last Library Day and I really want to try the voices out before Saturday. I know it’ll be even harder with so many W’s. When finished, I say goodbye to the library, zipping up my backpack slowly, keeping my eye on Ms. Jensen’s book for as long as possible, the window of light hitting the top of its pages getting smaller and smaller. I imagine the dark world my friends will have, and the secret messes they’ll get into.

I walk to class slowly, but eventually reach the door anyway. Sometimes it is hard to pay attention because my teacher doesn’t listen to Ms. Jensen the way I do, so she doesn’t know how to change her voice like us yet. I try to focus hard when we cut out pictures for pasting practice, but I always mess it up a little bit and get too close to the dots or too far away and it makes me want to cry but I don’t because I am not to my rough day yet. I know Max would give a terrible roar if he messed up the line, but I do things polite, even if it seems I don’t. When my name is called, I try to remind myself to talk slowly, to see the words so they don’t come at all jumbled, the way Ms. Himelright tells me. Sometimes it feels like there’s no use because the kids always giggle and my hot air balloon is moved to the yellow zone by lunch. Once there, I sit alone with my food, and I eat small bites and I try to laugh quietly if I have to laugh because sometimes, I laugh too loud and get into more trouble, but I just can’t hear myself right. I think it is because the cafeteria is too loud to laugh in. Back in class, I think of Max. I think of what happens when he doesn’t get it and seems bad and gets in trouble. I think of how food is taken away because he seems bad, and he is sent to bed with no dinner. I think that is wrong. I think of love. I think of practicing my terrible roars. I think about how I have terrible claws but they’re always only ever nice claws because I don’t want to hurt my grandma’s hand when we’re at the doctors, and I don’t want my claws to tear Ms. Jensen’s books. I don’t always finish my afternoon writing practice, because I think too much, and today I pack it up in my backpack to finish with my mom and my dad. I zip my backpack up slowly, again, because I don’t want to forget I have to do it later.

My teacher comes over and tells me that I don’t get on the bus today because my dad called, and he said he is going to pick us up. I don’t know why because he didn’t say anything, and my grandma had her appointment 2 days ago! On Saturday! Things were fine, the Doctor told me so when I checked. I always check. Maybe it’s something like we’re going to the store for his work or something like that. I go to the pick-up room and find my sister because she always knows more than me.

In the pick-up room, she is sitting with her friends. I always feel cool when they let me sit with them. Kids my age don’t really talk to me, but then they see that I am cool enough to have friends TWO grades older than me! They talk about bracelet beads that besties can make together, and I think it sounds cool because usually me and my sister just make them out of yarn wrapped around over and over again, kind of like braiding. I don’t talk about the bracelets because if it is cool enough to talk about at school, my sister will bring it up. All her friends leave and so do all the other kids in the pick-up room, so it is just us and the pick-up room Helper. My sister helps me with my writing practice until our dad walks in. He looks sweaty, like he has been working outside for too long, like maybe he needs a shower. He tells us to hurry up and it is huffy, like something is really not right, even though we were in the pick-up room, where we were supposed to be, the whole time and he had just gotten there. Late.

We lost our apartment. And maybe it wasn’t sudden, but at seven it was. I lost all my things: my clothes, my stuffed animals, my toys. My books. And the worst part, Ms. Jensen’s books. I still had Where the Wild Things Are safe in my backpack, but that was only because I exchanged 1 of my books Early. If you have late books, then you can’t get new books.

I stayed away from the library until our next Library Day. I didn’t want to have to give back Where Thing Wild Things Are because it was the only book I had left to read to my grandma, but I knew I had to because I already had stones in my tummy for the ones I couldn’t give back. I placed it in the return bin before sitting on the Z at the ABC’s Reading Rug. I needed to be last because I lost at being Responsible.

Ms. Jensen read a story to us, I missed the title, I missed most of her words. I kept feeling my eyes start to fill with tears and I’d speedy make them stop because it wasn’t a Saturday yet. I went to the bookshelf, not stopping to ask Ms. Jensen for help or to tell her how sorry I was for losing her special books. I was hoping maybe they wouldn’t notice I had some missing, that maybe I could get books and make them last until at least the next Library Day before getting busted. I grabbed the first 3 books I saw, not looking at their titles, racing to the check-out desk and whispering a quick, “Hi” to the Helper because I didn’t want to risk not being able to stop tears if I focused on saying any more letters.

No. You have 2 overdue books, Brooklyn. You can get these books when you bring back I Love You, Stinky Face and Rainbow Fish.

I had gone to the doctor’s appointment on Saturday with no books and held both my grandma’s hands and tried to tell her stories from memory, making up things to fill the gaps and I just couldn’t. I knew she needed me, but I had a whole city of rocks in my tummy, the pebbles being thrown around, at the thought of not being able to stop the hurt of her dying. I stayed away from the library until the next Library Day and, again, I grabbed 3 books, not caring what they were because any story was better than what I could create when I had so much bad in my head.

The Helper explained to me many times, I can bring in the books I borrowed, or my mommy and my daddy could pay the fee. No, I can’t do those things. I had cried for the books during both of my Saturdays and even a little bit at night when it doesn’t count as much (rough DAYS). My grandma and I were losing so much!

I walk up to Ms. Jensen. I whisper, my voice shaking even though I don’t want it to, focusing on the words I practiced to get out just right, 

I am so sorry. I do not have the books anymore. We lost our apartment, and they threw away all my stuff and they thought your books were mine, so they threw away those, too. I don’t have them anymore and I am so sorry because I know they are special.

The librarian, grabbing my hand, helps me tell the Helper that I can borrow books again. Never mind the notice. Never mind the late fees.

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Work Cited
Freeman, Don. “Corduroy.” Batten 2nd Grade Gate,
https://batten-2nd-grade-gate.weebly.com/uploads/5/4/9/4/5494193/corduroy.pdf.