Quiet, Please!

Chapter One

What am I doing here?

Not literally. I know that. I’m labeling, cataloging, and shelving books, activities that are almost as natural to me as breathing. What’s unnatural is everything else about this situation.

I’m in a bright, airy library that’s painted in vibrant colors with cheerful murals depicting children who are reading (and looking unnaturally happy about it, in my opinion). But that’s not the strangest thing about what’s going on. The strangest thing is that I, a professional, highly educated librarian—a librarian for adults, I might add—am in charge of this place. What’s most alarming, though, is that in a week, this place will be flooded with kids. Strange, I can handle. Kids… I don’t handle them as well.

I’d better figure it out, though. And quick.

Anyway, I’m up to the challenge. Aside from the fact that I don’t have a choice, I can do this. Maybe. I mean, they’re only kids, right? It’s not like they’re going to know that I’m terrified of them. Huh-huh. Or that I’m not at all confident in my ability to do this job. Huh-huh-huh. To them, I’m merely another—gulp—teacher. As long as I look the part and act the part, they won’t know that I’m a bundle of nerves inside.

I obviously fooled the school’s principal, Renalda Twomey. That, or she made a bad decision after being twenty minutes late for my interview and hardly paying any attention to my answers. I didn’t fool her harried secretary, that much I know. I could tell by the wide-eyed, panicked look on her face when Ms. Twomey interrupted me halfway through my answer to her third question—which was technically more about whether I liked her purse than about the job opening—to say that I was hired.

As an explanation for her sudden decision, she added, I like you, Kendall; you’ve got spunk! And you’re just cute as can be! Those kids are gonna eat you up! in her heavy North Carolina accent.

I tried to take that as a compliment and block out all mental images of the children picking my bones clean on the first day and leaving them on the floor in front of the shelf that holds the Berenstain Bears books.

The secretary, who had introduced herself to me as Sam Kingsley while I waited for Ms. Twomey to arrive, interjected, Okay, but… Ms. Dickinson, how does your previous experience in—she consulted my resume—the Kansas City Public Library system relate to or prepare you for a job in a public school setting?

Her mention of my former employer immediately made me break into a cold sweat. Vaguely, I answered with a bright smile and wide eyes, Oh! I dealt with kids all the time at my old job. And co-workers who behaved like them.

Did you work in the children’s section? she persisted, her voice pleasant but her eyes informing me she wasn’t going to let me get away with that lame answer.

I gulped and admitted, No, not specifically. I filled in often, though. And… Here, I had to fight my natural instinct to be completely and brutally honest about myself. …I love kids. Love them! They’re so cute and… young.

Ms. Twomey saved me then. Oh, Sam, stop givin’ the poor girl the third degree! Whitehall Elementary needs a librarian, and fast. Turning to me, she confided, "Our current one is retirin’. And she was super-experienced, but we need someone younger, I think. That’s what I’ve been sayin’, anyway. But all the other applicants are, well, old! And I don’t want to have to hire another librarian in another coupla years when one of those old people retires."

I pretended like it wasn’t at all ironic that a person who was not a day younger than sixty would call anyone else who’s still active in the workforce old. Nor did I point out that it’s illegal for her to discriminate based on age. Instead, I saw my salvation in this disorganized, seemingly clueless mess of a person and nodded enthusiastically.

Pouring on the Southern accent a little thicker than mine really is, I enthused, Exactly! And let me tell you, I’m here to stay. Came here to be closer to my parents, so I’m not going anywhere.

Ms. Twomey grinned at Sam as if to say, See? and directed warmly at me, Well, anyone with such good family values is a winner in my book. We’ll see you back here on the first Monday in August. That’s when teachers are supposed to come in to get their rooms ready and stuff.

After that declaration, she rose from behind her desk and grabbed her purse from the floor, where she’d dropped it when she rushed in, profusely apologizing for being late and muttering something about slow service at the hair salon.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get to a meetin’, she announced.

Sam very obviously rolled her eyes and asked, How long will you be gone?

Waving off the question, the principal stayed focused on digging for something in her purse. Coming up with a lipstick, she replied while applying it, M-dunno. One, two hours? She replaced the lid on the tube and said, Don’t wait up for me, Mom. Then she smiled naughtily at both of us and swept from the room, leaving behind the cloying smell of Aqua Net and Red Door perfume.

Sam stood and leveled a chagrined look at me. Sorry about that. If I don’t ask at least one legitimate question in these interviews, it doesn’t get done.

I smiled brightly at her. I didn’t care. I had a job! And I didn’t have to go into any detail about why I had to leave my other job. Generously, I said, Don’t sweat it. I kind of noticed she has an… unconventional management style.

Bluntly, Sam corrected, She’s an incompetent buffoon. And she drives me crazy. I’m counting down the days to her retirement.

When’s that? I inquired, trying not to laugh.

Probably never. Because God hates me. Come on, let’s go back to my desk and get the employment forms you need to fill out. I’ve got some of them here, but you’ll have to go to the district main office to do the rest.

Since that day, Sam’s been really nice to me, showing me around the school and introducing me to the other teachers (the ones who are here already). But I’m not letting her get too close. I mean, standoffish isn’t in my nature. But I haven’t accepted any of her offers to go to lunch or grab drinks after work. Work friends are overrated. I want to have a life outside of work this time around. I have no idea how I’m going to do that, but I’m sure I can think of something to do with my spare time that doesn’t involve hanging out with the same people I see all week at work or playing Skip-Bo with my parents in the evenings.

Fortunately, I have some experience with this reinvention thing. And this time around, it won’t even be as difficult as it was nine years ago.

We moved from Colorado to this tiny town before my junior year in high school. The move was a godsend. Suddenly, I was the exotic newcomer from out west. This preconception made it fairly easy for me to lay the groundwork for going from geek to chic. In Colorado, I couldn’t buy friends, but nobody in North Carolina knew that. And if ever I made a misstep in my transformation, all I had to say was, Oh, well, that’s how everyone does it/says it/thinks in Colorado, and it suddenly became a trend. It. Was. Awesome.

But it only lasted for two years. Hardly anyone, including myself, stays in this town after high school graduation. It’s basically an outpost for professionals who work in Charlotte but want to live and raise their families in a smaller community. I stuck around a little longer than my classmates, because I went to college at UNC-Charlotte, where my parents are professors. But as soon as I had that university diploma in hand, I tried to find the farthest-flung job openings in libraries across the country. I wanted to be a grownup. I wanted to prove my independence. Biggest mistake of my life.

Since returning from Kansas City with my tail between my legs, I haven’t run into any of my former classmates from high school (thank goodness), and I haven’t actively sought out anyone, either. Friends weren’t my motivation for coming back. What brought me back here was family. My parents, more specifically. I needed to reset with a safety net under me. I moved into my own place with the knowledge that if I couldn’t find a job, they’d open their house to me in a heartbeat, just like they did more than twenty-five years ago.

This job has saved me from the ultimate defeat—moving back in with my parents—but I need to remember some old tricks if I want it to be a permanent solution. And I do. I’m sure the terror level will lessen with each passing day. Right?

Anyway, I don’t have to change everything about myself this time around. No, I merely need to do a bit of research and observation and figure out what this whole teacher thing is about. Maybe I’ll watch some classic movies about the sort of teachers who inspire, like in Dangerous Minds. Yeah… I’ll be bad-ass, leather-sportin’ Michelle Pfeiffer. Or maybe not. I guess elementary students here in the sticks don’t need that sort of direction. Perhaps I should consider channeling Jess, from New Girl. People are constantly telling me that I remind them of Zooey, so why wouldn’t I be a teacher like her character on the show? Ooh! Maybe I’ll meet a hot, rich, single father who looks like Dermott Mulroney and date him for a while, too. Yes… I like this plan.

During my daydreaming, I’ve somehow managed to put away all the books that arrived this morning. I collapse the box they came in and carry it behind the counter, where I’ll store it until I have a chance to take it out to the recyclables dumpster later. Then I pull out my weekly schedule and study it, as if I don’t already have it memorized.

What’s most daunting to me is that while the rest of the teachers each have 25 to 30 students in their rooms each day, 100 to 120 students will come through the library on any given day. I’ll have to learn all their names and pretend that I like them. I think the latter part of that challenge is the harder half.

I wish I liked kids. And maybe I will when this is all over, if these kids are nice enough not to make me hate kids even more. Not that I hate them. I don’t. That word conveys too strong an emotion about them. I’m almost totally indifferent to them. I don’t ooh and aah over babies or the cute, funny things that older children say or do. Most of the time, I don’t give any person under the age of 21 any thought at all.

Maybe it’s because I don’t remember what it feels like to be a kid, so I have no empathy for them. It seems like I’ve been a grownup forever. As a child, I was precocious, and as I grew up, I was always mature for my age. Being an only adopted child, my parents took me everywhere and included me in everything they did until I was old enough to stay home alone. Since they’re academics, I was privy to dinner table conversations that ran the gamut from the weather to the political climate in third world countries. I learned early on how to hold my own in these conversations, but I was lost when it came to playground debates about Barbie versus Brattz. The point is, I met political activist and Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel at one of my parents’ dinner parties when I was eight and had more to say to him than I did to any of my classmates in the lunchroom on a daily basis. That meant I had to actually study pop culture like another school subject to avoid being a complete outcast.

So, I flourished in college. By about the third week of the fall semester my freshman year, when all the lightweights had dropped out and those of us who were serious about learning were left, I knew I was in my element. This was an atmosphere that encouraged intellectual debate and exploration. Sure, there were the fraternities and sororities that seemed more interested in partying, but there were as many of us—if not more—who cared about academics. I was no longer a minority. I didn’t have to waste time boning up on reality TV stats.

Naturally, I chose one of the most notoriously nerdy majors: library science. Technology was making it more interesting than ever, and I couldn’t think of any other career I’d rather pursue. The idea of being surrounded by books all the time for the rest of my life was thrilling. I’d never run out of knowledge to soak up, and I’d be ensuring that same knowledge was accessible to the masses.

It wasn’t until I got my first real grownup post-graduate job in the Kansas City Public Library system that I found someone with like interests who also made me feel that spark of attraction.

But anyway… with less than a week to go before school starts, I’m way too busy to think about him.

Chapter Two

I’m hunched over my schedule, thinking up some mnemonic devices to memorize the sequence of teachers’ names in my schedule, when Jane Pleska, fourth grade teacher, union steward (although she’s already pointed out sniffily that I’m not eligible to be in the teachers’ union), and self-proclaimed cruise director at Whitehall Elementary, bustles into the library and stops at the counter. I straighten my back and give her one of my brightest, friendliest smiles, but I can already tell she and I are not going to be buddies.

She slides a piece of paper across the counter towards me and says, "Once a month, we meet before school in the teacher’s lounge to discuss any issues, challenges, or wins we’re experiencing with our students and to get feedback from the rest of the group. We take turns bringing in breakfast for the group. Something simple and light and, preferably, healthy. Not donuts. Here’s the sign-up sheet."

Taking a look, I see there are only two slots open: December and May. When I point this out, mainly to verify that I’m interpreting the data correctly, she explains a touch defensively, "Well, I figured I’d leave those two months open for you, since you don’t have a real classroom and won’t be busy with end-of-term grades. You only have to do one, and it’s your choice."

I grit my teeth and sign up for December. Trying for levity, I say, Who’s the lucky person who doesn’t have a choice at all?

She wrinkles her nose. "Jamie Chase. It’s not my fault that some people wait until the eleventh hour to grace us with their presence. Unfortunately, the administration here has fostered the belief that pretty people don’t have to play by the same rules as the rest of us."

Wow. I’m not sure where to start with that bitter statement. First of all, I’m slightly offended that I’m grouped in with the rest of us, and not the pretty people. Second, this Jamie Chase lady has obviously not toed Ms. Jane Pleska’s line in the past and probably suffers dearly for it in more important matters than the monthly meeting breakfast rotation.

The last thing I want to do is get in the middle of a workplace feud, so I nod noncommittally and hand back the signup sheet. Okay, then! Thanks for including me!

She doesn’t acknowledge my chipper statement at all. Rather, she gasps at the time and laments, "I am never going to get my classroom ready in time! I don’t know how someone can even think about giving themselves less than three weeks, much less only one. Irresponsible, if you ask me. She pushes the list back to me. Be a dear and keep on the lookout for Jamie. I don’t have time to keep going all the way down the kindergarten hall to get a silly signature." With that, she rushes from the library, leaving me in charge of the signup sheet.

Great. The first time I meet this Jamie woman I’m going to have to deliver the bad news about her getting the least-desirable signup month.

In addition to daring to milk the most of her summer vacation, I wonder what else Jamie Chase has done to incur the Wrath of Pleska. Sounds to me like the biggest beef Jane has with the kindergarten teacher is that she’s good-looking. I’m starting to get a clear picture now. Jamie’s attractive and young and adored by her students, who see her as a mother figure, considering this is the first time for some of them to be away from their parents all day. She’s probably nurturing and sweet and smells like sugar cookies. She never has a blonde hair out of place or lipstick smeared on her teeth. And she doesn’t look like a toad, which is something that Jane can’t say.

If this is the case, I feel sorry for Jamie. Unfortunately, I know firsthand how damaging co-worker jealousy and office politics can be.

A couple of hours later, I’m eating fast food tacos at the library counter and flipping through some book catalogs, trying to figure out how I’m going to fill the rest of the hours in this week. My predecessor, a Mrs. Dawanza Nicholson, was apparently the most kick-ass elementary school librarian in the history of the profession. It seems she had everything taken care of for this school year by the last day of the previous school year. There’s really nothing for me to do, except add some fun touches to the library, and I don’t have the foggiest idea where to even start with that.

I have to think about what the kids would like—an impossible feat, considering how clueless I am about that species of creature—and use the creativity I’ve allowed to go into extended hibernation in the back corner of my brain. In the process, I should probably also give them some insight into me, to help them get to know me a little better. I’m in way over my head here.

But I seem to have the feeling that if I sit at this counter and look through the meticulously organized lists and materials that Mrs. Nicholson left behind, I’ll magically know what to do. Because it seems like no one else at the school knows what she did. She was just sort of here. This is a place where they can drop off their students once a week and get an hour of peace. They don’t care what goes on here, as long as they’re not involved. Fair enough. Plus, I’m supposed to know what I’m doing, so why should I even have to ask them what I’m supposed to be doing?

By the time I see someone walk past the open library doors, glance in on their way past, backtrack, and stop in the doorway, I’ve worked myself into a near panic attack at this sham of mine that’s sure to fail epically on the very first day of school. So when the tan, spectacled stranger grins at me before approaching the desk, I barely have the wherewithal to smile. Plus, I have a mouthful of greasy taco meat.

You must be the new librarian. Miss Dickinson, is it? He offers me his hand to shake. I’m Jamie Chase, one of the kindergarten teachers.

A blob of ground beef plops onto the wax paper in front of me as my mouth drops open before I can swallow everything in it. Classy.

While I crumple the wrapper to try to get rid of the disgusting evidence of my lunch as quickly as possible and hastily wipe my mouth with a coarse brown napkin, he says, Sorry. This is probably the first minute you’ve had to yourself in weeks, and I’m bothering you. I’ll come back later. Just wanted to introduce myself.

As he’s turning away, I feel confident enough to open my mouth to talk without food spraying out. "No! I mean, it’s okay. Really. I’m sorry. Now I extend my hand and blurt, I… I thought you were a woman!"

Huh? He slowly spins on his heel to face me once more and hesitantly takes my hand, shaking it slowly and smirking at me.

I mean, because of your name! Nobody told me you were a guy! I practically shout at him in my desperation to be understood. And everyone else here is female! Then I finish lamely, I’m Kendall. It’s nice to meet you, Jamie.

He smiles broadly, revealing white, even teeth, dimples on both cheeks, and laugh lines near his eyes that hint at a healthy, often-exercised sense of humor. Yeah. You, too. Sorry I haven’t been by sooner, but—he leans in conspiratorially—I just got in. Literally just landed at the airport and drove straight here.

That sounds incredibly adventuresome, which is completely foreign to me, so I can’t help but ask, Oh? Did you go somewhere exciting?

Shrugging nonchalantly but with a twinkle in his eyes, he says, Only India. A quick visit this time.

"Oh. Wow. I’ve been to Indiana before, I joke at my own expense. Probably not quite the same thing."

He sucks at his teeth contemplatively before agreeing, Yeah. Not quite. Lots of cows in both places, though.

Good point.

While he leans a hip against the counter, I toss my lunch trash into the wastebasket at my feet. Anyway, he continues, it was the only chance I had to go this year, and I wasn’t going to let a little classroom prep stop me. Plus, I brought some stuff back for the students, so I considered my travels somewhat work-related. Now he pushes his glasses further up on his nose and looks around the library for the first time. Huh. Place looks the same as always.

Considering that I’ve been stressing about it for the past two weeks, I take his statement as a criticism and reply defensively, Seems like Mrs. Nicholson had everything in order, so I didn’t want to mess with a proven system.

Proven, but boring. And outdated. The woman was almost as much a relic as the things I used to find on archaeological digs.

I must have a sign on my forehead that reads, Trash-talk our colleagues to me. Maybe I should start charging a fee. Even though Mrs. Nicholson is no longer technically our co-worker, I don’t want people to get in this habit with me. All I want is to work my forty hours every week without getting involved in workplace drama and go home with a clear conscience. Is that too much to ask?

I must look offended or hurt (or both), because he quickly qualifies, "No offense. I mean, I’m sure you’re trying to figure everything out. Hell, I’m still trying to figure everything out, and I’ve been here five years."

I’m somewhat mollified by his admission and the knowledge I have deep down that this school library isn’t as fun or engaging as it could be and that I’m touchy about it because I don’t have the first idea how to fix it. But I still don’t want to be the equivalent of the workplace bartender, simply because I stand behind a counter and seem to be a captive audience.

I’m sure she did the best she knew how to do, I defend poor Mrs. Nicholson (and myself, in the process). Then cheerfully and much more confidently than I feel, I say, Plus, I’ll get this place whipped into shape in no time, as soon as I get to know the students and teachers and can figure out where the biggest, most immediate needs are.

Yeah! That was my plan, all along. Right…

Readily, he supplies, More computer stations for catalog searches. He points to the large, gray computer at a child-sized desk at the end of the counter. "Right now, the kids have to take turns on that Doogie Howser hand-me-down, circa 1985. Or they have to come to you for help. That’s inefficient. Not to mention, it doesn’t foster a sense of independence or teach them how to find things on their own. And it makes for a hectic check-out time."

I nod thoughtfully. Okay. I’ll talk to Ms. Twomey about that.

He snorts. Forget that. Go straight to Dianna. He nods toward the door that connects the library to the computer lab. As the school’s computer teacher, she has connections with the IT department and can score some spare systems for you. I’d say you need at least three more.

Really? I gulp at how unequipped I am in this department but try not to worry too much about it.

Yeah. Trust me; it’ll make your life so much easier. Now he stands up straighter. Anyway, that’s enough of me sticking my nose in your business today. You probably think I’m a real douche, coming in here and telling you how I think it should be done.

I’m horrified when I let slip, Well, since I have no idea what I’m doing, I welcome any suggestions.

He cocks his head at me, but then he grins as if he thinks I’m joking. Oh, good. I don’t want to be overbearing. But a new regime is always a good time to make improvements.

He’s turning to leave when I remember the breakfast signup sheet. Oh! Hey!

He stops in his tracks and faces me once more.

I hold up the goldenrod-colored piece of paper, which he immediately recognizes, based on the dismayed expression on his face. Aw, man! Really? he mutters, but he returns to the counter and takes the paper from me. Looking down at it, he says, Well, what’s the point in even asking me, if there’s only one effing spot left?

I wince sympathetically. There were only two spots left when I got it. I took December, but if you’d rather have that than May, I’ll switch with you. I hardly want to start off on the wrong foot with one of my co-workers over a stupid continental breakfast meeting schedule.

Pulling a pen from his pocket and clicking it open, he scrawls his name in the spot for May and grumbles, Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s typical Jane Pleska shit. The woman hates me and doesn’t make it a secret. Every year, she finds new and innovative ways to piss me off. Or get me in trouble. But whatever. Sorry. It’s not your fault.

I’m not sure what to say. Uh, you’re forgiven. The prim, childish response is cringe-worthy, but I can’t take it back, so I laugh at myself and amend, Whatever.

His smile turns into a grimace as he keeps a hold on the list. I’ll take this back to Constable Pleska and spare you the encounter with her. Plus, I’m sure she’ll be interested to know I’ve reported for duty so she can note the number of voluntary service days that are no longer voluntary for me, due to my late arrival.

With that, he strides to the library doors and calls over his shoulder, It was nice to meet you, Kendall. Good luck!

Chapter Three

Afew days ago, I was wondering how I was going to fill my time at work before the first day of school. Now I’m wondering how I’m ever going to be ready on time. I’ve been working nonstop with Dianna to get three new systems in the library to serve as electronic catalogs. Finding the systems was actually the easy part; Dianna had three surplus machines waiting to go back to IT for recycling into the system at other schools. The snafu came when IT told us we’d have to get three new licenses for the proper software. That’s taking a while to go through the requisitions process.

Well, I’m no stranger to bureaucracy and red tape, so I can be patient. I only wish I had thought