“No, no, not like next-door neighbors. Sorry, Monday. I mean we’ve heard there’s some new people moving into town. I don’t know who but—”
“Why?” I interrupt.
“Why don’t I know who?”
“Why are they moving here?”
Sometimes I ask the wrong question because the point is not what I think it is. But Pastor Jeff nods slowly. “I have no idea.”
I think of the other W questions you are supposed to answer at the start of an essay and ask, “Where?”
Pastor Jeff winces. “The library.”
“The library!”
“That’s what we heard.”
“My library?”
“That’s the one. That’s where the moving trucks went.”
I am dancing now, the buzzing flames in my toes turned to happy sparks. “You saw moving trucks at the library?”
“I didn’t. But others did.”
“It is reopening!” I am jumping and spinning. If it did not mean touching him, I would hug Pastor Jeff.
“No, Monday, that’s not—”
“They are moving all the books back in. They must be.”
“All the books are here.” He waves his hand around at them.
“The ones they took.”
“They sold those.”
“They bought them back.”
“Monday, I don’t think they’re reopening the library.” He is being very gentle of me. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here. I think—”
I am ready for Pastor Jeff to leave, but it is rude to say so, so I put on yellow oven mitts so I can push him out the door without touching him. “I will tell her.” I wave both yellow mitts goodbye as he stumbles outside. “I will tell my mother and everyone. They are reopening the library!”
* * *
There is still cereal in the cereal box, but it is in a bag and the bag is clear, so you can see what is in it and do not need a box to tell you, so I remove the bag and cut the box into an extra-large postcard. I do not put anything on the front because I plan to tack it up on our door so no one will be able to see that side.
On the back I write:
Dear Citizens of Bourne,
Good news! The library is relocating to the library.
Then I think that sentence might be unclear or confusing for some people so I cross it out and clarify:
The library is re-relocating to the library.
Your librarian,
Monday Mitchell
Many of the things that happen next can be chalked up to the fact that Pastor Jeff, a representative of both science and the Lord, has gotten my hopes up.
Three
Norma’s Bar is owned and operated by a man named Frank Fiedler. He doesn’t know why it’s called Norma’s. It was called that already when he bought it. From a man named Todd. It is why he hired my mother, though. He said she had no experience, too many little girls （we were kindergartners at the time）， and a face that did not inspire people to drink. Is that a good thing or a bad thing, she said. He said wasn’t it her job to talk people out of drinking away their problems. Only during the day, she said. He said she would have to take off her dead husband’s shirts and wear a uniform and he knew she wouldn’t do it. She said bartenders don’t wear uniforms. She said Frank, I need the money. She said my name is on the place. He said off by a letter. She said closer than Frank.
She’s been working here ever since. Her second job.
When we were little, we all three used to hang out at the bar in the afternoon. There’s no one here who cares about underage kids in bars and no one to enforce it if anyone did. Besides, Nora had to work—everyone understood that—so we had to come along. Now though, Mab tutors after school, and Monday runs the library, but much of the time I still come in with my mother because this is my second job too. After I finish my first （homework）， I do Frank’s accounting. They started as one and the same, in fact—I assigned myself Frank’s books as math practice in eighth grade—but now he pays me a little bit, and, Nora observes, every little bit is a little bit.
“Maybe you’ll be a CFO or something when you grow up,” Frank says this afternoon as I get organized.
I think of Chris Wohl saying maybe I’d be a therapist. Everyone’s thinking about me growing up today. There’s no way I’ll be a CFO either though. Too boring. I’d never do it as a career, only as a favor. If I didn’t do his books for him, Frank would do them himself—he doesn’t have enough money to hire someone who’s actually qualified—and he’s lousy at it.