One
I was late. Not late with an excuse you could toss around, like traffic, or even late in a way that looked like you were aiming for cool. No, just plain, embarrassing—what-are-you-doing late—the kind that starts with four rounds of snooze, continues with a desperate hunt for matching shoes, and ends with me glued to my closet for ten whole minutes, expecting it to solve my life magically. Spoiler: It didn’t.
I was parked in the lot outside Traverse Middle, hunched behind the wheel of my ’98 Blazer. Gertrude, a name I used less out of fondness these days and more out of stubborn habit. My battle this morning was my mascara. The visor mirror was so smudged I could barely see myself, and the harsh sunlight knifing in through the windshield wasn’t helping. Every swipe of the wand was a gamble. One wrong twitch and I’d end up with a black eye.
But the real disaster waited at my feet. I glanced down and grimaced. The ankle boots. Of course. I bought them on sale a year ago at a thrift store, and they were cute at the time. Leather soles, a teasing little heel, and a look that said “coffee shop” instead of “twelve-year-old rodeo.” My toes already ached in anticipation, nerves firing warnings up my shins and into my brain: This was a mistake. A big one. I should’ve worn my flats instead.
Oh well.
Classic, Evie. I groaned, grabbed my lip balm, and jammed it back in the bag with the rest of my makeup war spoils. “Way to look like you know what you’re doing,” I muttered. “Truly a vision of competence.” My sarcasm hit the foggy windshield and slid back down at me.
One last gut-check before showtime. I snapped the visor up, sucked in a breath. Hair: barely contained in a low ponytail, a few rebel wisps framing my face. Outfit: neutral cardigan, dark jeans, nothing worth remembering. Face: flushed, a little frazzled, definitely awake.
Ready or not, it was time to go inside.
I slung my bag over my shoulder, locked Gertrude, and set out across the parking lot. Traverse Middle loomed bigger than I’d imagined; all brick and sprawling wings, with that institutional scent clinging to the mortar, a heady blend of floor polish, paper, and stale cafeteria slop. The kind of school that put on a friendly face for the sun, but I’d bet it turned haunted after the last bell.
Not that I was thinking about that.
The front doors were typical school-issue: thick, unwilling. I had to yank on one until it groaned open, then squeezed inside. The main hallway gaped ahead, wide and blindingly lit, banks of lockers on each side, construction paper slapped over bulletin boards announcing this week’s tryout or assembly. Kids clustered in small groups, their stares following me, suspicious and flat, as if new people were bacteria the immune system needed to neutralize.
The front office was impossible to miss: glass box, a cluttered desk, and a woman in her fifties perched behind it. She had reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain, and she stopped what she was doing the second I crossed into her line of sight.
“Hi,” I managed, a little out of breath. “I’m the new librarian. Evie Greene.”
She greeted me with a wide, practiced smile, already sifting through a stack of folders. “Evangeline! We’ve been expecting you. Welcome to Traverse Middle.”
“Just Evie, actually,” I corrected her, softer. “Evangeline makes me sound like I should be wearing a bonnet and teaching in a one-room schoolhouse.”
She actually laughed at that, a real laugh, not the polite office kind—and pressed a visitor’s badge into my palm, even if I technically wasn’t a visitor.
“I’m Carol. I’ll let Principal Hart know you’re here,” the secretary said, her voice brisk, like she was already on to the next item on her checklist. I opened my mouth, but before I managed anything, a door behind the desk banged open and out strode a man. He was tall, balding, and walked like someone who’d mainlined way too much coffee. There was an energy about him that screamed deadlines; maybe even lived for them.
He beamed at me, a smile that looked like it had been perfected for PTA meetings and phone call negotiations. “Ms. Greene! Bill Hart. Welcome aboard.” He stuck out his hand without missing a beat, and I did my best to shake it like I’d done this a thousand times instead of, you know, never.
“Thanks. Happy to be here.”
“Let’s get you oriented,” he said, already in motion, and suddenly we were in the hallway, me hustling to keep up, my bag clutched against my side like a shield. “We’ll do a quick walkthrough—classrooms, gym, and then I’ll get you settled in the library.”
We buzzed down the main hallway at a speed that should’ve had a bell ringing in warning. He waved at classrooms as we passed by, half the doors open, the rest closed. A couple of teachers inside, prepping for the day; I barely caught their faces, let alone their names. He fired off introductions rapid-fire: Ms. Alvarez, seventh-grade English; Mr. Kim, math; someone else whose name disappeared immediately because I was too busy willing myself not to wipe out in my boots.
At the end of the hall, he jerked his chin toward a pair of double doors. “Gym’s down there, cafeteria’s right next door,” he rattled. “You’ll mostly be in the library, but you never know.” I nodded, like maybe one day I’d wake up and decide to run laps. Spoiler: I would not. The gym could keep its distance; we were better off as strangers.
We kept cruising, and finally, he stopped in front of some glass doors. Through them, I could see shelves, tables, chairs, a big desk, and morning sunlight pouring in through tall windows. The library. Safe territory.
My library, now.
“This is it,” Principal Hart announced, swinging the door wide. “Mrs. Kowalski retired last spring, so it’s been sitting for a while. I’ll be real with you, it needs some TLC. But I bet you you’ll make it shine.”
I stepped inside, and the smell landed on me immediately: old books, dust, paper. The kind of quiet that feels heavy, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Shelves slightly off-kilter, signs that looked like they belonged in a different decade, and in the far corner, a lineup of ancient desktop computers, survivors from Y2K who’d just toughed it out.
But this was mine now.
“Settle in at your own pace,” Principal Hart said. “Carol’s your go-to for questions. Staff meeting’s at three-thirty in the conference room—it’s painless. Well, mostly.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He left, and I just stood there in the center of the library, surrounded by books and the quiet promise of what could be. Also, the creeping suspicion I had was that I didn’t really know what I was doing.
But that was fine. I could always just Google it.
