entertained by it. Day, and night.
“You are so boring, Oakley, you’re in a category all by yourself,” Lilly teases as the two of them come ambling through the door.
“Good,” I say. “So get out of my category.”
“Come with us,” Lilly says, taking my. hand and pulling gently, playfully. “You don’t even read. Why bother?”
But I don’t want to play. “Am I bothering you ?”
She’s right, though. About the no reading. Didn’t use to be. But is.
“As long as we’re here,” Pauly says, “why not let’s look him up?”
I pay no attention as Paul trots off to get the dictionary and look me up. I am staring at Ophelia Lennon, the one and only librarian of the town of Whitechurch. There used to be two. She is tall, maybe five ten. And slim, with square shoulders that make her look like one fine column all the way to the floor, the line of her yellow-flowered brown dress unbroken by any hint of hip. All her dresses reach the floor, and that is part of the mystery of her—there could be anything under there. Her hair is in between brown and black, with generous splatters of gray all over. It is combed straight back to reveal a mighty forehead, and to rest in a gentle flip at the base of her neck. She moves deliberately, surely, but it seems she’s going at a speed one tick slower than the rest of us, like the Disney heroines always do. Grace, is what it is. And she wears perfectly round rimless spectacles that are exactly the same size as her eye sockets, giving her pale, nearly white eyes the ghostly look of ancient Greek statuary—which the library features in miniature in every cranny and cove. She looks very much in fact like a statuette in nonfiction called Aphrodite Victorious . Maybe not the body, exactly, but their faces are very much alike.
“She looks like Buddy Holly,” Lilly says. “You ever see pictures of him?”
“You know, Lilly,” I snarl, “that’s pretty sick, being opposed to books and libraries and librarians. Maybe you’re a category too. Bibliophobia. Look her up while you’re there, Pauly.”
“Jealous?” Lilly laughs. But if I was wrong, she could do a lot better than that.
“Here it is,” Pauly says, sitting down at our round oak table with a massive gold Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary.
“You’re very proud of yourself for having taken only ten minutes to find a reference book in a one-room library,” I say.
“Hey,” he points out, “one big room.”
“Here,” Lilly says. “‘Bore: To weary by dullness.’” She slams the big book shut, making a road hollow thump that causes Ophelia Lennon to shoot us a look.
This upsets me. “Dammit, Lilly, now look. Ophelia Lennon is angry.”
“Stop wearying me with your dullness, will you, Oakley?” Lilly whispers.
I point a finger at Lilly’s perfect pug nose. “You are just jealous.”
“Of what?” Pauly wants to know, but doesn’t really want to know. He makes like he’s really caught up in the dictionary.
“I’ll tell you what,” Lilly says, giving me a shut-up stare that her boyfriend cannot see. “I’m jealous that, because of whatever Oakley’s doing for the dusty old library lady, he gets to keep the last book he borrowed—like, ten years ago—without paying any fines.”
“Cool,” Pauly says. “Maybe I’ll do it too.”
“Right.” I snort. “First, you never even took out a library book …”
“And second,” Lilly adds, “you never—”
“That’s enough,” Pauly blurts, loudly.
Ophelia Lennon throws us a look, because my friends clash with the library’s style. And they will get worse. The two of them save their poorest performances for the library. My library. I did better when I was five. When I was four.
“Beat it, will ya, guys,” I say.
“Well, he might be able to please your lady friend, but beat it?” says Lilly.
“All right, that does it,” Paul says, even louder now. He rises from his seat and starts unbuckling his
“You are so boring, Oakley, you’re in a category all by yourself,” Lilly teases as the two of them come ambling through the door.
“Good,” I say. “So get out of my category.”
“Come with us,” Lilly says, taking my. hand and pulling gently, playfully. “You don’t even read. Why bother?”
But I don’t want to play. “Am I bothering you ?”
She’s right, though. About the no reading. Didn’t use to be. But is.
“As long as we’re here,” Pauly says, “why not let’s look him up?”
I pay no attention as Paul trots off to get the dictionary and look me up. I am staring at Ophelia Lennon, the one and only librarian of the town of Whitechurch. There used to be two. She is tall, maybe five ten. And slim, with square shoulders that make her look like one fine column all the way to the floor, the line of her yellow-flowered brown dress unbroken by any hint of hip. All her dresses reach the floor, and that is part of the mystery of her—there could be anything under there. Her hair is in between brown and black, with generous splatters of gray all over. It is combed straight back to reveal a mighty forehead, and to rest in a gentle flip at the base of her neck. She moves deliberately, surely, but it seems she’s going at a speed one tick slower than the rest of us, like the Disney heroines always do. Grace, is what it is. And she wears perfectly round rimless spectacles that are exactly the same size as her eye sockets, giving her pale, nearly white eyes the ghostly look of ancient Greek statuary—which the library features in miniature in every cranny and cove. She looks very much in fact like a statuette in nonfiction called Aphrodite Victorious . Maybe not the body, exactly, but their faces are very much alike.
“She looks like Buddy Holly,” Lilly says. “You ever see pictures of him?”
“You know, Lilly,” I snarl, “that’s pretty sick, being opposed to books and libraries and librarians. Maybe you’re a category too. Bibliophobia. Look her up while you’re there, Pauly.”
“Jealous?” Lilly laughs. But if I was wrong, she could do a lot better than that.
“Here it is,” Pauly says, sitting down at our round oak table with a massive gold Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary.
“You’re very proud of yourself for having taken only ten minutes to find a reference book in a one-room library,” I say.
“Hey,” he points out, “one big room.”
“Here,” Lilly says. “‘Bore: To weary by dullness.’” She slams the big book shut, making a road hollow thump that causes Ophelia Lennon to shoot us a look.
This upsets me. “Dammit, Lilly, now look. Ophelia Lennon is angry.”
“Stop wearying me with your dullness, will you, Oakley?” Lilly whispers.
I point a finger at Lilly’s perfect pug nose. “You are just jealous.”
“Of what?” Pauly wants to know, but doesn’t really want to know. He makes like he’s really caught up in the dictionary.
“I’ll tell you what,” Lilly says, giving me a shut-up stare that her boyfriend cannot see. “I’m jealous that, because of whatever Oakley’s doing for the dusty old library lady, he gets to keep the last book he borrowed—like, ten years ago—without paying any fines.”
“Cool,” Pauly says. “Maybe I’ll do it too.”
“Right.” I snort. “First, you never even took out a library book …”
“And second,” Lilly adds, “you never—”
“That’s enough,” Pauly blurts, loudly.
Ophelia Lennon throws us a look, because my friends clash with the library’s style. And they will get worse. The two of them save their poorest performances for the library. My library. I did better when I was five. When I was four.
“Beat it, will ya, guys,” I say.
“Well, he might be able to please your lady friend, but beat it?” says Lilly.
“All right, that does it,” Paul says, even louder now. He rises from his seat and starts unbuckling his
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