How are we going to pay for his room and board?
He pushed open the door to the library and exhaled in the silence of the space. Brooklyn Visions Academy’s library was like a sanctuary. It was collegiate, full of fancy lamps and tables, ornate designs in the crown molding lining the ceiling and doors. This was the library where Shakespeare and all the rest of the dead white guys Miles had to study in school would’ve wanted to have their ashes scattered. Under the cherrywood floorboards, or mixed into the polish of the oak tables. At this hour, everyone was either in class or at lunch, so Miles had the place all to himself. Minus the librarian, Mrs. Tripley, or as she was known around campus, Trippin’ Tripley. Mrs. Tripley was who everyone expected Ms. Blaufuss to become in thirty years. An old lady full of so much life—so happy, so curious—that it seemed weird.
“Careful, Miles,” Mrs. Tripley said, as Miles walked through the doors. Mrs. Tripley knew everyone’s name. Every student, every teacher.
“Careful of what?” Miles said, staring up at her. “Looks like you’re the one who should be being careful.”
“Ah. Famous last words,” she said, twisting the bulb until the light flickered on. “I just didn’t want you walk under this ladder, is all.”
Miles smirked. “Mrs. Tripley, I don’t mean no harm, but why would I do that?”
“I have no idea, son. But people do it. And let me tell you, it’s bad luck.”
“I don’t need to walk under a ladder to have that.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just…You believe in that stuff?”
“What, superstitions?” She stepped gingerly down each rung of the ladder. “I don’t know. I think they’re interesting, and we can’t prove what we can’t prove, huh?” Miles had no idea what that meant, or if it meant anything at all. Mrs. Tripley continued, “But whether you believe in them or not, you still shouldn’t walk under a ladder, Miles. Because somebody like me might fall on you. And that, my dear, is bad luck.” She held the blown bulb to her ear and shook the burnt filament around inside. “Trust me. Been there.”
Miles opened his mouth to ask, but then decided against it.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Mrs. Tripley left the ladder in the middle of the floor and walked over to the trash can behind her desk, which was also big and wooden.
“Hide me.”
“Hide you?” Mrs. Tripley slapped her hands together to clear the dust from her fingers. “Are you being sought after? Are you the creature Frankenstein is chasing? Are you the young Bill Sikes being hunted by the mob of Jacob’s Island? Are you Ralph running from the spears of the other stranded kids? Hmmmm?”
“Um…I’m…Miles.”
“I know who you are, Miles. And that was Shelley, Dickens, and Golding. You, my dear, should spend more time in the library. It’s not just a hiding place, but also the place where the chases happen. Understand?”
“I…guess so?” Miles didn’t know what to say or how to respond to Trippin’ Tripley, and was regretting coming into the library at all. Ganke was probably scarfing down pizza, while Miles was trying to decode the school librarian.
“Now, on a serious note, you’re not really being chased, are you?” She leaned in, in case the chaser was in the building.
“No. I’m fine.” What he really wanted to say was I don’t know.
“Okay, phew. That’s good.” She knocked on the desk. “Knock on wood, Miles.”
“I don’t—”
“Just do it.”
Miles knocked. “Does anyone even know where that superstition came from?”
She grabbed a pile of books from a cart beside her desk, and started toward the stacks. Miles followed behind.
“Well, I don’t know if anyone does, but…I do,” Mrs. Tripley quipped. “See, in ancient times it was believed that good spirits lived in trees, and that when you knocked on them you were calling on them to come and protect you.” Then, while slipping a book onto the shelf, she added, “I’ll even do you one better. You know why people say you get seven years of bad luck if you break a mirror? Because souls are trapped in mirrors. And when you break a mirror you let them out!” She threw her hands in the air emphatically. “I mean, I don’t really believe that, and, honestly I don’t know why seven is the number of bad-luck years, but that’s where it comes from. Any other questions?”
“Yeah,” Miles said. “You know anything about white cats?”
“Other than they’re adorable? Nope.”
“Nothing?”
“You said white cats, right?” Miles nodded. “Yeah…I got nothing.”
“What about spiders?”
“They’re scary,” Mrs. Tripley said bluntly, while squeezing another book into an already stuffed row.
“But I mean, do you know any superstitions about them?”
Mrs. Tripley stopped between two bookshelves, turned to Miles. “I do know one thing. It used to be said that spiders could connect the past with the future. Something about the symbolism of the web.”
“You serious?”
“Of course.” She resumed restocking.
“How you even know all this?”
“Oh, Miles, because I live here.” She caught herself. “I mean, I don’t live here. I mean, look, sometimes I take a nap in the geography section, pretend I’m in Thailand, and wake up in the morning, but that doesn’t count as living here. So…don’t think that. But I live in the books. I read and read, all the heavy stuff, waiting for the day when one of my students, like you, comes in to ask me about…spiders.” She checked her watch. “Now, if I were you I’d get to class.”
“What time is it?”
“The first bell rang two minutes ago.”
“But I didn’t hear it.”
“Well, the lightbulbs aren’t the only things that blow out in this old place.” She winked.
Oh no. Oh no! Miles couldn’t be late for Chamberlain’s class. If there was any class he couldn’t be late to, it was that one. He dashed back through the stacks and barreled through the library door. The hallway wasn’t packed, which wasn’t a good sign because it meant the second bell would be ringing any moment. Miles broke out in a full-on sprint down the hall, rocketing into Mr. Chamberlain’s classroom, sweating and out of breath.
“Made it!” he spat. Mr. Chamberlain didn’t even acknowledge him. He was scribbling his daily quote over the faint outline of the quote that he’d written for the class before. When Miles got to his seat, Mr. Chamberlain began the chant for the day.
“All we ask,” he said softly, “is to be let alone.” He set the chalk in the chalk tray and pressed his hands together, meditatively, as the last few stragglers, including Hope Feinstein and Alicia, entered the room. The bell rang, which apparently was also the signal for Alicia to turn on her cold shoulder. Because she did.
And, like clockwork, the buzzing in Miles’s head started up.