Polly Shulman - The Grimm Legacy

Anjali paused. “Well, there are some wild rumors about a—about a flying creature that’s been following some of the patrons and pages around. They even say it snatched a repository object right out of a patron’s hands.”

“A flying creature? What do you mean?” This did sound crazy. Was Anjali fooling with me? She looked serious.

“I’ve heard it’s like a giant bird,” Anjali said. “At least that’s what they say. I don’t know if it’s true. But then Mona disappeared, and she was really scared about the bird and so I thought . . .”

“Wait,” I said. “Have you seen this bird yourself?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But sometimes I get the feeling something’s watching me.”

“That sounds pretty scary,” I said, not knowing how seriously to take her.

“Yeah, well . . .” She punched the elevator call button. “I don’t mean to freak you out. Just, watch out for . . .” Anjali looked at me and smiled.

“For enormous birds that steal objects and kidnap pages,” I finished.

“Yeah, I know it sounds nuts. But after you work at this place for a while, you’ll start to get used to some pretty unlikely stuff.”

The elevator arrived and I got in. “See you Tuesday!”

“See you Tuesday, have a good weekend!”

Anjali waved as the doors closed. New friend or weirdo? I wondered. She seemed nice, anyway. It wouldn’t be so bad, I decided, if she turned out to be both.

Dad was home alone when I got back from the repository.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “Are you just getting home from school?”

“School got out hours ago, Dad. Today I was interviewing for my new job,” I said. “Remember? I told you about it last week.”

“Oh, that’s right. Where is it again, the Historical Society?”

“No, the New-York Circulating Material Repository,” I reminded him. Dad used to remember things I told him, back when it was just the two of us.

“That’s that private museum with the beautiful stained-glass windows,” he said. “They’re famous. I’ve always meant to go see them.”

“It’s wonderful. You would love it; it’s your kind of place. You should come, especially now that I work there. I bet I could show you around, give you a tour,” I said.

We heard Cathy’s key in the front door and she burst into the room.

“Michael! Come look at the colors I’m considering for the bedroom.” Cathy was constantly repainting the apartment and was never quite satisfied with the results.

“Sure.” He followed her out.

“So you’ll come with me to the repository, Dad?” I asked.

“We’ll talk about it later, Elizabeth,” he said. I wondered if we ever would.

I went to my room and did my homework, rushing through my French so I could take my time with social studies. I wanted to read praise in Mr. Mauskopf’s brown ink when I got the homework back— well argued instead of sloppy thinking. I wanted to deserve it.

At lunch the next day, I stood with my tray listening to the roar of the cafeteria and feeling even more lonely than usual. I looked around for someone to sit with. I saw Mallory Mason across the room. If only I liked her! She would certainly be willing to sit with me, but I didn’t want to be her friend—she was as mean as the kids who picked on her, just less powerful. And sitting with her would spoil my chances of making other friends.

I looked around for other possibilities and spotted Katie Sanduski, a girl from my French class, but she had a book propped up against her backpack. She looked pretty absorbed.

At a table by the window, three girls from math class were talking and laughing and throwing the occasional corn chip at each other.

Should I interrupt Katie’s reading? Should I try to insert myself into the merry chip-tossing trio?

Katie, I decided. Interrupting one person should be easier than interrupting three. But just as I made up my mind, Katie closed her book and got up to bus her tray.

Nothing else for it, then. Maddie, Samantha, and Jo. Gathering my courage, I threaded my way toward them. Before I could reach them, though, three more girls—ones I didn’t know—descended on the table with shrieks and claimed the last three spots.

I turned aside and sat at the nearest empty seat. A couple kids glanced at me, then glanced away. A puddle of spilled soda divided me from them. I ate as quickly as I could and left the cafeteria.

I was ten minutes early to social studies. Peeking through the window in the door, I saw Mr. Mauskopf sitting at his desk alone.

He saw me too. “Come in, Elizabeth,” he said, beckoning with his long arm.

“Hi, Mr. Mauskopf.” I shut the door behind me. “Want my homework?”

“Thank you. So? Did you take the job at the repository?”

I nodded. “I start Tuesday.”

“And how do you find it so far?”

“Pretty interesting,” I said. Weird was the word I really meant, but I didn’t quite feel comfortable saying so to Mr. Mauskopf. “All those zillions of objects. The people there seem really nice. Ms. Callender’s so friendly. And the building is cool too, with the marble floors and all the fancy carved doors. It’s so much bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside.”

“Did you see the famous Tiffany windows?”

“No, my dad mentioned them, but I haven’t seen them yet. Where are they?”

“In the Main Examination Room.”

“Oh. Is that in, like, the medical section?”

Mr. Mauskopf laughed, although I wasn’t aware I’d made a joke. “Make sure you see them next time,” he said. “They’re spectacular.”

Then the rest of the kids came back from lunch and class began.

That afternoon I wished more than ever that I had some friends at school, since there was no one to notice the big event of the day: the great Marc Merritt greeting me in the hallway. At least, I think it’s fair to call it a greeting; he didn’t say anything, he just nodded at me.

I took that as permission to say, “Hi, Marc.” He was with some of his tall friends, though, so I didn’t press it. I heard him explain, “Girl from health ed,” as they walked on.

When I got to the library on Tuesday, Anjali was sitting behind the circulation desk. She sent me upstairs to find Ms. Callender on Stack 6, where the librarians—all except Dr. Rust—had their offices.

Ms. Callender showed me the time clock, a boxy machine mounted on the wall next to a rack of cards with names on them. I found my card and stuck it in the clock’s jaw. The machine chomped down violently, stamping it with the time.

“I’m going to start you off on 2, which is textiles—Textiles and Garb,” said Ms. Callender, punching the elevator button. “Stack 2 was always one of my favorites back when I was a page. If you feel the urge to try things on, well, I won’t tell. I never could resist when I was your age. Just stick to cotton, linen, and wool—they’re pretty sturdy—and make sure you pick the right sizes so you don’t rip anything.” She winked at me.

We went out through a fire door into a long, dim room, like Stack 9, only much more gloomy. “Why’s it so dark here?” I asked.

“We keep the textiles below ground level because of the light. Daylight is terrible for most fibers. It can make them fade or even fall apart. There are desk lamps, though, if you want to read. And the ladies’ room on this floor has a full-length mirror.”