Evan sat back in his chair, disappointed. Were these really clues? Or were they just a bunch of questions?

  That was as far as he got. Twenty-nine of Mr. O’Neal’s “thirty minutes of peace and quiet” had passed in near silence, but now the voices were rising around him. Evan was relieved to join them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AL

  Tuesday, and the dear cat has not yet come home.

  Ms. Scoggin says if I stop bringing him his dish, he’ll be back soon enough, but I can’t bear to disappoint him.

  Today’s Tuesday Tour was a lovely fourth-grade class. From my broom closet, I could hear them shuffling from room to room and giggling at our toilet. Mrs. Baker, our tour guide, did an excellent job, as usual. But, as you can imagine, I have heard the “Martinville History House Tour Speech” many, many times, and so I sometimes tune it out. Today, chin resting comfortably on knees, I closed my eyes and visited one of my happiest memories from my assistant librarian days: book club.

  * * *

  Before I was a ghost, my favorite thing was Wednesday Book Club.

  On book club days, I was happy at work, even if Ms. Scoggin had given me five Reminders and seven Criticisms before lunchtime. At three o’clock, I pretended to dust the windowsills and watched my book club members arrive, in ones and twos. Through the big front windows, I saw them get distracted by the bakery window or the stationery store with its comic book rack just inside the front door. (I had several times asked Ms. Scoggin if we might have a comics section in our library, but this led only to more Reminders and Criticisms.)

  Sadly, I can’t remember their names anymore. There were seven or eight “regulars” every Wednesday. Plus the boy.

  The boy always came to the library on Book Club Wednesdays, and on many other days as well. He walked the same path from the school to our library, but he wasn’t like the others. I could see that he was mostly distracted by his own thoughts, and as I watched, I wondered what they were.

  At first, he barely looked at me, even when he came to the checkout desk with his pile of books. Once, he showed up with a damaged return—and he had tried to repair the book himself, with tape. He walked in and brought the book straight to Ms. Scoggin, and when she held it up, I nearly leaped over my desk to shield the boy from the Criticisms that were about to rain down on him. His face was pointed at the floor, but I could see that his ears were already bright red. And she had not yet begun.

  But she said nothing. She merely gathered up the broken book with the others and said, “All on time, thank you,” before turning away. Released, the boy flashed her a look of—disbelief? gratitude?—and then zipped away into the cool of the library stacks. I stood in near shock—Ms. Scoggin, I sometimes forgot, was a very nice person! Despite her Reminders. And her Criticisms. I thought, again, of mothers. I had a sudden urge to dust the light bulbs on the balcony, just to make her happy.

  At closing time, I found her hunched over the work table in the basement, carefully taping up the book’s spine. “Anyone could see that the child did not damage this book,” she said. “It was probably some brute bully. Why are you standing there with your mouth open? Don’t you have things to do?”

  I gathered myself and said, “I have just finished dusting the balcony, Ms. Scoggin.”

  She nodded. “I hope you didn’t forget the light bulbs.”

  I assured her that I had not.

  * * *

  But I have gone off on a tangent about Ms. Scoggin! I was telling about Book Club Wednesdays. The club members were Great Readers, and we had a wonderful time listening to one another talk about the books we were reading, what the stories were and what we thought might happen next, and how all of it made us feel. These young readers felt things about books, which is why I call them Great Readers. Being a Great Reader has nothing to with reading great sophisticated books, or reading great long books, or even with reading a great many books.

  Being a Great Reader means feeling something about books.

  I had created a special book club area, with a small rug around which I pulled up several book carts on Wednesday afternoons, to make protective walls. It was our club room, and the door was always open. Actually, there was no door, only a space between two of the carts.

  But the point is that anyone could join our club—the members even posted invitations, on the bulletin board near the big blue doors, and at the school, in the town hall waiting room, and even in the grocery store parking lot. “All Welcome,” they said at the top.

  Every Wednesday, I hoped the boy would join us on the rug, and every Wednesday he did not. Instead, he sat at one of the library’s two long tables, always in the chair closest to the rug, but with his back to us. And he was usually in his place well before our meeting began, so that it seemed (almost) to be a coincidence he was there. Which I knew it was not.

  You have probably heard that you are supposed to be quiet in a library, but this was not true on Book Club Wednesdays. We did not even try to keep our voices down, but Ms. Scoggin never said a word. If something funny was said (we liked to joke), I would sometimes glance over at the boy and see, from behind, just a hint of a rounded cheek, which meant he was smiling. But he never came to sit with us.

  Recognizing his cheek smile one Wednesday, I impulsively called out his name and said, “Please come and join us!”

  The boy seemed to shrink in his chair. He picked up his stack of books with both hands (it was always a stack, with him) and hurried away without looking back. I was very worried that he would not be there the following Wednesday, but he was. I never called out to him like that again.

  * * *

  The book club rug was our safe place, a place where you could say what you thought. One day, after I shared a particular book, one that meant a lot to me, a club member spoke up to say that he had read it already and found it extremely boring. I listened to him, and he listened to me. And that was fine.

  I am not upset when others don’t love the books I love. We each have our own book spaces inside us, and they do not match up perfectly, nor should they. The club members said goodbye that day as usual, all of us feeling like good friends.

  A few days later, the boy came into the library. It was Saturday, and he was there first thing in the morning, carrying his returns. But instead of going straight to the book-return chute as he usually did, he carried his pile to my desk. I assumed Ms. Scoggin’s “brute bully” had ripped the cover off another one and prepared myself to reassure him. He placed the pile in front of me without a word, and I made my way through them, stamping each one with my date stamper. No ripped covers.

  Then I saw that the last book in his pile was the very one I had talked about at Wednesday Book Club that week, the one I especially loved.

  “Oh!” I said, and looked up, expecting to see the top of the boy’s head, because he generally looked only at the floor. But not this time. He was looking straight at me.

  He covered the book with one hand, fingers spread, and announced, “Not boring.”

  And then, for absolutely no good reason, tears filled my eyes. I told myself not to blink.

  For a few moments, we looked at each other, his hand still covering my book protectively.

  And then he turned and hurried away.

  From that day forward, the boy brought his returns to me from time to time. When he did, I knew there was a special book in his pile: a book that, for him, contained much. And I knew that when I got to it, he would simply cover it with his hand and meet my eye for a moment.

  Not all Great Readers wish to be in a book club. There are other ways of sharing books, with very little conversation, or none at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MORTIMER

  A few people had brought a book, or two, and squeezed them into his little library on its first day. One book had been left with a sticky note attached: My 100% FAVORITE book of fifth grade!!! That book had been taken by a fourth grader within minutes.

  Mortimer felt content. More and more so, in fact.

  * * *

  The first crate of books arrived on the second day, Tuesday, right after lunch. (Al was still bringing Mortimer’s meals to him. She also sneaked in a few tight hugs, but he didn’t mind.)

  The crate was carried by Mr. Gregorian, who managed the grocery store. First, he tried to cram his books into Mortimer’s little library, but when he saw that they would not all fit, Mr. Gregorian made a decision. He set his crate on the ground under the library.

  Exactly in the spot where Mortimer had made his bed. He glared up at Mr. Gregorian.

  Mr. Gregorian said, “I can tell that you approve, Buffy. Good girl!”

  People, Mortimer thought.

  “Nothing wrong with adding a room to your library, am I right?”

  With this, Mortimer had to agree.

  Mr. Gregorian, after considering, carefully tilted the crate onto one side. “This’ll help keep the rain out,” he explained.

  It was an egg crate, Mortimer realized. From his History House window, he had enjoyed watching the farmers bring their deliveries. Eggs came to Mr. Gregorian’s store twice a week.

  Mortimer hopped up on top of the crate. It was acceptable.

  * * *

  Late that evening, he heard mouse voices again.

  “I definitely smell cheese. I’m telling you, it’s here somewhere.”

  There were only two of them this time, zigzagging across the grass in the moonlight. Silent, Mortimer watched them come closer and closer.

  “You can’t smell it? Now it’s even stronger!”

  He could see them pretty clearly now—they were the same size and color, but they weren’t exactly a matched set. One of them had a short tail.

  “Oh, that was it—your tail!” Mortimer erupted.

  And the mice froze right in front of him.

  Belatedly, Mortimer closed his mouth. Oops. Now they would probably run away or start calling him names. He waited to see which it would be.

  But they did neither. Some instinct had paralyzed them. Or almost, because he could see both of them quivering. The mice had sounded so brave the night before. Maybe they were just acting brave?

  Mortimer took a slow backward step to see if that would release them. “I’m not—” he started, “I mean, I won’t do anything to you.”

  “Finn, it’s just the Grouch!” one of them said. His tiny body had relaxed visibly, but Finn was still stiff as a board.

  “Finn,” the mouse said. “Shake it off. We’re okay! The Grouch doesn’t bite.”

  Finn was trying to shake it off. Mortimer could tell.

  Still looking mostly frozen, Finn said, “Ha. Close one!” and smiled weakly.

  Mortimer took another step back and spoke quietly. “It was your tail that you dropped, wasn’t it? And the hawk was left holding it—your tail? You escaped?”

  Finn nodded.

  Mortimer glanced at his own tail. Ouch, he thought.

  “It’s different for us mice,” Finn said quietly. “We’re built to do it. It’s like … an escape trick.”

  The other mouse nodded and glanced at where the tip of Finn’s tail used to be. “Right in the nick of time,” the mouse said. “It was very well done.”

  “And your tail will grow back?” Mortimer asked.

  Again, Finn nodded. “That’s what my mom says.”

  Interesting.

  “Do either of you happen to know,” Mortimer asked, because these mice seemed to know things, “why the frogs sing at night?”

  Both mice shrugged.

  “Then I guess you wouldn’t know how they all know to stop singing, at the same time?”

  The mice looked at each other. “Never thought about it,” Finn mumbled.

  “Is there cheese in that cupboard up there, by any chance?” Finn’s friend was pointing up at the library. “It sure smells like cheese.”

  The cheese cupboard doors, Mortimer realized, still smell like cheese. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “This is a library. No cheese around here.”

  The mouse shrugged. “Okay. We have to find food soon, so we should probably get going.”

  “Hungry,” Finn added softly.

  Mortimer watched them back slowly away, turn around, and run.

  He almost wished he had told them where to find the potato bin.

  But that would upset Ms. Scoggin.

  It was confusing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  EVAN

  Evan expected Wednesday’s trip to Grantville Middle School to be more loud, happy talking and no one able to sit still. And it had been that way, on the bus ride to Grantville. Mr. O’Neal had wanted to play math games, but the other fifth-grade teacher blasted her playlist on a portable speaker instead. Everybody sang. By the time they pulled up in front of the massive “Go Tigers!” banner hanging over the school’s front doors, Mr. O’Neal was singing, too.

  But going home to Martinville, everything was different. Kids mostly whispered as they got back on the bus. No one laughed.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Rafe said, flipping through his deck of baseball cards as they pulled out onto the road. “We’re never going back to our school after Friday. After Friday, that’s our school.”

  Evan had always imagined Grantville Middle as a lot like Martinville Elementary, just farther away, with different teachers and more kids. But it wasn’t like elementary school. The kids there were huge, for one thing.

  They’d had an assembly, where some graduating eighth graders sat on the edge of the stage and answered questions from the incoming fifth graders. Those eighth graders were super nice. But the buzzer that rang between classes was so loud, and the halls were so crowded with huge kids and their huge backpacks. The cafeteria was chaos. Everything looked kind of grimy.

  “I remember the day I was sitting where you are now,” one eighth grader had told them, his legs dangling off the edge of the stage. He wasn’t from Martinville, so Evan didn’t know him. “And I thought it seemed really big and weird here. But I promise—Grantville will feel like your place pretty fast. Today I feel sad about leaving middle school, just like you probably feel sad about leaving your schools.”

  He was one of those kids who could say what he meant, without being embarrassed. Like Rafe. Evan sat in the second row and wished he were more like that. He stared at the kid’s legs. They were so long. They were hairy! Would his legs be that hairy in three years? He didn’t want to think about it. Next year, the middle school bus would pick up Evan right in front of his house. There would be no more walks up the road, for thinking and eating his apples.

  Everyone around him suddenly groaned loudly. Evan had missed something.

  He turned to Rafe. “What happened”?

  “No recess in middle school,” Rafe said. “No recess.”

  * * *

  On the bus ride home, even Mr. O’Neal thought it was a little too quiet.

  “How about a game of Geography?” he called out. So they started playing, row by row. “Arizona,” “Alabama,” “Arkansas,” “Seattle…”

  Evan stared out the window as the bus climbed a hill. Suddenly, Martinville appeared below them, with the town green and the three roads that led to it all neatly laid out. Their school, the town hall, the History House, the shops, and big houses near town. Evan felt that almost-pain zip up his middle again, as if he were being forced to leave home. His eye traveled from one building to the next while his heart hurt.

  “See? Right there. That’s where it was.” Rafe pointed through the window with a baseball card.

  “Where what was?”

  “The Martinville Library!” Evan followed the line of the baseball card. Between the town hall and the History House, and set back behind them a little, there was a big patch of—nothing. Bushes and stuff. Overgrown weeds.

  He leaned forward and tried to see some sign of the old library, but as the bus went down the other side of the hill, trees got in the way and the town blinked out of view.

  “You always knew it was right there?” Evan said.

  Rafe nodded. “Yep. But I never really thought about it, you know? My parents always told me not to go in there.”

  “They’re always telling you not to go anywhere,” Evan said, almost rudely.

  “I know.” Rafe sighed.

  A voice floated back to them from two seats ahead—Mr. O’Neal’s. “I still miss it dearly. It was such a fine old library,” he said, “with a turret and a steeple. Big blue doors. A creaky old balcony. The most wonderful librarians.”

  “How did the fire start, Mr. O’Neal?” Rafe called back.

  Around them, kids were still playing Geography. “Mississippi,” “Illinois,” “San Francisco…”

  Mr. O’Neal turned around, looking surprised. “No one knows how it started.”

  Evan and Rafe exchanged looks. “Really?” Rafe said. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Maybe it was lightning.”

  “No. Not lightning.” Mr. O’Neal hesitated, and seemed to be looking at Evan.

  Looking at him pretty strangely, actually.

  “The fire started in the basement,” he said finally. “But no one knows how it happened. Not for sure. I mean, it was nobody’s fault. I’m sure of that.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Rafe said.

  “It was a wonderful place,” Mr. O’Neal said, as if that answered the question. And then they were looking at the back of his head.

  “You can’t say ‘Philly,’” someone behind them was arguing. “You have to use the real name. ‘Philadelphia.’ You’re just trying to give me a Y! Nothing starts with Y.”

  And then kids started yelling out the names of places that start with Y, and the last-week-of-school buzz was back.