When Distress Meets Distress
(Savannah’s Point Of View.)
“I’m heading off to the library,” I called out to my
mother. She looked shocked that I even knew what a
library was. Gee, thanks mom.
“You’re going to the library? You mean the place with
books?” she questioned, her eyebrows rising slightly.
I let out a chuckle before nodding.
“Yes, Mom. That’s the one; I need a book for a
report. If I don’t get it, I’m definitely failing,” I replied.
“Okay, well, have fun,” my mother snorted. The
amusement was clear on her face. Her dark brown
hair, something I inherited, was tied back into a
messy bun and she had on a large t-shirt and
I waved at her before getting into my car, a black
Jeep Grand Cherokee that I worked so hard for. My
parents had chipped in for it, too but I managed to
get my half of it. It was way better than sharing a car
with my older brother Jeremiah.
Speaking of the idiot, we had gotten into a fight this
morning. I scowled at the memory before pulling
into the parking lot of the library. It was empty aside
from a few cars. Whistling and twirling my keys
around my index finger, I walked over to the
entrance, opening the door and allowing the warm
air to fan over me as I walked to the counter.
“I’m Beverly, how may I help you?” a blonde girl
squealed. I smiled at her, automatically sensing that
she was one of those girls that is too nice for her
own good. Not because she’s blonde, but because
she seems like she cares about other people’s
opinions more than she does about her own I bet
more people walk all over her than they do to the
library’s welcome mat. That’s sad, really.
“I’m just looking for a book on Adolf Hitler,” I
casually spoke, leaning on the counter. She clacked
away on the keyboard, scanning the computer
I adjusted my glasses on my nose. Don’t let my
appearance fool you; I am no nerd, if that’s what
you’re assuming. Unfortunately, in 8th grade, I spent
so much time playing video games that my vision
went to crap and I was prescribed glasses. There is
no way I’m sticking a contact on my finger and
stabbing myself in the eye with it. Besides, I have
really sensitive eyes and they water a lot. My finger
won’t even reach my eye and I’m blinking and my
eye is creating it’s own Niagra Falls.
“It’s in the fourth row, on the second shelf,” she
smiled cheerfully as she pointed in the direction of
the shelf. I nodded, muttering a ‘thank you’ as I
shuffled across the tiled floor.
The library was nice and I don’t know why I don’t
spend more time here. Ha, who am I kidding? Sure,
the library’s nice, but I’m not one to spend my time
with my face buried in a book. I’d rather be at home,
playing video games or sitting on my bed with my
laptop placed on my lap. Or at the mall, watching hot
guys shop and laugh with their friends. Or even out
somewhere, maybe with my family, or my friend
I looked up and noticed that the ceiling was high and
that the library had a second floor, or at least a
wraparound balcony with glass windows and
couches for you to read on, I’m guessing. I noticed a
sign for Free Wi-Fi and I raised an eyebrow with a
slow nod. Maybe I could spend my time here.
When I reached the fourth row, I heard the door
opening. Or at least I think it was the door, this was
my first or second time being in the library for my
whole 16, soon to be 17, years of being alive.
“I’m Beverly, how may I help you?” the lady at the
front desk’s voice echoed throughout the lonely
library. Yeah, I was right. That was the door.
Someone else was here. It was probably an old lady
coming to return a book that she’d checked out in
1975. Instead of an old, fragile voice responding, it
was a guy’s. He didn’t sound too old; it didn’t have
that wise ring to it.
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