Book Note
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Chapter 1:- Induction
[Book Note 1: After Hours]
Chapter 1: Induction
I don’t know why I picked that book in particular. I’ve always read when I feel nervous, and a new school is just about the most nerve-racking experience a boy of 14 can encounter. At least it should be. I, on the other hand, get it way too much. I guess I’m weird in that respect. Anyway, the library of this new school was located towards the back. You had to go around the courtyard, down a flight of stairs, and turn a few corners before you arrived there. It was as if the school itself had labeled book worming a taboo.
Upon my arrival to Fitzgerald Highschool, being without social circle to engage with, I did the thing that came most natural to me: I looked for the refuge of towering shelves upon shelves of minds willing to spill knowledge on the unsuspecting victims.
I had to ask for directions a lot; which to me was even more deplorable than ground beef is to a vegetarian. It was such a trial, that by the time I got there I was watching my step, so as to avoid tiles that would undoubtedly send a boulder after me. Too much Indiana Jones, I know.
The library was much larger than I had expected from the seclusion it was subject to. I almost smiled at the expanse of eclectic scenes and verses that lay before me. It had two levels; one that you walked in to, had the librarian’s office, and the check out counter. Then something I had never seen before in this environment caught my eye: a For Sale sign.
One of the big, round, wooden tables harbored dozens of books. Some were old-looking, others hardly broken in. Their sizes and styles seemed to separate them further from one another, and I began to wonder why they were all under the same sign. The sign that sat on the table, a metal rod with a piece of construction paper clipped to the top, read: Book Notes
It must be for some class, I thought at first, but soon realized that they wouldn’t be For Sale in that case. Unless, of course, this school put a premature price on knowledge. Improbable. I didn’t have any money on me anyway, so I disregarded the display as unimportant. Descending the wide steps down to the larger level, from which the shelves reached for the ceiling, I searched for a book that I could read.
----
This school began classes promptly, and gave little time for early risers even to spend a few quiet moments in reprieve. I closed my eyes and raised my head up from The Catcher in the Rye for a moment, hearing the bell for first period ring. Rising to my feet, I shouldered my backpack and ascended to the upper level again. Whey I got there, I noticed that The table displaying the Book Notes was surrounded by book hungry teens groping for books. The torrent surprised me in a way, because a good number of the gathering flies were jocks and preps that hardly had any business in this sacred place. I heard an adult voice say “The Books aren’t going anywhere, so please go to class.” Even with this prompting it took most of passing period to clear the room of the maggots.
It was then I build up the courage to speak. “excuse me…” I began, approaching the teacher, who was wiping sweat from his five-head. I thought it was a bit dramatic, seeing as it was always cold in a library. He noticed me very quickly, and turned his journalist-cut, receding hair line on me. “um…what’s the deal with all this…?” I asked, gesticulating, motioned to the books now piled haphazardly on the table.
The teacher shut the lid of a rusted tan cash box heavily, and looked at me incredulously. “I don’t believe you asked me that.” He cocked an eyebrow, and studied my expression for any sign of joking. There was none, “are you new here?”
“just transferred.” I admitted, “Alex Newman.” I offered a hand.
He took my hand and shook it. “I’m Mr. Edwards, nice to meet you.”
I nodded, first at him, then more subtly to the books.
“ah…” the man inspected the books with renewed interest; as if he too were curious. “The Book notes…” He began, and picking one up he thumbed quickly through it. He put the book down and stepped away, motioning for me to follow. I did. “It’s hard to adequately explain it with words.” he said finally, turning behind the check-out counter. “here,” he snatched a book off of the recently returned rack and a stamped a date in it. “This’ll go on the table next month. It’ll be a good place to start.” it was a copy of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. It looked decrepit. “flip through this in your spare time. You may find it interesting.” I took the book hesitantly. “Now scurry off to class, Mr. Newman, here’s a pass because you’re late.”
I thanked the man and after stuffing both books into my backpack, I hurried off to my first class.
[Book Note 1: After Hours]
Chapter 1: Induction
I don’t know why I picked that book in particular. I’ve always read when I feel nervous, and a new school is just about the most nerve-racking experience a boy of 14 can encounter. At least it should be. I, on the other hand, get it way too much. I guess I’m weird in that respect. Anyway, the library of this new school was located towards the back. You had to go around the courtyard, down a flight of stairs, and turn a few corners before you arrived there. It was as if the school itself had labeled book worming a taboo.
Upon my arrival to Fitzgerald Highschool, being without social circle to engage with, I did the thing that came most natural to me: I looked for the refuge of towering shelves upon shelves of minds willing to spill knowledge on the unsuspecting victims.
I had to ask for directions a lot; which to me was even more deplorable than ground beef is to a vegetarian. It was such a trial, that by the time I got there I was watching my step, so as to avoid tiles that would undoubtedly send a boulder after me. Too much Indiana Jones, I know.
The library was much larger than I had expected from the seclusion it was subject to. I almost smiled at the expanse of eclectic scenes and verses that lay before me. It had two levels; one that you walked in to, had the librarian’s office, and the check out counter. Then something I had never seen before in this environment caught my eye: a For Sale sign.
One of the big, round, wooden tables harbored dozens of books. Some were old-looking, others hardly broken in. Their sizes and styles seemed to separate them further from one another, and I began to wonder why they were all under the same sign. The sign that sat on the table, a metal rod with a piece of construction paper clipped to the top, read: Book Notes
It must be for some class, I thought at first, but soon realized that they wouldn’t be For Sale in that case. Unless, of course, this school put a premature price on knowledge. Improbable. I didn’t have any money on me anyway, so I disregarded the display as unimportant. Descending the wide steps down to the larger level, from which the shelves reached for the ceiling, I searched for a book that I could read.
----
This school began classes promptly, and gave little time for early risers even to spend a few quiet moments in reprieve. I closed my eyes and raised my head up from The Catcher in the Rye for a moment, hearing the bell for first period ring. Rising to my feet, I shouldered my backpack and ascended to the upper level again. Whey I got there, I noticed that The table displaying the Book Notes was surrounded by book hungry teens groping for books. The torrent surprised me in a way, because a good number of the gathering flies were jocks and preps that hardly had any business in this sacred place. I heard an adult voice say “The Books aren’t going anywhere, so please go to class.” Even with this prompting it took most of passing period to clear the room of the maggots.
It was then I build up the courage to speak. “excuse me…” I began, approaching the teacher, who was wiping sweat from his five-head. I thought it was a bit dramatic, seeing as it was always cold in a library. He noticed me very quickly, and turned his journalist-cut, receding hair line on me. “um…what’s the deal with all this…?” I asked, gesticulating, motioned to the books now piled haphazardly on the table.
The teacher shut the lid of a rusted tan cash box heavily, and looked at me incredulously. “I don’t believe you asked me that.” He cocked an eyebrow, and studied my expression for any sign of joking. There was none, “are you new here?”
“just transferred.” I admitted, “Alex Newman.” I offered a hand.
He took my hand and shook it. “I’m Mr. Edwards, nice to meet you.”
I nodded, first at him, then more subtly to the books.
“ah…” the man inspected the books with renewed interest; as if he too were curious. “The Book notes…” He began, and picking one up he thumbed quickly through it. He put the book down and stepped away, motioning for me to follow. I did. “It’s hard to adequately explain it with words.” he said finally, turning behind the check-out counter. “here,” he snatched a book off of the recently returned rack and a stamped a date in it. “This’ll go on the table next month. It’ll be a good place to start.” it was a copy of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. It looked decrepit. “flip through this in your spare time. You may find it interesting.” I took the book hesitantly. “Now scurry off to class, Mr. Newman, here’s a pass because you’re late.”
I thanked the man and after stuffing both books into my backpack, I hurried off to my first class.
