Our librarian is Mrs. Fishbein. She has white hair and always wears skirts. There's a rumor that she lives here in the library, eating nothing but Cup O' Noodles. She has dozens of them stacked on shelves over her desk. I happen to know the rumor isn't true, because sometimes I ride my bicycle through the school parking lot after all the cars are gone, and I see her leaving and walking toward the bus stop. I haven't told anybody, mostly because I don't know who I would tell and also because it's nobody's business.
There are odd things about Mrs. Fishbein, though. For one thing, her office is filled with piles of yellow cards. They're there because she doesn't like computers. She told us that when they first delivered the computer system, they had to take away the card catalogue cabinets. She gave them up "kicking and screaming." Those were the words she used, "kicking and screaming." She made them take out every last catalogue card and pile them in her office. Every single one.
She also kept the stampers and stamp pads, and the green cards for signing books out. What if there's a disaster and we're all plunged back into the Stone Age, she once explained. Then who'll be laughing: the whole world with their empty screens and dead keyboards, or her, safe in the library, with books you can hold in your hand, catalogue cards to find them with, and lined green cards for signing them out?
The thing is, if the world is in ruins, I wonder if we're really going to be worrying about sign-outs and returns.
Anyway, when we get to the library, the chairs are set up in a horseshoe. It reminds me of third-grade story time, but in seventh grade nobody reads you stories.
I take a seat in one of the chairs. They're the gray, slippery kind. The kind your rear just can't get a good grip on. I feel myself sliding and do my best to hold on.
Once we're all sitting down, Mrs. Fishbein says, "As Mr. Hernandez explained, each of you will be researching a topic of your choice." It's news to me. "And even though there is a lot of information online, there is still value in doing some of your research in the library."
I see Jessica Yu roll her eyes and Jordan Glazer stifle a laugh.
"And in the library," Mrs. Fishbein continues, "even if computers have replaced the card catalogue, you still need to find books on the shelves. And that's where the Dewey Decimal system comes in."
The class collapses in moans and groans, but Mrs. Fishbein bravely carries on. "In 1876 ..."
"Eighteen seventy-six?" whines Jordan Glazer. "Seriously?"
"... Melvil Dewey invented our system to organize books..."
Oddly enough, while the other kids find this Dewey Decimal thing hilarious or boring or hilariously boring, I think it's kind of fascinating. Once you get past "F" for Fiction and "B" for Biography, books are organized with numbers, down to the last little detail. Science is in the 500s, animals are 590s, mammals are 599, and camels, deer, giraffes, and hippos have a number that's just theirs: 599.73.
I start wondering where I'd find toilet paper or peanut butter or killer bees. I try to figure out what number I'd have—if I'd be in the 900s for being from New York, the 400s for speaking English, the 500s for being a primate, or back in the 100s for going to the school psychologist. I wonder who decides which part of you is the most important, and if they're always right.
I picture myself scattered all around the library, a little bit of me here, a little bit there.
The problem is, while I'm thinking about that, Mrs. Fishbein is explaining the exercise we're about to do. That's when the other kids somehow know to start listening. And that's the part I always miss.
So I'm not expecting it when Nicole Abruzzi sticks a pencil in my face, point first, just as I'm reaching for a worksheet that Patrick McCarthy is holding just out of my reach, so I just miss getting my eye poked out. Then Mrs. Fishbein plops a book in my lap. It's called Get in Shape, Boys! A Teen Guide to Getting Strong, Being Fit, and Feeling Confident. It's got pictures of all these buff-looking guys on the cover. One has his shirt open with all these muscles popping out, and two have pretty girlfriends smiling up at them.
The exercise has something to do with the book's Dewey Decimal number, but I'm not sure what. I have the pencil in one hand and the paper in the other, and this big, heavy book in my lap.
Everybody around me is looking inside their book, scribbling away on their worksheet, and filling in the blanks, but I have three objects and two hands and I don't have a clue what the assignment is. So I do what I do sometimes. I just sit there, wondering how everyone else doesn't seem to have a problem, when I do.
There's always someone who calls attention to this habit of mine, and now it's Nicole Abruzzi, who has her own habit of pulling down her stretchy top. She does that now and says, "Joseph is just sitting there." Then everyone looks at me and at the book in my lap, and everybody laughs. And I swear, I'm not even moving, but somehow that's when my rear loses its grip on the slippery gray chair and I land on the floor.
I'm expecting Mrs. Fishbein to be mad because I wasn't listening and because I'm on the floor, but instead she gives the class a sharp, warning look. They stop laughing. Out loud, anyway. She takes the pencil out of my right hand and takes the work sheet out of my left hand and heaves Get in Shape, Boys! A Teen Guide to Getting Strong, Being Fit, and Feeling Confident off my lap. Somehow she still has a hand left. She gently holds my wrist and leads me over to a table.
Then she tells me what I have to do. The point is to write on the work sheet all the information about Get in Shape, Boys! A Teen Guide to Getting Strong, Being Fit, and Feeling Confident I would need if I had to find the book and use it in a research paper: the title, the author, the publisher, when and where it was published, and, of course, the Dewey Decimal number.
She asks if I have any questions, and I don't. Sitting at the table makes it much easier than having it all in my lap. If Mrs. T was here, she'd know that the spaces on the worksheet are way too small for my handwriting, especially with the title Get in Shape, Boys! A Teen Guide to Getting Strong, Being Fit, and Feeling Confident, and she'd give me a separate sheet of paper to write my answers on. But I do what I can, making a sharp right turn at the edge of the paper, writing down the side, and squashing it in at the bottom of the page.
When the bell rings, Mrs. Fishbein tells the class to leave their books, worksheets, and pencils on their chairs, and they're all out in the hall in about three seconds. I, on the other hand, watch my work sheet catch the breeze from the closing door and float away, while my pencil rolls off the table in the other direction.
Mrs. Fishbein starts collecting the other kids' work sheets. I'm reaching under a table to retrieve mine when I hear her say with a chuckle, "Maybe it is time for me to retire."
"I'm sorry," I say. "Am I that bad?"
"Oh, Joseph, not you!" says Mrs. Fishbein. She sits down on one of those slippery chairs and pats the one beside her. "I just mean, after all these years, I still make so many mistakes. I didn't mean to make the morning a bad one for you."
I hand her my work sheet, which has handwriting going in about six different directions. I sit down next to her, holding on this time, so I don't slide too far. "It's okay," I say. "It wasn't really any worse than usual."
"They offered me a nice retirement package," she says. "But I didn't feel ready." Sometimes adults talk to me like I'm one of them. It's kind of like when a funny-colored duck is rejected by its flock, and a kindly goose takes it in. "I didn't feel finished yet. With what, I'm not sure. But I've always felt that there are possibilities in everything, if you don't give up." She glances at my work sheet and she doesn't even look disappointed. Then she looks back at me. "But maybe I'm just old and outdated, like poor Melvil Dewey."
I'm about to tell her how much I like the Dewey Decimal system, but then the bell rings and she looks at the clock. "Oh, my!" she says, popping up. "Now I've made you late. Let me get you a late pass."
As she's writing out a pass, I keep thinking about Get in Shape, Boys! A Teen Guide to Getting Strong, Being Fit, and Feeling Confident. I can feel those guys looking over at me, daring me to join them in their smiling, muscled confidence.
"Um, Mrs. Fishbein?" I say.
"Yes, Joseph."
"Can I um ... borrow that book?"
Her face lights up. "Of course! Of course you can! Bring it over here." I go get it and plunk it on the desk and she takes the bar-code reader from its cradle. She wrinkles her nose at it. "Let's see if this thing works. It was on the fritz yesterday ..."
She points the little red laser line at the book and flinches when it goes blip. I put the book in my backpack so no one can see it.
Mrs. Fishbein hands me my late pass. "Have a good day, Joseph," she says.
"Thanks," I say. "And, Mrs. Fishbein?"
"Yes, Joseph?"
"You shouldn't retire. You're a really good librarian and I like the Dewey Decimal system."
Mrs. Fishbein smiles at me. "Thank you, Joseph. Me, too."
I step out into the hall, my backpack now three times heavier. It's only the second day of school, and I realize my next class is a total mystery to me.
Instead of finding my schedule, I take a guess that it's English, and since I'm late, the door is closed. When I open it, I'm staring at a bunch of eighth-graders who take one look at my shocked face and burst out laughing. I have to wonder, Don't any of them ever make a mistake? Doesn't anybody know what it feels like?
I guess not, because even after the door closes behind me, I can hear the teacher banging on the desk to get their attention. In the hallway, I dig into my backpack and find my schedule, crumpled and squashed at the bottom. My next class is French. I hurry through the halls, but by the time I get there, class has already started. Madame Labelle is rattling happily away in a language I can't even hope to understand.
