“Why can’t we just do this at school like normal?” Camille asked, slumping back in her seat.
“You do what your teacher asks,” he said. “That’s how it works. However...”
“However what?”
“Well, I know I’m supposed to tell you to listen to everything he says, but...”
“But what?” she demanded, frustrated by his evasion.
“Don’t listen to everything he says,” he shrugged. “Especially not today.”
“More explanation, please.”
“Hmm.” He looked up at the building’s almost-turrets. “Because I can’t go in there.”
“You’re not allowed?” she said, thinking it was strange to be disallowed from a public building.
“No, I can’t. I’m not saying people will be angry if I go in - though they would - I’m saying that I literally can’t enter that building. It would be an embarrassing spectacle to attempt it.”
Camille wasn’t sure how to react. This was new.
“So,” Gabriel continued, “I have a feeling that Tailor will use the opportunity to try to, ah, make me look bad.”
“You always look bad,” Camille said, looking at him askance. “When are you getting a haircut?”
“Speak for yourself, tumbleweed,” he said, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Anyway, just...whatever he says...take it with a grain of salt, alright? He knows a lot of things, and people who know a lot tend to assume they know the things they don’t.”
The sentence twisted around in her head. She thought she knew what he meant. “Awkward phrasing.”
“And please remember to speak English,” Gabriel said.
“They’re English lessons,” she returned, “Of course I speak English.”
“Oh good,” he said. “At least the time’s not wasted. I’ll be back in an hour, kiddo.”
Camille entered the library with trepidation. It wasn’t just the thought of some kind of barrier - whatever kept Gabriel out - possibly blocking her as well. It was also the thought of so many books in English stacked to the ceiling for three stories. It made her think of scuba diving, for some reason. Getting thrown into the ocean, with nothing between you and certain death but some spandex and a tiny air tank, maybe. This was like that. Except instead of an air tank all she had was Tailor. Supposedly. She looked around cautiously. He was nowhere to be seen. He said he’d be here.
Somehow the main floor of the library reminded her a little of a space ship. It had this circular sort of kiosk that served as the main desk in the center, with three main areas branching off. Its roof supported the open curving stairwell up to the second floor. The desk would be the bridge of the ship, she decided, even though she doubted whoever ran the library would be sitting there giving directions to college students who couldn’t find a copy of Beowulf.
She was surprised by how attractive and...large...this library was. She hadn’t expected it from a city this size. Plants trailed down the sides of the stairs and it sounded like there was some kind of fountain on an upper floor. In the children’s section off to the right, two little boys played hide and seek between bookshelves until their mother caught them and scolded them in hushed tones. To the left, it was much quieter. ‘Reference Section’ was imprinted on an overhead sign in bold, blocky letters. That was definitely not where she wanted to be. Maybe Tailor was upstairs...?
An alarm went off, loud and whining. Camille winced, covering her ears, her sensitive ears ringing. She realized she’d just walked through the metal detectors. Of course. This again.
Everyone on the first floor was staring at her. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. She hoped this wouldn’t be as bad as the airport had been. Explaining to an overzealous American security guard that you couldn’t take off the hunk of metal on your arm, with virtually no English to explain yourself - well, that had been difficult. It had taken all of Gabriel’s charm to get them through customs. But Gabriel couldn’t come in here.
“Excuse me?” said a wiry, elderly woman at the front desk. Her expression was pinched as the alarm ended.
Camille held up her left arm, pointing to it with her right.
“Is that so,” the woman said. “Come here and let me see your bag.”
Camille sighed and heaved her camo bag up on the counter of the front desk. At least she was certain she wasn’t carrying anything suspicious. She just set off metal detectors everywhere she went.
“Kids these days and their hoodlum jewelry,” the old woman muttered, sifting through Camille’s textbooks. “Alright, you can go.”
Camille nodded, and looked around the first floor again, seeing no sign of Tailor.
“Can I help you?” the elderly woman prompted again. From the tone of her voice, it sounded like she wasn’t so much desirous of helping as she was obligated.
“I’m...waiting,” Camille said. “For someone. My teacher.”
The old librarian gave her a sour look, like she suspected she was lying. She went back to stamping book checkout cards, throwing Camille the occasional suspicious glance.
Camille adjusted her messenger bag over her shoulder. This was just awkward. She was considering what excuses she could make for leaving - and setting off the alarm again - when Tailor finally came through the front doors.
“It’s hot as hell out there,” he complained. “How are you still wearing that sweatshirt?”
Camille shrugged. There was no simple way to explain what the hoodie meant to her. Besides, it was quite cool inside the library. Now that she’d been inside for awhile she was glad she had it.
“Fine, fine,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs and claim a table. Afternoon, Mrs. Thrush,” he nodded at the old librarian.
“John Tailor,” she acknowledged, sourly.
“You may want to think about getting a library card,” Tailor said, as they climbed the stairs. The fountain was actually in the center of the spiral, halfway between the first and second floor. Camille fought back the urge to run her hands over the ferns surrounding it as they passed.
“Why?” she asked.
Tailor spared a final glance at the main desk through the open stairwell as they reached the second floor. “This way,” he pointed around the walkway to the section that bore the legend ‘Fiction.’ “Because,” he said, quiet enough that it wouldn’t carry throughout the open, echoing space, “Old lady Edna doesn’t trust anyone without a library card. That’s not to say she will once you do,” he admitted, shrugging.
Camille searched the shelves for the books she’d been asked to collect. She knew the exercise was intended to reinforce her comprehension of the alphabet, but she found herself reading the full titles of many of the volumes Tailor was having her pull. There was certainly a trend.
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Dante’s Inferno. The Odyssey. Grimm’s Fairy Tales.
Did he think she wouldn’t notice? Or was he telling her something?
She emerged from the stacks with a pile of books and dropped them on the table in front of Tailor.
She raised an eyebrow. “
“English,” he said, not looking up from whatever he was writing.
“
“English, Teague.”
“All of these,” she gestured to the pile of books, racking her brain for the right word. “Monsters.”
Tailor looked up then, briefly, then put a final flourish into his notebook and shut it and sat back. “Monsters, yes. But not all of them had to be.”
He pulled one out of the pile. The cover was faded blue cloth imprinted with a gothic script whose gold embossing had long worn away. “Frankenstein’s monster was created by one man’s hubris – pride,” he said, seeing her face twist at the unfamiliar word, “It never should have existed, but it never asked to. And though it was hideous to behold, it was not innately evil or monstrous. What made it so was the reactions of the humans around it. The acts it committed made it a monster – but it was never given another choice.”
He pulled out another book. “Dr. Jekyll wanted a different life. But rather than making the hard choices to improve the life he had, he invented a completely different person to change into - and ended up destroying his life
