Just Breathe (3 page)

I offer to recommend something, but they refuse saying they’ve already got stuff to read, which makes me happy. Then they all pull manga out of their backpacks and I feel sad and old. They’re reading cartoons. I’d like manga more if it had fewer pictures—some of the stories are all right, but the actual writing is so slim. If they’d expand them into novels without pictures, I’d be happy, but then again kids probably wouldn’t read them. It’s like technology has sucked away kids’ innate imaginations. Sure, books are external as well, but at least we use our imagination to create our own version of the characters and world they live in.

***

My shifts at the library are noon to eight, so everyone’s usually at home by the time I get back. Driving with my condition is pure misery, so I tend to stick to public transit where I can at least wear noise-cancelling headphones and tune everything out. That’s frowned upon when you’re driving, as is plugging your ears when an emergency vehicle with a blaring siren shrieks by. Not that I’ve ever done that. More than once. The train is my friend now.

I walk up the three chipped cement stairs and unlock the front door. As I shut and lock it, my eyes are drawn to the words painted in gothic letters beside the door. Nick painted them on the wall after a friend’s religious mother mentioned that she smelled like beer and pot when she left here after our house warming party. It wasn’t the first time the mother had remarked upon it. “Welcome to the Den of Iniquity” greets our visitors now. Can’t say we didn’t warn you.

I remove my boots and giant headphones and head to the living room.

“Hey, Elle.” Kennedy greets me from the smooshy black leather couch. Her short blond curls are teased into a pompadour. She reminds me of Marilyn Monroe—if Marilyn had a pierced nose and was built like a gymnast with boobs. We met at college. She took fashion design and marketing, I was taking library tech. Nick was enrolled in marketing and various art classes, though his major changed a few times with his focus.

“Hey.” I lucked out with Kennedy and Nick—I’m always genuinely happy to see them.

“Nick’s making cookies.” Kennedy folds up a pattern for a garment yet to be made.

“Sweet. What are you making now?” I nod at the pattern.

“Thought I’d try a floaty handkerchief dress, bold pattern and colour, in a silk charmeuse fabric. I’ll need you tomorrow for a fitting. Go light on the carbs for supper.” It would sound bossy and rude if I didn’t know that her directness is borne of passion. Kennedy goes through obsessive phases with materials, the latest being silk charmeuse.

“Why am I the only roommate roped into these fittings?” I joke.

“Because you’re the perfect size.”

“Nick is thin as well.”

“Yeah and six-two. And, you know, guy shaped.”

“So am I.” I point to my small boobs.

“You’re built like a model with an ass. You’re every woman’s dream.”

I sigh enviously. “I wish I had your D-cups.”

“I do too—then my back wouldn’t hurt.”

“Awww, let’s take a moment to cry for the woman with epic boobs.”

“Careful, or I’ll stuff you into something tiny and rubbery.”

I zip my lip and grin. It’s become less embarrassing over the years as I’m desensitized to parading around in strange outfits for her, though I’d never leave the house in some of them. She went through a recycled rubber phase where I wore a lot of stiff, smelly pieces that were better in concept than reality. More art than fashion.

Truly, I’m glad I can help her out. She makes me clothes from time to time and those outfits put the rest of my clothes to shame. My ass never looks better than when in a pair of jeans she’s made just for me.

“So I’ll be modelling a handkerchief dress?” I pass by on the way to my room to change.

“No, you’ll be modelling a corset dress,” her voice hits my back. I cringe a little, but keep walking. I normally stick to jeans and t-shirts—I’m not generally into vampy clothes. Ah well. I continue through the kitchen and check on Nick’s progress.

He’s spread the cookies out into the shape of a Christmas tree on the counter. Not sure why, as it’s only September, but it’s never a linear journey when interpreting the artistic mind.

“Hey, Ellie, what’s shakin’?”

“Not much. You?”

“Sold a painting,” he says with a sheepish pride.

“Dude! That’s awesome! Hey, Kennedy—”

“I know right?” she exclaims from the living room.

“Which one was it? The one with the books?”

He nods and I shriek happily. The painting was sort of my idea. He’d painted a bunch of books that seem to be stacked haphazardly, but if you look closely, the titles of the books make a really beautiful short poem that Nick also wrote. The books are sitting in front of a window, and outside the window is a street view on a rainy day. There are raindrops dripping down the glass, and it’s so realistic it could be a photograph. He made me a print for my birthday; I refused the original because I knew it would sell. And now it has!

“That’s awesome! Congratulations, Nicky, I’m so happy for you!” I give him a hug.

“Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off and grab a cookie. “Did they ask for another one?” The gallery he works at part time let him put up a painting and it sold. They asked for another, and now it’s sold as well. People like making money; I can’t see them not wanting more of his work.

“Nope. They’ve asked for
three
more!”

I squeal, and Kennedy comes running in from the living room, and we all start Led Zeppelining. Led Zeppelining came about one day when we were really, really high. It’s a dance move brought into existence by a large quantity of weed one winter’s day. It sort of looks like the chick from Natural Born Killers’ dance style, but less sexy and more slinky, and your feet don’t break contact with the floor. It’s become a default victory dance. I’m really not sure why we called it Led Zeppelining, but we all get the reference somehow.

“I need to change. Be right back.” I walk down the hall from the kitchen, just past the bathroom to my bedroom. Tossing my purse onto my bed, I grab a pair of yoga pants and a tank top. Stripping down to my undies, I sit on the bed and dig through my purse for my cell. No missed calls. No missed calls from Jason. Not that I expected him to make contact; it was just barely a flicker of a thought, noticing he hasn’t. Bad habits die hard. Sigh.

“Ellie?” Kennedy calls.
Shit.

“Be right there!” I sling my phone back into my bag, slip into my clothes, and am back in the kitchen with a joint rolled in under thirty seconds. Nick pours me a glass of wine while I roll for them. It helps relax me, and makes me feel like I’m still part of the circle which I especially need after this Jason fiasco, but before then as well.

My condition sort of isolated me, so when social situations would come up I wanted a way to talk to people without being awkward or smothering them. Kitchens are usually quieter, but get a lot of through traffic—people stop by to get a drink, or snack, then leave. Works for me—I can get overwhelmed by too many voices at a party. This way I get to meet people a few at a time. Plus the counter is better for rolling joints—though that is going to be in my past, other than for Kennedy and Nick.

It’s like being a social butterfly, but with everyone coming to me instead. We share little moments beside the stove, separated from the party in the other room. It’s more intimate and definitely more my style. After a while I feel way more comfortable going into the party having met nearly everyone already. Side note, it helps me weed out people whose voices irritate my synaesthesia.

“So.” I watch them pass the joint back and forth a few times. “What are you going to do to celebrate your painting selling? How about we go all out, you guys have a mad bong session, we can order some food...” I pause at the careful expression on Nick’s face.

He looks at Kennedy and back to me. “I already made plans to go out to that new club ‘Treachery.’” Apropos name.

“Oh.” My pity party is cut short as I see the genuine regret on his face. “Of course, it’s okay. Go—have a blast! Kennedy wanted me to fit a pattern anyways.”

“Actually, I’m not really going to have time tonight. I’m going too.” She makes a regretful face. “We were waiting for you to get back, before taking off to dinner and the club with everyone.”

I was a bit late tonight, having stopped at the ATM after work. And everyone’s going out to celebrate. Everyone except me. Another Saturday night alone because of my stupid condition making clubs unbearable.

“Ah. That’s okay, we can always do it another time.”

“You sure?”

“It’s fine.” I fake a smile a bit too well—they look relieved and rush off to finish getting ready. I swirl the glass of wine in my hand. A couple sips left which I dawdle over.

By the time I’m done, Nick and Kennedy are gone. The house is silent. If I’d told them the truth all along about Jason and me they would have stayed and I wouldn’t be alone. They’d know why I need friends around me. But then they would have felt bad and Nick’s celebration would be marred by my truth, and I don’t want that. Besides, it’s not like it just happened. It would be weird for everyone to drop their celebration for a months-old dull ache.

Chapter Four

Some days just belong to children. One runs up and down the short aisles of the children’s area, shouting monosyllabic nonsense. It’s not only me who feels twitchy and murderous from the sounds chirping from the boy; everyone is glaring at the mother. Based on her immunity to the piercing shrieks, I can only assume the woman next to the little boy is the mother. My eyes feel like they’re going to explode.

Getting a kid to be quiet in a library is like herding cats. Jan gives me a look. I quirk an eyebrow and head over to the kid. I make sure my nametag is prominently displayed for the mother’s sake; my cause will be harder if she mistakes me for a crazy baby snatcher. It’s only happened once—but once was more than enough. Honestly, you try to recommend a book to a kid and... well, never mind.

I nod and smile at the mother as I pass her, not that she notices. Slowing my pace, moving on my tiptoes, I squat down in front of the boy who, thankfully, ceases his squawks.

“Hi,” I whisper. “My name is Elle. What’s your name?”

“Jacob!” He taps a book with his hand as he swings his shoulders back and forth.

“I see.” I whisper a bit softer. “Can you tell me how old you are Jacob?”

“I’m four,” he replies, quieter than before. Psychology 101, bitches. “Why are you whispering?”

“Well, we have to whisper because the books are sleeping,” I say in a stroke of genius.

“But it’s before supper!”

“They woke up extra early.”

“Oh. I got up really early once—” I put my finger to my lips and hiss a
shhh
. His voice had risen with excitement.

“—
Shhh
,” he mimics and continues in a lower voice. “I got up really early once cuz, because we were going to Auntie’s house. Are the books going to their auntie’s house?”

“Well, some of the books will stay, and some are going to other people’s houses. Some might be going out with you to your house!”

He thinks about this for a second. “Which ones?”

“It depends on what your mummy says, or if you get to choose some. But remember we have to be quiet in libraries...”

“Cuz the books will get cranky if you wake them up early,” he says solemnly.

“Yes—what?” I wonder how he made that leap.

“That’s what happens when I wake mommy up too early.” Oh. The mom is now alert and walks over.

“I’ll take it from here.” She looks at my tag. “Elle.”

I nod and make my way back behind the desk.

“The books are sleeping?” Jan smiles. “That was brilliant.”

“That’s why I make the big bucks!”

“Now.” She looks at the stack of books she’s cradling. “Would you rather take these to the dungeon, or man the desk?”

Holding out my arms as an answer, she unloads the giant load of books into my arms.

The dungeon is what we call Storage Room D. Cement blocked, ten degrees colder than the other rooms, isolated; it’s where we keep the extra new copies of library books and any books donated or discarded before they go out for sale. I’m not sure why it’s called the dungeon—some things are just accepted without question. It was called the dungeon when I started, and when Deb started before me, and Lucille before her... back to the dawn of librarians.

I wrangle the books into one arm and unlock the dungeon with my free hand. Even libraries aren’t immune to theft or vandalism. We even had to start locking the bathrooms and lending out the keys one at a time because someone started a fire in the men’s room four months ago. It’s sad to see it, but some people will try to ruin anything just for the sake of destruction. The only thing really ruined was the toilet paper dispenser, which was easily replaced. But something more was ruined in all of us who love this place like a second home, something not as readily replaced.

Cool air that smells vaguely of ink, paper, and mildew greets me as I pull open the heavy door. A few months ago the pipes leaked all over a box of donated books. Like an old western hero, the smell never died, it’s just faded away.

Breathing in the cool musty air, I set my armload of books down on the centrally located sorting table. This table is used when we sort the discarded and donated books into fiction and nonfiction for the sales we have every couple of months. The walls are all lined with bookshelves that are full of new copies of library books to replace any books that get wrecked or worn out, and seasonal volumes. There simply isn’t room for all the library books we have, and bumping out of season Valentines, Easter, Halloween, Christmas books, etc. to storage frees up much needed shelf space.

Most people would be surprised to learn that just under half of our books are in circulation; that is to say, out of the library or loaned out to another library. Despite this fact, our shelves always appear to be about eighty percent full. There simply isn’t room for all of our books to be on our shelves. It would be a nightmarish day from hell if for some reason everyone returned their library books on the same day, or week, without taking anything else out. For real. Cold sweat, nervous breakdown, call-in-
dead
day from hell.