It’s May! It’s Short Story Month! Here’s a sample from one of my upcoming books, Biologicals 2. Enjoy!

My Mother Has No Idea What I Do When She’s Not Around

My mother never used her library card, so I knew she wouldn’t miss it. Besides, I wasn’t stealing it, per se, I was just borrowing it. I was going to give it back when I was finished with it. 

I couldn’t borrow the books I needed with my children’s library card, so when she wasn’t paying attention (which was most of the time) I went into her handbag, opened her mess of a wallet and found her New York Public Library card, and slipped it into my pocket. It could have been worse. I could have helped myself to some money, too. But she might have noticed that, so I left the money alone. By the time Mom came out of her bedroom, dressed for work  in her lavender scrubs, I had already secured the library card, zipped my backpack closed and hoisted it onto my back.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay, all by yourself?” Mom asked, playing with her ponytail. “I’m sure we could still get you into some sort of summer program.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I said, trying not to groan. “The library is probably the best place for me.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Just be careful. You can go to the library, but then I want you to come straight home, okay?”

“Okay.” I smiled and nodded my head. 

When we left the apartment, we went our separate ways. Mom went to the hospital she worked at, I headed for the 53rd Street Library. I was on a mission: check out the books I wanted, then bring them home. Then head back out to McDonald’s, get my lunch, then head back home. I had everything I needed: my mother’s library card, my backpack to haul books home in, my MetroCard, and some cash for food. I’m only eleven, but I could probably live on my own, if someone gave me a job.

The way my mother acted, I practically was on my own. 

School had ended for the semester and summer vacation had just started. I had survived sixth grade and when I returned to MS 933 in the fall, I would be a seventh grader. The only reason I made it through sixth grade, was because of my best friend, Gloria Ramirez. Glo and I were a pair of misfits who found each other on the first day of middle school during lunch. She was sitting at a table by herself. After being told I “couldn’t sit here” about twenty times, I made my way over to her table. I asked if I could sit across from her, and prepared myself to be rejected yet again. Instead, she looked up at me and smiled, and said, “Sure!” We immediately became friends. 

I’m only eleven, but I could probably live on my own, if someone gave me a job.

I walked from the apartment building where I lived with my mother in Chelsea, to the subway. The E train would carry me to the library. Some of my mother’s family lived in New Jersey, and some lived out west, in Oregon. My relatives from the west were always asking how Mom and I managed in New York. “How does little Stephanie get around?” they would ask. What they couldn’t understand is that I’m a city kid. City kids ride trains and buses. We carry MetroCards and loose change. I had memorized nearly every train route in New York, and could go anywhere I wanted to, with the swipe of my MetroCard. Yes, I depended upon my mother to refill it for me, but I kept up with how much I had on it, and on occasion, refilled it myself. One day my mother was standing with me at a MetroCard card vending machine, adding money to my card, and she was surprised by how little was left on it. “You’ve been getting around, huh?” she said, as she fed a twenty dollar bill into the machine. 

My mother has no idea what I do when she’s not around.

When I emerged from the subway station near the library, I was greeted with the heat of the day. There was a car stopped at a red light, with Quiet Riot’s “Cum On Feel The Noize” blasting from the stereo. I know this, because music is my thing. If you could reach into my brain and pull out all of its contents, I’m pretty sure most of it would be punk rock and alternative songs playing at full blast. Guitars and amps would come spilling out, along with band t-shirts and Converses. 

Upon entering the library, I knew exactly where I needed to go: the section where the call numbers began with 781.6. This is where the music books are. This was what I wanted. I had already browsed the catalog to see which titles were available, and made a list of call numbers, so I could be quick. An eleven year old is supposed to be in the children’s section. There’s nothing for me there; there never was. Other kids my age were reading Judy Blume–I wanted to read Oscar Wilde. The first time I tried to check out a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, I was informed by the librarian at the circulation desk it wasn’t “appropriate for someone my age”. I couldn’t use the self checkout because of the status of my card: a child’s library card. What was I supposed to do? Limit myself? That’s when I thought about my mother’s card. There was no way I was going to ask her if she could check out certain books for me; I knew she’d never do it. So, I came up with a plan. I would get my hands on her card, use the self checkout, and get the books I wanted. 

I quickly found 781.6 and used my index finger to scan the spines of the books on the shelves. Books about The Beatles, and U2. Books that taught you how to play the guitar. My grandfather had given me an acoustic for my birthday last year, and I had been slowly teaching myself to play. I found books about Nirvana and Kurt Cobain. But then I came across the holy grail. There, further away in the 780’s, was a copy of Please Kill Me, by Legs McNeil. 

I held the book against my body, coveting it the way Gollum coveted the Ring in The Lord of the Rings. This book was my precious. There were a few adults at the opposite end of the aisle I was standing in, so I decided it was time for me to go. I carried my stack of five books over to self checkout, and pulled my mother’s library card out of my pocket. A thought suddenly occurred to me: she hasn’t used her card in awhile. What if it needs to be renewed or something? What if they need to verify her name or address? I set the card on the metal platform, and held my breath.

Success! The card was still good! I placed my books on the platform, then requested a receipt. I could barely contain my joy as I shoved the books into my backpack. I smiled at the adults who gave me strange looks, and bounced out of the library, my backpack filled with secret joy.

My mother has no idea what I do when she’s not around.