Between the Stacks

Chapter 5

As it turned out, the Ultimate Plan of Vengeance was derailed rather quickly.

I didn't even have a chance to organize it. I had planned to use the weapons of any self-respecting librarian: construction paper, glue, and fishing wire. I would have created an elaborate vision board of how I wanted to save the Riverside branch, and hopefully destroy Wesley in the process. I would have created a perfect ten-step plan for conquering him. Vengeance would be mine.

But instead, my mother called.

I was sitting at my rickety kitchen table, staring at my assembled materials, when my phone rang. Visions of world domination faded. "Hey, Mom."

"Sweetie! How are you?"

"I'm good, how are you?"

All of our calls started the same way, complete with Dad swearing in the background. He was onto a new hobby - scrapbooking. The only problem was that the tiny little pieces were too small for his rather clumsy hands.

"Look, honey, I bought way too many groceries today. I'd hate to throw out anything." Mom could never ask me directly to come over for dinner. There was a pause as she waited for my line.

"I could come over for dinner." I felt a bit like an actor in a shoddy play. I knew my lines. I just wasn't enthusiastic about them.

"Sounds great, honey."

I loved my parents, and I enjoyed spending time with them. But there was always something hovering at the edge of our conversation. Something we wanted to talk about, and never did.

I banished my dark thoughts to a musty corner of my brain. No self-pity for me today. The day would be dedicated towards revenge.

And yet, after I hung up, I wasn't too interested any more. I would much rather have a snack. Ultimately, I believed that a snack could cure most of the evils in the world.

I put away my trusty materials and planned on starting the project later in the day. I spent the next few hours puttering around, promising myself I would do the dishes, when I knew for a fact that nothing in the world would entice me to do the dishes.

Finally, just as I was starting to feel guilty about the plate that hadn't been washed since last week, I realized it was time to leave. Mom and Dad lived about twenty minutes away in the same bungalow that I had grown up in. I grabbed my keys and a cardigan before hitting the road.

Dinner was never a huge production with my parents. When I visited my friends as a kid, their parents tended to whip out some sort of elaborate meal: a stew, a casserole, something from the slow cooker. At my house, most of our meals came out of boxes.

Not that I was complaining - there was something about frozen chicken fingers that cleansed the soul.

By the time I reached home, dinner was just coming out of the oven.

"Thanks, Mom." She passed me a plate with a chicken burger, fries, and corn - all of which had lived in the freezer until an hour ago. "Looks delicious."

She must have just come from a house showing. As a real estate agent, she always said that clients judged her appearance before they judged the house. Her dark hair was carefully pinned into a bun; her fingernails were carefully pained a firetruck red. The dress she wore looked pricier than anything I owned. 

Dad was her opposite. I hadn't seen him wear anything other than t-shirts and jeans in years. Lately his hair had started grow past his ears. Mom said she had her own personal hippy. 

As we ate, we caught up with the week: Dad's scrapbooking successes, Mom's latest house sale, funny stories from the library. I hadn't told them about the fire, or even that I might lose my job. They wouldn't be able to handle the stress. Instead, I gave a modified version of my unicorn hair story.