Redbeard

The Librarian

       

        Sherlock sighed. He swung his feet while he sat in a chair that was slightly too high for him. He was bored, again. He should have argued longer with his mum. She might have let him skip another grade or two. He had such high hopes for the school year, he wished the school would let him learn at his own pace instead of keeping him behind with the slowest children of the class. He looked at the English textbook he had sitting on the desk in front of him. It was the same textbook his mother had taught him with when he was 5. He knew the textbook backwards and forwards! He should have known better than to want to go to public school.

        He much preferred being schooled at home by his mother. For the past 20 minutes the class had been doing a senseless little game of which the sole purpose was to learn the other children's names. He sighed deeply again, so utterly bored he almost couldn't stand it. He had already deduced as much as he could about the teacher and all the kids he could see ahead of him in the classroom.

        He felt the kid behind him poked him in the back with a pencil. He spun his head around in time to hear the girl whisper, “Shut up. I'm trying to listen.” Sherlock turned his head back around and rolled his eyes. Goldfish he thought to himself. Finally the bell rung! Sherlock grabbed the textbook and shoved it in his pack along as he walked down the hall to the library. He opened the door to the large room and took a deep breath, savoring the smell of books, tea and coffee.

        “Can I help you?” asked a husky women's voice. Sherlock looked around for the source, then saw the librarian sitting a large, hardwood desk. She wasn't old by any means, she couldn't have been more than 20. She had red hair that was piled on top of her head in a loose bun from which a few strands had come loose and were floating around her face. She had eyes which were a deep sea blue with flecks of chocolate brown near the iris. Her skin was pale, as if she spent most of her time inside and she was wearing a long sleeved shirt that had butterflies printed on the sleeves.

        Sherlock took her in at a glance as he walked up to the desk. He ran his fingers over the smooth polished top, admiring the deep rosy color of the wood and the long, deep swirls in the grain.

        “Oak?” asked Sherlock, his eyes still fixed to the desk.

        “I beg your pardon?” asked the librarian.

        “The table top,” Sherlock looked up at her, “Is it made of---” Sherlock paused for no longer than a nanosecond when he noticed, “oak.” he finished. The librarian smiled slightly, her eyes still staring at a nonexistent spot above Sherlock's head.

        “You just noticed, didn't you?” asked the librarian, still smiling.

        “Noticed what?” asked Sherlock, feigning innocence. After all, his mother had taught him his manners.

        “That I'm blind. You ordinary people are so predictable.” Sherlock bristled at the use of the word ordinary.

        “But I'm not ordinary.” muttered Sherlock under his breath and he thought it was to himself until he saw the librarian cocked her head slightly and smiled.

        “You act like the word ordinary is an insult.”

        “But it is! I'm not ordinary, I'm extraordinary!”

        “How so?” Sherlock straightened, then realized how useless the gesture was. He glanced at her again, taking in the calloused fingertips, the the long sleeved jacket despite the warm temperture, the indent on the middle finger of her left hand, the odd dog hair stuck in her dark jacket.