“NO!” came the quick answer in the form of a volume of poetry.
“Then what ARE you?”
“Charlie, is everything all right back there?”
Only then did he realize just how loud his voice had become. “Just fine, Mr. Standish. Reading aloud is all. Just reading aloud.”
Charlie leaned one arm against the bookshelf and rested his sweaty forehead on that arm. A book promptly slid forward and struck him softly at the top of his head.
“What?” he asked, hands held outward, pleading.
A book flew from the shelf then. It careened wildly across the room, bounced off the opposite shelf, and landed on the floor. Then it flipped over.
HELP
Charlie pressed his open palms to either side of his head and groaned. “Stop it!”
Another book broke free and another. Charlie spun madly, trying to keep up with it all but it was no use. Every book bore the same ambiguous message.
HELP
He spun just in time to see Mr. Standish approach. The man’s face was red.
Charlie panicked all at once and began babbling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Standish. I had nothing to do with it. They just keep doing that. All over the floor. Just falling. And I...”
It was no use. Standish didn’t budge, didn’t blink. Charlie’s shoulders slumped and his head sagged. “I guess I better go home now.”
“I guess you better.”
He felt Mr. Standish’s eyes on his back, boring white-hot holes in his head as he trudged toward the door. It would have been one thing to be kicked out of the bookstore for something he’d done wrong. But this was quite another thing. Something was going on inside that bookstore and Charlie had nothing to do with it. Somehow, he felt as though the store needed him, as though the books needed him.
He walked outside and around the corner, waiting for the bell to stop tinkling against the door. Then he crept slowly back around to the window and positioned himself just beneath it, listening.
“You’re being very naughty, you know. And you’re scaring poor Charlie. You mustn’t scare away the customers like that. How will you ever find homes if we have no customers ?”
Charlie cringed inwardly. He had been convinced that Mr. Standish was lying to him. And now, it seemed as though the books really did want to find homes. He pressed his cheek against the brick below the window and listened.
“I have great plans for Charlie, you see. He’s such a pretty little boy.”
Charlie stood and ran. Something in that last sentence—though not entirely understood—was horribly wrong.
He spent all that night lying awake and staring at the ceiling. He had tried for the first few hours to read, but the concentration just wasn’t there. Then he tried to get his copy of Robin Hood to talk to him. But it was no use. Either the book couldn’t talk, or it couldn’t talk on its own. Either way, Charlie was still in the dark...and frightened.
The next day, Charlie found himself outside the bookstore once more. He sat on his bike at the end of the block, staring at the sign and chewing his bottom lip. He had to find out what was going on inside that store. And yet, he was terrified of the actual answer.
Finally, he screwed up his courage and pedaled down the sidewalk. He parked his bike in the usual slot in the bike rack. It seemed he was the only child in Stantonville who ever came to the store, so the bike rack was pretty much his own.
Charlie stretched out in the sidewalk beneath the store window, watching Mr. Standish through a mirror he had swiped from his mother’s vanity. He waited until Mr. Standish went into the office, then slipped inside.
He managed to pull the door open slowly enough that the bell didn’t sound. Once he had eased the door shut again, he tiptoed to the back of the store.
“Please tell me what to do,” he begged in a soft whisper. “Please.”
The answer came by way of a single offering. “Get,” said the first word of the title.
“Charlie?”
At the sound of Mr. Standish’s voice, Charlie gasped and spun. His heart was pounding against his ribs, making his chest jump. “Get? Get what? Please!”
A book slid forward, easing itself into Charlie’s soft grasp. “Shovel.” Charlie screamed. The tight grip of Mr. Standish’s hand on his shoulder was too much to bear. Charlie spun in a second, purposefully knocking several books from their shelves in order to conceal his treachery.
“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you today, Charlie. Glad to see you haven’t lost your taste for the books.”
“Oh no!” Charlie laughed nervously, the little gulps of air turned into titters and spat out between chattering teeth. “I’ll never stop loving books.”
“They seem to love you, too, Charlie.” He tapped one thick finger on the spine of the volume Charlie still held. “They leap right into your hands.”
“Yes, well...”
“It would seem that the books favor you, Charlie. As does the store. I think you’re ready to see our special collection.”
“Really?” Charlie feigned interest, forcing his eyes away from the door, his escape.
“Indeed. These are very special books. One of a kind, really. And I think they’re right up your alley.”
Charlie knew how his face must look to Mr. Standish. The man was playing along, trying to lure him into the back of the store, behind all those rows of shelves. Something very bad was about to happen, Charlie could feel it. And yet, if he tried to run too soon, Mr. Standish could grab him. Then it would be all over.
Mr. Standish looped one thick arm around Charlie’s shoulders and led him away, toward the back of the store where the emergency exit was. Only, it wasn’t an emergency exit at all. It was a door that led, not into the alley, but into another room.
One fat hand slid into a pocket and produced a ring of keys. Mr. Standish sorted through the set until he found just the right one. Then he slid it home and turned the lock on that old knob.
“Bear in mind, Charlie, that each of these books tells the unique and wonderful story of one person. It’s the essence of the writer, really. Quite beautiful.”
No matter how mad Mr. Standish was that Charlie had run, Charlie knew the man wouldn’t chase him. He had neither the energy nor the time to do so. He never left the store, except to buy food. And even then, there were three locks he had to engage before he left.
The bricks against Charlie’s back were hard and cold. He stood still for a moment, letting the wall hold him up while his knees regained their strength. More than anything in the world, he wanted to cry. He fought that urge, trying to shore up his strength and think clearly.
He couldn’t go back into that store. It was too risky. Mr. Standish would be on him in a second, then whatever the man had planned for him would be just a heartbeat away.
He couldn’t tell anyone. Who would believe the nine-year-old son of a whore? They’d think he was crazy and lock him up.
Still, he had to know where the books wanted him to take the shovel. What did they want him to dig up?
Charlie paced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of his house. There were only two kids who passed that way, snotty Shawna Reilly and Greg Tremblay. Greg was younger by two years than Charlie, but smart as a whip. He’d been advanced to third grade and there was talk of sending him yet another year ahead.
And so Charlie waited. The minute Greg walked past, Charlie reached out and snagged him by the sleeve. The shorter, younger boy let out a small yelp and shied away from Charlie at once.
“Relax, Greg. I’m not gonna take your lunch money or nothing. I just want to talk to you for a second.”
Greg scowled at Charlie and yanked back his arm. “What do you want?”
“I have a little job for you. And I’m willing to pay.”
Greg’s face lit up at that. Charlie could see the little cash register symbols in his eyes. “How much? And what’s the job?”