32
Paige
NOTHING SAID CLASSYlibrarian more than collapsing on a chair with my head wedged between my knees. I’d been so focused on getting everything ready for the author visit that afternoon that I hadn’t considered the possible consequences of leftover spaghetti mixed with my white lace top for lunch. It took a certain degree of talent to get more on my boobs than inside my mouth.
I’d sped back home to my apartment to change, and like the dumbass that I was, I raced right past a cop going forty-two in a thirty. On the plus side, I’d made her laugh—I’d said something about ravenous boobs—but not enough to avoid getting a ticket.
Then, with a fresh shirt on, I’d crawled my little red Camry back to the library where the parking lot was already bursting with cars for the author visit that started in ten minutes.Ten minutes!I finally found an empty space several blocks away, then hauled ass through the library doors a full two minutes late. But by then, I was too out of breath and flustered to do what I needed, nowantedwith every fiber of my soul, to do—introducetheLisa Montgomery.
Like my own personal savior, Kay, my best friend and assistant library director did it for me, and did a fine job, too. I sat in the very back, gasping for air, while I vowed to start a rigorous workout regimen the next day and willed myself not to be too disappointed. Because there could be a next time, especially since I never dreamed there would bethistime. Wichita, Kansas wasn’t even on her original book tour schedule, and yet here she was.
Mind. Blown.
After dancing in the library stacks with several other uber-fans, I’d emailed Ms. Montgomery to let her know how much of a rock star she was at the Rockwell branch of the Wichita Public Library. She’d emailed back thevery next dayand said that my email had made her spit her morning coffee all over her computer screen in hysterics. Oops and uh-ohs filled my next email, and before I knew it, I’d invited her for an author visit. When she said yes, I’d paraded my manic grin around the library and told everybody, including Kay, who joined me in a celebratory, though appropriately-volumed, squeal. I doubted Janice at the Library of Congress would have even cracked a smile.
Now, wearing cat-eye glasses the same color as her purple hair streaks, several patterned scarves around her neck, and a long, flowing black dress, Ms. Montgomery was the picture of a middle-aged creative genius.
“It’s such an honor to be in the same room filled to the max with book lovers,” she said after the welcoming applause died down. “I’ve often dreamed of starting my own country and calling it Readtopia, and the pledge of allegiance would go something like ‘One nation, under books...’”
Hollers, whistles, and lots of applause from the audience lifted a giant smile across my face. It never ceased to amaze me how many people were just as obsessed as I was over the written word. Working in this library day after day reminded me of that and filled me with warmth and a sense of belonging, even among the homeless who occasionally wandered in and peed in the chairs. Hey, we all have our quirks. But these were my people, and Ms. Montgomery was singing their song.
Brimming with energy as vibrant as her colorful scarves, she launched into where her ideas came from, her writing process, even the music she listened to—punk rock; such a badass!—while the audience and me sat riveted. Too soon, she drew her talk to a close and invited questions.
“What’s your next book about?” someone called out before I had a chance to rack my brain for something intelligent to ask.
“I’m afraid that’s all I have time for, ladies and gentlemen,” Ms. Montgomery said after several more questions, “but if you would like to make a purchase or have your books signed, just make your way up the aisle in an orderly fashion, and we’ll collectively tell my carpal tunnel syndrome that it’s not invited to Readtopia.”
The crowd snapped into action and funneled inward into the center aisle. I let everyone else go first since I was closing tonight anyway, but by the time I made it to the front of the line, the inside of my mouth had grown a field of cotton.
“Uh.” I forced a swallow, which didn’t help much. “Paige Sullivan. That’s me. Paige.”
Ms. Montgomery thrust out her hand, and I took it, slowly, because I wanted to hang on to this memory for as long as I could. Her soft skin slid against mine in a power grip while her woodsy patchouli perfume filled my senses. She smiled, warm and genuine, with painted red lips and a single crooked tooth on the top row.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Paige,” she said.
“Thank you for coming,” I blurted, but I wasn’t completely sure what I’d said even sounded like English.
She signed her name on the title page and then handed her newest book,Tender, You Are, to me. It was about a serial killer with suspected paranormal abilities who appeared completely blurred on camera when nothing else did. I’d been dying to read it, pun totally intended.
Because I was a confessed book sniffer, I began salivating as soon as the new book smell rolled past the happy neurons in my nose, which finally allowed me to speak almost coherently again.
“Did you know there’s an entire club devoted to flipping to the last pages of your books?” I asked. “They’re very proud of themselves, too, like no one in the history of the world had ever considered doing that before. They call themselves the Montgomery Munchers.”
Ms. Montgomery leaned back in her chair behind the table and laughed at the ceiling at until her eyes watered. “You have got to be kidding me,” she said once she’d recovered.
