I jump at the out. “Coming,” I call back. “Printers are behind the DVD section,” I tell the mom before slipping away.
I sink into the seat beside Michael, and he sends me a sympathetic glance. “I don’t really need your help,” he whispers. “Just thought you could use a break.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper back. “Poor Annalise,” I add. “Rude momandnoDragon Witch.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. “Does that lady know preorders exist?”
“Does she know we’re not Xerox?”
“Evidently not,” he says. He scans to ensure the coast is clear, then returns to his novel. I pull out my laptop, skimming through the book club pitch I plan to share with Ms. Okonkwo when she gets in today. The one perk of our front desk shift is the amount of independence built in. When free from condescending visitors, as well as Ms. Okonkwo’s supervision, I can do as I please.
Michael echoes my thoughts after being pulled away from his reading. “I hate when patrons disrupt my personal time,” he quips upon his return.
“For real,” I say. Then I notice the cover of his book. “Twilight?” I ask with a laugh.
He nods, eyes serious. “My comfort read,” he says. “Plus it’s our book club pick this month,” he adds.
“I love your book club,” I say.
“This month was my turn to pick,” he says. “Clearly.”
“Well,” I say. “It’s noTwilight, but I saw that the UW writing society has an open mic event this weekend.” I want to do my best to immerse myself on campus this fall, so I’ve been keeping up with the English department’s newsletters, and this program caught my eye. “Would you want to go? To watch, not perform, of course.”
One of my larger goals for the summer and the upcoming year is to take a lot more initiative in building community. I struggled with that as a freshman, having gotten started on the wrong foot and never quite digging myself out. Michael and I get along so well as coworkers, bonding over miserable front desk experiences and our latest binged TV shows, so this seems like a great place to start. And I like the thought of shifting to true friends, especially since we’re in the same major at university.
His eyes are brightening as I speak. “Hey, my friend actually organizes the open mics!” he exclaims. “We’re planning to have a pregame at mine before heading over on Saturday, you should totally join.” He leans forward, voice dropping just so. “You kind of need to be a bit drunk to make it through some of the readings.”
A laugh escapes. “I’d love to,” I say. “Count me in.”
He beams. “Mark your calendar for eight,” he says, then turnsto help the middle schooler who has just come up. I return to my pitch, a smile pushing at my lips.
At the end of my shift, I swing by Ms. Okonkwo’s office in the back.
“Hi,” I say, pausing at the open door. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” she says. She pushes her glasses up and waves me forward. “Come on in. So sorry for the mess.”
Aside from a few picture books scattered on her desk, the space is immaculate. “If this is messy—” I start, taking a seat in the armchair across from her. My dorm room this past year would send her into shock.
She laughs. “How can I help you, Rani?”
I cross my legs. “I was hoping to chat about a project idea I have for GPL this summer,” I say, and then I launch into an explanation about my book club proposal for second-language early readers. In practice, it’ll be more of a read-along series; I don’t mean to assign struggling children homework so much as spark excitement for their reading journeys. “I think it’ll fit neatly into our existing programming,” I add at the end, thinking of our afternoon storytime sessions. “I’d love to get started as early as next week.”
Ms. Okonkwo purses her lips, thoughtful. “This sounds lovely, Rani,” she says. “But I’m afraid we just don’t have the capacity for more events. We’re so short-staffed as it is.”
She’s not wrong; aside from me and Michael, Ms. Okonkwo’s only support is a librarian from the poetry section who sometimes fills in during scheduling gaps. But I’m not ready to jump ship yet.
“I totally understand that,” I say. “But I would be happy to run this project independently. We can schedule book club meetings according to my work schedule. That way it wouldn’t interfere with my usual tasks, and no additional work falls to you, either.”
She mulls it over. “You know I can’t pay you extra for this, right?”
“Oh, I know,” I say. Nothing about my meager stipend rate convinced me GPL pays overtime. “I’m still super excited about it.”
The corners of Ms. Okonkwo’s lips lift up. “Why don’t you send me an email with the details for this book club?” she says. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Relief warms my chest. “Amazing,” I say. My independent study with Professor Valdivia might just pull together, after all. “I’ll do that.”
“See you tomorrow, Rani,” she says, and I close the door gently on my way out.
