The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and I shrieked in alarm. I jumped to my feet, my heart beating wildly as I looked at the guy who had suddenly appeared next to me. “Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?”
I darted my eyes quickly around, wondering how fast I could make it to the door.
The guy held his hands out placatingly. “It’s okay, I work here.”
Suspicious, I narrowed my eyes. “You work here? In the library? Why have I never seen you, then? I’m here all the time.”
“I only work here, in the Rare Book Room,” the guy said. “I’m an archivist.”
“Okay…” I said, still not sure if I believed him. “So, what are you doing here? It’s…late, isn’t it?”
He tipped his head at me. “Yes. I was about to ask you the same question.”
Shit. “I guess I lost track of time.”
“Apparently,” he said dryly.
I cleared my throat and, hoping to pivot the conversation, I held out my hand. “Sorry for screaming. I’m Apple.”
The guy raised an eyebrow. “Apple? Is that a joke?”
“No,” I said defensively, my hackles rising like they always did when someone gave me shit about my name. “My parents really liked the fruit. Anyway, Gwenyth Paltrow named her daughter Apple, too, and now I get all the jokes about it.”
The guy frowned at me. “Who is Gwenyth Paltrow?”
I frowned back. “Oh, she’s a…really famous actress. You’ve never heard of her?”
The guy shrugged. “I don’t watch a lot of movies.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Do you have a name?”
“I’m Mr. Sam.”
“Mr. Sam? Is that a first name or a last name?” I wondered.
“Just Mr. Sam,” he said simply, with no further explanation.
“Got it,” I said, nodding. “So, how is it you’ve never heard of Gwenyth Paltrow, Mr. Sam?”
“Like I said, I stay pretty busy here.”
“Busy?” I looked around at the completely empty room. “There’s no one here.”
“Well, it is the middle of the night,” he countered.
I couldn’t argue with him on that. I chewed my lip nervously, wondering if he was going to kick me out. But even as I stressed, I couldn’t help but notice he looked awfully young for an archivist, whatever the hell that was. He looked more like a grad student, not much older than me—twenty-four, maybe. Maybe twenty-five. Brown hair, green eyes, sharp jaw. Good looking. Maria probably would have already gotten his number. She had a boyfriend, but as she told me our first week, she liked to stack backups. I, of course, wouldn’t know how to ask this guy for a Dewey Decimal number, let alone his phone number.
“So, what keeps you busy?” I asked awkwardly, hoping he would forget that I wasn’t supposed to be here.
Mr. Sam looked around at the stacks of old books. “I keep track of inventory. That’s an all-day job.”
And all night, apparently, but not wanting to remind him of the hour, I didn’t mention that.
Mr. Sam looked down at the book still in my hands, The Punk Times of Our Lives. “Did you like that one?”
I looked down at the black-and-white checked cover. “Yeah, I loved it.”
“Did you?” He looked interested. “What did you like so much about it?”
“I liked the guy in it,” I told him. “Edgar.”
“What did you like about him?”
I smiled to myself. I might not have seen Mr. Sam around the library before, but he spoke like a librarian.
“I liked the way he talked and wrote about his life. I really like music, too, so I connected with that, but it was more than that. I liked the way Egar thought about things, and the way he had with the words he used. He just captured so much about what I really like about this time period.”
Mr. Sam took the book from my hands and flipped through it. “Oh, yes, the 1980s.” He shook his head with a small smile. “What a time that was.”
His words surprised me. He was talking like he was reminiscing, the way my mom used to talk about going to Backstreet Boys concerts. “What are you talking about? You can’t possibly remember the ‘80s. You’re not much older than me.”
Mr. Sam smiled up at me. “No, I’ve just read a lot about it during the course of my studies. There was a lot happening politically and socially: Reagan, the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, huge social changes. Music exploded—Madonna, U2. What is there not to be intrigued by?”
I frowned at Mr. Sam. “You have kind of a funny way of talking. Do people ever tell you that?”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. It’s probably because I read so much.”
I nodded. I knew what that was like. I read a lot, too, and I felt a strange kind of kinship with this mysterious librarian.
“So, who wrote this book?” I asked, pointing to the The Punk Times of Our Lives. “There’s no name on it.”
“Oh, it’s an autobiography,” Mr. Sam said, surprised. “All the books in here are.”
“All of them?” I asked, looking around. There were thousands of books on the shelves, and I was surprised that there were so many autobiographies available.
I took the book back from Mr. Sam and slid it back onto the shelf where I’d found it.
“You can take the book with you,” he offered.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said, standing straight.
“But you said you liked it.”
“I did like it,” I agreed. “It’s just…
“What?” he asked when I didn’t go on.
“I’m just sad there’s no ending,.” I said. “I mean, what happened to Edgar? There’s no resolution. Did he keep making music? He’s about to start writing this song for a girl, but the story never gets there. What happened?”
Mr. Sam gave me a long, searching look. “Do you really want to know?”
This seemed like such an odd question. “Yeah, of course I do. I really liked the book. I want to know how it ends.”
“And you connected with it? With the story and the character?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah, for sure.”
He sighed. “Then you should take the book.”
“What?” I asked, confused. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I already read the book. It’s missing the ending. It’s not there. How is checking the book out going to change that?”
Mr. Sam crossed his arms across his chest. “If you check the book out of the library, you can find its ending.”
I stared at him, baffled. “What are you talking about? How could that possibly work?”
He gave me a long look, his
I wasn’t sure what to do. The Rare Book Room was quiet around us, and outside, the library was closed and dark. It felt like the whole world was waiting for me to make this very strange choice.
Mr. Sam raised his eyebrows. “Well, Apple, what will it be? You can find the ending, but you have to make a choice. Are you going to check the book out?”
Maybe I was feeling tired or particularly punchy from being kicked out of my room yet again by Maria’s make-out session. Maybe I was just lonely, and this was the longest conversation I’d had in weeks. Whatever the reason, I ignored the massive number of red flags this interaction was giving and shrugged my shoulders. “Um…okay. Why the hell not?”
He nodded. “Great.”
I grabbed the book again. The slim volume felt strangely heavy in my hand. Then, I followed Mr. Sam toward a small desk in the back corner. He opened a drawer and took out a large stamp. It was one of the stamps I remembered libraries using ages ago, the ones with moveable rubber strips so users could adjust the months, days and years. He moved the strips to the desired position, then rolled the stamp in an ink pad.
He held out his hand and I gave him the book. He flipped open the front page and stamped the inner cover:
NOV 10 1985
I stared down at the date in confusion.
“What’s up with the date?” I asked.
But Mr. Sam just closed the book and handed it back to me “There you go, Apple. I’m sorry to hurry you along, but it’s quite late and I do have other books to attend to. And you’re really not supposed to be here, you know.”
“I know, I just don’t get why you stamped my book with that date. Tomorrow’s the tenth, but the year is off. That’s almost forty years in the past—”
“You have a good night, and be safe getting across campus,” Mr. Sam said as he scooped up my backpack and thrust it into my arms, all while shoving me toward the exit doors.
“Okay, yeah, thanks,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I figured the jig was up, and I headed out the door.
When he’d gotten me out of the Rare Book Room, Mr. Sam shut the door and locked it from the inside. He waved once, then turned and walked briskly away.
I stared after him for a moment, completely baffled. Then I pulled my backpack onto my shoulder. I was just going to have to hope Maria and her boyfriend had worn themselves out by the time I got back.
I was about to start walking toward the exit doors out of the library, but my confusion and curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to look at that date one more time, just to be sure I’d seen it correctly.
I opened The Punk Times of Our Lives, and there it was, stamped on the front cover, plain as day:
NOV 10 1985
I had just started to shut the book when a white light appeared out of the corner of my eyes. I looked up, quickly, hoping it wasn’t a security guard. But when I did, I realized that the light was growing fast, and in a heartbeat, I had been completely enveloped.
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