Nothing to See Here (47)

Once Carl turned off the lighter, I looked at the kids, showing them that I was fine. “See, it’s awesome. God, it’s really neat. And it’s cooling. It feels good in this hot weather.”

Roland put out his arms. “It’s like slime,” he said, excited. “It’s so gross.”

Carl kind of grinned, just a little, and then dipped his hands into the bucket. He did Roland, and I did Bessie, their arms and legs. “It’s so cold!” Roland shouted. When we were finished, we stared at them, appraising how strange they looked, like a ghost had run right through them and left them traumatized.

“It’s not . . . it’s not great,” Carl admitted.

“Maybe it’ll dry a little?” I said. “It’ll get a little less . . . shimmery?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “But let’s go. Let’s just get it over with.”



I sat in the back of the van with the kids, towels on the upholstery to protect it from the gel, while Carl drove us to the public library. Even though they’d been chattering about getting off the estate, the kids were eerily silent on the drive, like they’d been drugged, their faces pressed against the windows.

When we pulled into the parking lot, Bessie said, “What if they don’t have the book that we want?”

“They’ll have it,” I said.

“Maybe you should go in and check them out for us,” she said, leaning back in her seat.

“That’s fine with me,” Carl said. “Tell me the books that you want, and I’ll get them.”

“No,” I said. “That defeats the whole purpose of coming.”

“I don’t want to go in there,” Bessie said. “Everyone is going to stare at us.”

“No one is going to stare at you, Bessie,” I told her.

“They will. They’ll think we’re weirdos.”

“Honestly, Bessie? People don’t care about anyone but themselves. They don’t notice anything. They are never looking at what’s interesting. They’re always looking at themselves.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I promise,” I told her, hoping that I was right.

“C’mon,” Carl said. “Let’s move.”

We walked into the library, air conditioner humming, not much activity on a weekday morning. The librarian, an old man with thick glasses and a really lovely smile that showed crooked teeth, waved to us. Bessie frowned, suspicious, but Roland said, “Hi!” A few seconds later, we passed an old lady with a stack of books in her arms. “Hi!” Roland said, and she nodded. There was a toddler in the kids’ area with her mother, and Roland said, “Hi!” and the toddler looked confused, but the mother replied with her own greeting.

Carl said, “Roland, you don’t have to say hi to everyone, okay?”

“Don’t make it weird, Carl,” I said. “It’s fine, Roland. Say hi to anyone you want.”

“I will,” Roland said, looking over his shoulder at Carl and making a face.

We walked over to a computer and did a quick search. Carl went with Roland to one section of the library, and Bessie and I walked over to another stack. “I feel funny,” Bessie said. “This stuff feels funny on my skin. I don’t like it.”

“I kind of like it,” I said, looking at my arms.

“Let’s just go,” she said, but I directed her to the aisle of books and we searched the call numbers until we found it: Dolly: My Life and Other Unfinished Business. Dolly looked like a good witch, like someone who just absolutely fucked up evil queens with her kindness.

“This looks good,” Bessie said, flipping through the pages, calming herself. But as soon as she looked up at me, the anxiety returned. “Can we please go now?” she asked.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Let’s find Carl and your brother.”

As soon as I said it, Carl was there with his hand firmly attached to Roland’s shoulder. Roland was holding two books on Sergeant York. “I think we’re good,” Carl said.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go check them out.”

“Wait,” Carl said. “Do you have a library card?”

“What?” I asked. “No. I don’t have one. I don’t even live here.”

“Well, I don’t have one,” Carl said. “I don’t have a library card.”

“Carl, why don’t you have a library card?” I asked him.

“Because,” he said, staying calm, “I do not like to borrow things. I like to have them. I like to keep them. So I don’t use the library. I just buy what I want.”

“Well, go get a card. Go sign up for one.”

“You need a proof of address,” he said, “like a piece of mail.”

“Do you have that?” I asked.

“Do I have a piece of mail with my address on it? On my person?” he replied. “Are you serious?”

“Well, why didn’t you think about this before we drove here?” I asked.

“Stop fighting,” Roland said. “Just ask the librarian if we can borrow them.”

“We need a card,” I said, and now it felt like we were stuck behind enemy lines with sensitive documents. It felt like a movie. Why was I doing this? Why didn’t we just put the books away and come back another time? Why didn’t we act like normal people instead of huddling up in the stacks, our bodies shiny with fire gel?