Library Boy

I've met the same little kid at the local library a couple of times. He's really cute, and really interesting. So I wrote a semi-fiction short story about him.

The first thing I notice when I enter the library is that the librarian has a tail. Not like an animal tail, that would be weird, but a small boy following directly behind her, with a piece of paper in his hands. As Amy and I get closer, I realize he is also chattering incessantly about cars. The librarian, Kim, is moving slowly through the book shelves, answering the boy every so often with “Hm” or “Oh, that’s interesting.” On paper it doesn’t sound it, but she seemed genuinely interested.

I watch them for a while, happy to be distracted from the hellish day I’ve had so far with Amy. She’s been in a bad mood, and that has put me in a bad mood. Since I arrived at her house, Amy has been arguing with me about every suggestion we make for our shift today. I assume she’s had a bad day at school; this is usually the reason behind her tantrums. But she’s still too wound up to tell me, so I finally surrendered and agreed to go to the library. We don’t get much done when we spend our time here, but it’s quiet and Amy is usually at peace in the squishy armchairs with a stack of comic books next to her.

I sit down across from Amy and fish my own book out of my bag. A few pages in, I realize I've got a horrible headache and I shut my eyes for a moment and rub my temples. I notice suddenly that I can’t hear the boy chatting anymore, and I open my eyes just as he opens his mouth.

“Hi” he says’ “do you like art?” I must look startled, because he then literally spells it out for me, “A-R-T?”

I pause for a moment, “Sure.”

“How about THIS?” he says, and thrusts a piece of paper at my nose. It’s a pencil drawing of a house, with perfectly straight lines and identical windows on either side. Next to the house he’s drawn a pick-up truck from the side, with a canoe packed in the bed. On the other side, a car from the back, so you can only see two tires and the rear lights. Behind the house, a man is fishing out of a small boat in a pond. The boy has even drawn in a fish head popping out of the water.  I am impressed; this boy looks no older than 9 and his artwork is incredibly detailed.  I start to diagnose him in my mind, but stop myself and instead share my reaction.

“Wow, this is really cool! You must a lot of time drawing, huh? This is lovely.”

“Yeah, you could say that” he puts his hand to the side of his mouth and half-whispers to me, “it’s what I do in science class!” He giggles and pushes his tiny glasses up on his nose.

“Uh-oh, instead of taking notes?” I smile, and he grins, “It’s scientific!”

Amy has wandered away from her chair, and during my exchange with this new little friend I’ve kept the corner of my eye on her. Now she has come back without any books, and I ask if she’s still doing alright. She says she’s fine, and she says it in her slow, slightly mumbled way. The boy watches her as she sits and turns her face to a book she’s already looked through once.

“My dad works with kids with autism” he says, very matter-of-fact. I pause for a moment, How did he know?  

“Oh yeah? Well, me too. I guess your dad and I have something in common,” I wonder if this is a weird thing to say, and if I’m even allowed to admit to a stranger that Amy is not neuro-typical.  I don’t think too hard about it, because the boy is telling me something else.

“My mom does too. Well, special needs kids. Right now she works with a kid with really severe CP.”

“Wow” I say, “That’s pretty cool. Your parents must be some pretty awesome people.”

“Yeah, I admire them.” He pauses, then, “I’m adopted.” He then walks away, back to his table where I notice he’s spread books about cars and architecture, a yardstick, three pencils and one big eraser. I’m trying to think about how to respond to his ‘adopted’ comment, but then I realize he walked away before I had a chance to say anything, so it probably doesn’t matter. Two minutes later, he’s back with two books about sports cars; one about Ferraris and one about old BMWs.

“Do you like cars?” He’s peering at me over the top of his glasses, which have again slipped down his nose.

“I don’t know anything about them”

“Well, my dream is to one day own a Ferrari.”

“That’d be pretty awesome”

“My neighbor in my apartment building has one” His eyes are huge. Just like that, he’s off and running, talking a mile a minute about every fancy-car-fact he knows. Then he’s dashing back and forth between my chair and the aisle of books about architecture and cars. “My aisle!” he calls it. I am entranced by him. I sit and listen to him chatter away and try to absorb everything he’s saying until Amy decides it’s time to go out to the playground. I bid farewell to my new friend.

“I guess we’re going to get going. But it was very nice to meet you…what was your name?”

“Tyler” he says, and holds out his tiny hand. Almost the entirety of it fits into my palm and I grab and gently squeeze-shake.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I walk out the door with Amy and look back once, just out of curiosity. Tyler salutes me, and then disappears down His Aisle.