A New Keeper Read online

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Title page

  Credit page

  Dedication

  Back Matter

  The Secret Library: A New Keeper

  J. C. Gilbert

  THE SECRET LIBRARY: A NEW KEEPER

  Copyright © 2019 Jonathan Gilbert

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Tardigrade House 2019

  Auckland, New Zealand

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  Cover Design by saraoliverdesign.com

  For Sara

  CHAPTER ONE

  A hedgehog lives in my heart. Like, an actual live hedgehog.

  We are not friends.

  His hobbies include burrowing into my stomach, clawing at my arteries, thumping on my blood pump, and turning off my lungs.

  His name is Hank. I started calling him that after watching a video about giving your anxiety a name.

  Right now I needed Hank to leave. I was the first student to arrive at Mrs. Taylor’s class. I knew that if I came any later then I simply wouldn’t be able to make it to my desk. Now that I was sitting I wished that I stayed home.

  The room was stale with the smell of old stationary and baked dust. My chair screeched as I pulled it out. I sat down and tried to breathe. The classroom slowly filled with students.

  Hank tore out my lower intestine.

  OK, I can do this. I just needed to think of something else. I searched my brain for something unrelated to school. I tried to remember the last thing I saw on TV.

  The face of Benedict Cumberbatch came to mind. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be feeling this way. He would be able to rationalize his emotions as just the chemical signals from an outdated warning system.

  He probably would have deleted Hank. Or trained him to run errands.

  Lucky Sherlock.

  I shuffled in my chair. So maybe I didn’t have to do this? There was still time to leave. Leaving would feel wonderful.

  But what if I ran into Mrs. Taylor in the hall? She would want to know where I was going, especially as class was due to start.

  Hank headbutted something soft and full of nerve endings.

  I liked Mrs. Taylor, I really did. She was kind and read a lot. She told us all on the first day of class that she was a Hufflepuff. We were on the same wavelength, and that was pretty cool.

  But once a year she transformed from my kind and geeky English teacher to a torturer. She became this ruthless and cunning puppet master, and I her unwilling puppet.

  On cue, she walked in and smiled as if nothing were the matter, as if this were just another day.

  OK, so I couldn't outright leave. But maybe I could leave once class started? People go to the bathroom all the time, don’t they? I could go to the bathroom. That would be a totally reasonable and appropriate thing to do.

  And then I could just not come back.

  Hank liked this idea too. Good.

  Of course, then people might wonder why I was in the bathroom for so long. What if Mrs. Taylor sent someone after me? Definitely not good.

  I pictured Amy and Claire, the two ‘popular’ kids knocking on the door of the cubical. ‘What are you doing in there, Alex?’

  I flinched as Hank bit my optic nerve, and the image was forced from my mind.

  No. I worked too hard for this. I had to stay. I had to see this through. I only needed to get rid of my little problem, and then everything would be fine.

  “Alright, class,” said Mrs. Taylor, voice raised. She stood at her post in front of the white-board. She had written three names there: Finn, Jessica, and Alexandria.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  That's me, by the way. I am Alexandria when written down and Alex when spoken aloud. I have difficulty saying my own name sometimes. It's kind of embarrassing, tbh.

  “So today we will be continuing on with oral presentations. Now I want you all to show today’s speakers the same consideration that they have shown you over the last week. Finn? You wanna come on up?”

  Finn, a lanky boy with light hair, tumbled to the front of the class.

  So I was going to be last. That wasn't so bad. I’ll just have to sit here. Waiting. Me and Hank. This is fine.

  I felt dizzy.

  Leaning forward I dug my elbows into my desk and pressed my palms into my skull.

  Concentrate. I needed to concentrate. Then an idea struck me. I would sketch while the other two were speaking. People might think it was rude, but sometimes anxiety makes you rude. It was better to appear a little rude than be forced to hang out with my rodent problem through the whole class. It was for the best.

  Finn started talking, but he might as well have been speaking in Simlish for all I understood.

  I forced my pen to paper and started drawing. I drew what I pretty much always drew. I liked to start with the eyes, making them fierce, capturing that cold and ancient intelligence. I then used that start to guide the position of its jaw and the shape of its head. Its torso and its legs started to emerge, now a tail. It was the final touch that always gave me the biggest thrill: its wings, unfurled and unafraid.

  I locked eyes with the dragon for a moment.

  “Thank you, Finn, that was very insightful.”

  Hank grabbed my heart with two tiny hands and buried his face into it, screaming.

  What
was I going to do? I couldn’t go up like this!

  I pulled out my cue cards and tried to read over them one more time. The words which I had crafted with care over many nights of work didn’t appear to make any sense.

  Maybe I don’t speak English? Would Mrs. Taylor buy that?

  Probably not.

  Sweat from my palms dampened the edge of my cue cards, making them fold in my hands. I tried to flick through them, but they stuck together.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  Jessica looked confident. I had no idea what she was saying, but she seemed fine. I wouldn't be fine. I would freeze, and then everyone would give me that ‘trying to be encouraging but really I have no idea why you are failing so bad’ look.

  I hated that look.

  I glanced back down at my dragon. I pictured him chasing Hank away. Not burning him to a crisp or anything. That would be murder. I only wanted to scare him a little.

  I could do this. It was only one tiny speech. I would go up there and make it happen. I am a human being with the capabilities of most other human beings.

  At least the capabilities of Jessica.

  Jessica smiled as the class clapped. She looked relieved as she took her seat.

  Only one tiny speech.

  “Alexandria, you’re up.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I didn't move. I sat there, staring at my sketch, vaguely curious about how time felt when it was on the end of a pin.

  “Alex, it's your turn now,” said Mrs. Taylor.

  “I can’t,” I said. My voice wavered.

  “Yes you can, come on up,” she said. She was trying to be encouraging.

  My eyes met hers. I saw that fading light, that shift from where people think you are just like everyone else to where they discover that you aren't. You are different.

  “I forgot,” I squeaked.

  All eyes were on me now. Too silent.

  “You forgot your cue cards?” Mrs. Taylor frowned, clearly confused.

  “I don’t have any. I forgot about it.”

  Hank was holding his breath. There was no random giggling here today. I had the stage, and I was here to make a fool of myself.

  “Everyone has to do a presentation, Alex.”

  I shrugged. I felt like I was five years old. I had no excuse. I wanted to tell Mrs. Taylor that I hadn't done it because it's just who I am. I just let people down. Her compassion made it worse.

  “OK, well then. I’ll have a talk with you after class. Who is next on the list- Jake? I don't suppose you are ready to do yours today?”

  “Screw that,” said Jake. The class erupted with laughter. Hank let out a sigh of relief, curled up, and went to sleep. It was over and I had escaped.

  I had escaped, but Hank had won.

  When the bell rang for lunch, I scrambled out the door as fast as I could. There was no way I wanted to talk to Mrs. Taylor about my speech.

  I felt that familiar mix of calm and shame. I just wanted to forget about the whole thing. Eventually, Mrs. Taylor would forget about it too, right?

  I walked down the hall and outside, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the midday sun. It was early spring, and the sun was slowly breathing life back into the world.

  I sat down at the octagonal bench where I always sat and pulled out a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Like any worthwhile human being I had already read the series many times, but it was always worth a re-read.

  This copy belonged to my mom. Our tastes were rarely the same, but we agreed when it came to the important matters.

  When I read, I can escape from all the thoughts and feelings associated with being a totally awkward human being. I can be an entirely different person, if only for a short time. Today I needed this as much as ever.

  “How did your speech go?” asked Lilly, sitting down.

  I breathed in and closed the book, keeping my place with a finger. Lilly was my best, and only, friend. She was bright-eyed, a tall girl with dark blond hair and enough enthusiasm to power a small nation.

  “I don't want to talk about it,” I said.

  “Hank?”

  “Yeah.”

  We had been friends for long enough for Lilly to have a pretty intimate understanding of Hank and his ways. She was probably the only person in the world who understood me and my quirks.

  The school was alive with the vague and sometimes disturbing sounds of a few hundred kids pretending they were someplace else.

  I focused on my book.

  After about a page and a half, Lilly interrupted again. “Did you see my Insta?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one from today.”

  “I mean which account?”

  Lilly had many.

  “Oh, the coolasacantaloupe account. It’s the one where I pair quotations from the transcendental poets with pictures of cantaloupe. Did I tell you about it? I started it on Sunday. Running out of free stock images of cantaloupe though. I wanted to do cucumbers, but the handle was already taken.”

  “I’ll have to check it out.”

  “What’s that?” Lilly asked, pointing to my bag. I followed her gaze to my notebook where a vicious looking dragon was poking his nose out.

  “Nothing,” I said. I moved to push the drawing back inside, out of sight.

  I was too slow. Lilly seized the notebook and pulled it out of my reach. “Did you draw this?” she asked. She was staring at the paper.

  “Yeah,” I said. I could feel my cheeks growing warm.

  “Don't look so serious! I like it. Can I have it?”

  “What? No. Wait, you like it?”

  “Yeah. I’m legitimately jealous of your talent, young lady.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  Lilly put the notebook down and spun around, her attention caught by something. She was like a squirrel. “Did you see that?” she asked.

  “See what?”

  “I could have sworn I saw a sword in that guy's bag.”

  “Like an actual hacky staby kind of sword?” I stretched my neck to see where she was looking.

  “Yes, a Viggo Mortensen ‘you have my sword’ kind of sword.”

  “I don’t see,” I said, “he is walking away now.”

  “Should I ask him about it?”

  “Ah-”

  Lilly jumped up. “Hey, what’s with the weapon?” she called.

  His name was Darcy, a lanky boy with scruffy black hair and a face as serious as a pavement. I knew him, kinda. He lived on my street, and we always went to the same schools. He looked our way, eyes wide.

  Hank woke up and stretched. I pulled the notebook towards me and closed it.

  Lilly gestured for him to come over. He shuffled toward us.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Pretty casual for an armed man,” said Lilly.

  Darcy’s gaze darted over his shoulder. “Could you keep it down? Please don’t say anything about it.” His expression was earnest.

  “Gnorts, dude. I want to know where you got it ‘cos I want one, that's all,” said Lilly. Gnorts was Lilly’s latest thing. She often experimented with new words and didn’t much care that no one else knew what she meant by them.

  “I made it,” said Darcy.

  “No, you didn't. No one makes swords.”

  “Look, I gotta go.”

  “You aren’t going to go on some school rampage, are you?”

  “Lilly!” I hissed. This conversation was stressing me out.

  “Don’t mind my friend,” said Lilly, “she finds no joy in anything but reading.”

  I cringed.

  “Then we should let her get back to her book,” said Darcy.

  “You shouldn’t encourage her,” said Lilly, “or we will never hear from her again.”

  “OK. Bye,” said Darcy, retreating into the wilderness of students.

  “Ciao,” said Lilly.

  When Darcy was out of earshot, Lilly leaned in close. “Did you get that?” she asked in a conspiratorial
whisper.

  “Get what?”

  “Sword-boy. He is totally into you, Alex.”

  “But he hardly even looked at me.”

  “Pointedly, one might say.”

  “So?”

  “So people never ignore people without a good reason. Congratulations, Alex.”

  I gave Lilly the ‘the world doesn't work the way you think it works’ look.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Come to mine after school? We still have one more season of Game of Thrones to re-watch.”

  “Sure,” I said, mentally saying goodbye to another few hours of reading.

  Watching TV with Lilly usually meant scrolling on social media while the show played. Lilly had a rumpus room all to herself. An eclectic array of movie posters and posters from bands which Lilly intended to ‘get into' lined the walls.

  The credits were opening on our third episode when I happened to glance at the time. It was five minutes to six.

  “Shoot,” I said. Mom always set dinner at six, and she usually got mad when I was late.

  “What is it?”

  “I gotta go.”

  “Wait, I wanna show you something.” Lilly held up her phone trying and not succeeding to keep it steady.

  “I’m late.”

  “Just look!”

  I took her phone. It was a picture of a man with a moth’s head. He was getting distracted by a passing lamp while his girlfriend looked at him, offended by his wandering moth gaze.

  I smiled. “Great, now I really have to go.”

  “Wait, wait, one more.”

  “No, I gotta go.” My phone buzzed.

  You coming home?

  Mom phrased the text as a question but wielded it as a threat.

  "This is important,” she read aloud from her phone, “would you rather fight one horse sized duck or a hundred duck sized horses?”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “It’s for research.”

  “Why am I fighting them?”

  “Science.”

  “The horses sound pretty cute, so I guess I’ll have to go with fighting a hundred duck sized horses.”

  At that moment Lilly's mom walked by, gave us a puzzled look, and then kept on walking.

  “Let me get this straight, Alex Reed. You have chosen to fight one hundred duck sized horses because they are cute? That's fudging sadistic,” said Lilly, except she didn't say fudging.