Entitled

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I’m finally outside the Bookstore. I feel like a free-range novel.

The fresh air stiffens my fibers. I can’t see through the paper bag she’s carrying me in, but I can hear. And smell. And feel. Someone ordering a hotdog. A slightly sweet aroma. The edge of a button as my Human clutches me against her coat. Holding me close to her body, her temperature softens my spine. I conform slightly to her shape, giving her a Book’s hug.

Cars honk, people talk, a baby cries. With all this noise, you’d think more Readers would come into the Bookstore, if only for the tranquility. We turn down a side street, then another, until the only sounds are the heels of her boots clicking on the pavement. Within minutes she’s opening a door. We climb some stairs then open another door.

Still in my bag, I’m tossed on a table. The landing was harder than I’d like. I’ve never been in a real Human’s home before. I wonder if houses have changed since Agnes’ time.

I strain to see beyond the feet of my pages and past the opening of the bag, to the world that she has invited me to join. She flips on an overhead light and hangs her coat in the closet.

A loud ring startles me. She picks up her phone. “Hello?” Her voice is soft, with a slight upturn at the end of the word.

With the force of my cover, I push the bag open to expand my view. In front of me are a light brown sofa and a coffee table, with a blue rug on the floor. A dining room flows off the living room

“No, I have today off,” my Human says into the phone. “I went by the store and picked up a book for us.” That’s me she talking about! I’m on her radar.

Still holding her phone, she pulls me from the bag, freeing me from its confines. “It’s called The Serendipity of Snow. I liked the title.”

Even if she only chose me for my name, that’s okay. It’s a start. I can build off that.

She turns me over and inspects my last page. The Bookmark slips from my spine. Relief. “Not too long. About 300 pages. The quotes on the back say it’s warm and amusing. It’s set in Minnesota and it’s by a first-time author. I’ll bring it with me. We need a suggestion for next month.”

My Reader puts me back on the table. While I’m free of my bag, I’m face down. I can’t see a thing, except the grain in the wood. Come on, pick me up again. I have a cover for a reason.

I wriggle, trying to move myself over to the edge of the table. If I can make it, I’ll fall on the floor and she’ll be forced to pick me up. It’s a long way down, but it’s carpeted, and worth the effort if the alternative is to spend the rest of my time backside-up to the world.

“Yeah, great. See you tomorrow. Bye.” She puts down her phone, then sneezes. Let’s hope she’s not allergic to me, or I’ll be back on the store shelf before the lights go out for the night.

She moves to the sofa, but her phone rings again. Why can’t people just leave her alone so she can start reading?

“Hello?” There it is again, that rising lilt to her voice. She really should be more confident. I was once misfiled in the women’s studies section. I learned a lot there. “Really?” Her voice tells me that this is not good news. “Too bad, I was going to make us a nice dinner.” Her voice has gone up a tone. “Oh, okay, then. Don’t work too hard.”

She puts down the phone then opens my cover. Her eyes look at my dedication, but they just skim my words. She bites her lower lip. I try to perform for her, but she’s not absorbing me at all. Her eyes move across my page, but I can tell I’m having no impact. It’s like showing a painting to a blind person. Closing my cover, she places me on the coffee table and walks away, leaving me to survey my new home.

A piano is in the corner. Its yellowed sheet music sends me a tired grin. If it smiles any harder, it’ll crack. Softly it hums a sonata so old that even the characters in my story would recognize it. I curl up my edges to smile in return.

A few picture frames, covered by dust, lean against a ledge. One holds a photo of my Reader in a wedding dress, and one shows her with the groom. Two other frames display photos of her with friends.

A large-screen tv takes up too much room against one wall. The remote control sits two Book-lengths away from me on the coffee table. I don’t speak electronica so, mercifully, I am not expected to interact with it. Nevertheless, I sense an aura of self-importance pulsating from that grubby thing, as if life stops when it’s misplaced. But just wait until there’s a power outage. Then we’ll see who still functions by candlelight.

The woman returns, holding a glass of red wine. An elixir for her, but potential danger for me. I have no interest in red tattoos being left on my pages. Stains like that devalue me. She picks me up again and I smile back at her with all the charm I possess. I want her to revel in my words.

This day, she decided, was going to be special. Agnes was going to make a statement. She was tired of being asked to clean up after class. No boy ever had to do it. Miss Pattison only asked the girls, each time moving down the alphabet to choose the next one. Today, Agnes was going to say what she had always wanted to say: No.

My Reader reaches for her glass of wine and takes a sip. She leans forward and places it too close to the remote control, spilling a little. Hah! How does that blend with your batteries? She reaches for a tissue, cleans the drops off her wedding ring, waves the tissue over that filthy remote, then focuses on me.

She turns back to my Page 1. I have her now.