Once, in seventh grade, Mom took me to a midnight launch party for a fantasy series. They passed out “wands,” which were just sticks they probably found in the brush behind the library. It was silly. It was also magical. I chose a twig with pale green lichen crawling over it, and Mom chose one that was bone white. I felt like I was as close as I’d ever be to true magic.
That feeling of curiosity and awe and wonder. That was where I made my home every time we moved, a sensation that couldn’t be taken away.
Ashleigh shows up eight minutes late, breakfast burritos in hand for both me and Harvey. She keeps things running at the desk while he and I coordinate the waves of drop-offs and volunteer check-ins.
Around ten thirty, the Sci-Fi and Contemporary crews show up, quickly taking over their corners, hanging their tinfoil UFOs from the drop-tile and their painted quote and cover posters from R. J. Palacio, Jasmine Warga, Jacqueline Woodson, and Jeff Kinney over in the Contemporary area.
At one p.m., the Horror team arrives with faux cobwebs and lightly spooky haunted house paraphernalia. They piece together their set in one of the two community rooms, safely tucked away from the littlest readers.
Around three, the Picture Book volunteers descend on the Story Nook. One of them—a local seamstress—has made a giant stuffed Very Hungry Caterpillar to be won by the top reader of the under-six crowd, most of whom will go home before dark, while those with older siblings hang on a bit longer.
The day’s first crisis hits at three thirty-two, and it’s a doozy.
I’m out front, helping Shirley—the ever-sticky three-year-old Lyla’s grandmother—manage drop-offs, when Ashleigh comes bustling outside, sweaty from exertion, giant topknot wobbling. She gives me a look like, We need to talk, and I excuse myself to follow Ashleigh a few yards away from the covered walkway at the front of the library.
“So,” she says, keeping her voice low, “don’t freak out.”
“Three magical words,” I say.
“Landon caught it,” she says.
I shake my head. “Caught . . . ?”
“The stomach bug,” she says. “He can’t come tonight.”
“Okay.” I nod as my brain spins through its own version of the Read-a-thon Google Doc. Landon was going to be in the other community room, the one for refreshments. He was also supposed to go pick up a lot of those refreshments.
And be our “tech guy.” Set up the projector and screen, run the videos and live streams.
“That’s not all,” Ashleigh says.
My eyes snap back to her face. The corners of her mouth pull wide in an exaggerated grimace. “Three other volunteers have called in sick too.”
“Shit.”
I should have prepared for this.
In a way, I did. I didn’t put a cap on volunteers. The more, the better. But our version of more didn’t account for losing four people, three and a half hours before start time.
I’m trying to come up with a plan, buying myself time with an evenly spaced out “Okay . . . okay,” as if some brilliant solution is in the process of being birthed.
Back under the walkway, someone calls my name.
“I’m going to take care of it,” Ashleigh tells me.
“How?” I say.
“Don’t worry about it,” she tells me.
At my snort, she says, “Fine! Worry about it. But also trust me. I’ll figure it out. You go focus on the other nine million things you need to do.”
Another volunteer walks out the front doors, scans the lawn, and heads straight for me with a look of abject panic on his face.
“Go.” Ashleigh shoves me. “You put out your fires. I’ve got this one. Tonight will be amazing.”
“I need it to be,” I say.
She sets her hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Daphne. Remember who this is for.”
“That’s why I want to get it right.”
“I get that,” she says. “But if I’ve learned anything from parenting, it’s that it matters way more that you’re present than that you’re perfect. Just be here, really be here, and the kids will love it.”
My shoulders loosen. “I can do that.”
“Of course you can,” she says. “You’re Daphne Fucking Vincent.”
“Aww.” I touch my chest. “You know my last name and my middle name.”
Twenty minutes until go time, from the comfort of a paper-lined toilet seat, I check my phone.
Dad has called three times in an hour.
My stomach plummets.
I don’t want to call him back, especially right now, but I’m more anxious about what might happen if I don’t.
