The Shells Of Chanticleer by Maura Patrick Read Free Book Online Page B

cufflinks. He looked like a banker taking time out from counting his money. The Prime Minister, I presumed. He paused for a moment after his grand entrance, and when he spoke it was with authority.
    “There are a thousand books here, all out of order. You need to alphabetize them,” he commanded. I wasn’t surprised to hear him speak in a British accent. He turned to leave.
    “You mean from A to Z?”
    “If you know of another method, by all means go ahead and use it. Be my guest. Otherwise the traditional alphabet passed down through the ages will have to suffice.” Then, rolling his eyes, he looked me up and down, snorted, and huffed off.
    What a snob! I thought. Yes, maybe my question was stupid but his manners were definitely lacking. So, alphabetizing was to be my big assignment? They were probably trying to see how intelligent I was. Well, I wasn’t illiterate; kindergarten had been a long time ago. I could do it. I stared at the brimming shelves. There were so many volumes, beautifully bound in crimson, blue, and green leather. I walked over to the shelf and took one down. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Its title was embossed in gold on the spine and the cover; I ran my hand over the indentations and inhaled the comforting smell of the leather. The edges of the pages were dipped in gold leaf making each volume look like a piece of found treasure.
    That would clearly be filed under C for Carroll, I figured … unless it went under A for Alice. Was it to be alphabetized by author or by title? Should the A’s start at the high top shelf or the low one on the floor? Was there a system? What did he want?
    He had obviously just left me in the dark. Should I ask him? He seemed very prickly. I didn’t really want to approach him, wherever he was. Maybe he was the type of person who got mad when you didn’t ask for clarification when you were confused—some people were like that. But maybe he was the type who wanted to be left alone and not be bothered, who wanted me to use my own initiative. Wasn’t ‘shows initiative’ always on our report cards?
    I went to the library door and cracked it open. All was quiet in the hall. I shut the door. I stood there hesitant and a little apprehensive, a little scared. The words of Miss Clarice taunted me: too much pinging, too much looking over my shoulder waiting for the next hammer to fall, too much doubting of my own instincts. I hadn’t forgotten those zingers.
    What was I afraid of? I wasn’t afraid of the books. Was I afraid of being alone in the room or in that house? Strangely, no. Was I afraid of the Prime Minister? I didn’t think so, but I was afraid of how he would act toward me when he discovered I had done the job wrong. But what if he returned and I had done nothing? Taking a look at the clock I realized that a good twenty minutes had passed by with nothing to show for it. Yikes.
    Anxious to do something I started pulling all the volumes from the shelf. I needed empty space on the shelves so I could begin. The only way I could get that clear space was to take everything off. My genius plan was to sort them into piles alphabetically and then put them back on the shelves. I worked steadily for quite some time, carrying books down from the shelves, separating the piles and stacking them carefully.
    Unfortunately I did not think to take into account the fact that there really wasn’t enough room on the floor for one thousand books in twenty-six separate piles. I balanced a few stacks on the lumpy leather chairs, but those toppled over quickly. I tried to stack the D’s on the mantel, but I misjudged the narrow space and Dante’s Inferno and Don Quixote landed in the fireplace grate, smack in the middle of a dusty pile of dirty ashes.
    Quickly, I rescued them and swiped the ash away with my hand, but the sooty residue smudged all over my palm and fingertips. On reflex I went to wipe my hand on my white sweater but luckily I stopped myself.