Dirty Books for Little Girls
ISSUE TWO: July, 2019
Dirty Books for Little Girls
An excerpt from Disposable
Judy Richards was nine-years-old. That was the problem.
Well, it was a problem at the library, anyway.
Or, well, it was a problem at this library.
Judy looked down at the cover of the book she held in her hands. She clutched it back to her chest. Judy looked back up, through the stack of books which made it possible for her to see Mrs. Williams, yet made it hard for Mrs. Williams to see Judy’s green eyes staring at her.
Judy sighed.
Judy wasn’t even really supposed to be in this part of the library. It was Tuesday. She was supposed to be in the basement taking part in the after-school reading program.
The after-school reading was for children. It was boring. How could they expect Judy to participate in something that juvenile?
Judy looked back down at her book, trying to think of a strategy. She really couldn’t understand why it was a problem. There was some old painting of a battle scene on the cover. It probably wasn’t even a painting of the actual English Civil War, just a painting of any old battle that would look good on a book. Judy knew how these covers worked.
Still, the cover was bloody and nine-year-old girls weren’t supposed to check out stuff like this. And that word. Apocalyptic. That was also going to be a problem. Judy was still unsure what it meant. She would look it up in the big dictionary when she got home. But right now, she didn’t know what it meant, which meant it was the kind of word that would make adults pay attention to what Judy was doing. The war painting, that word, the fact that she was nine-years-old and liked to wear bright-red ribbons in her hair and check out books like this one: it all just drew attention.
And once the old lady librarian’s attention was up, it was difficult to get rid of that attention. Judy liked attention. That’s why she wore the red ribbons, and why she wore the brightest pink sneakers she could find. It’s why she was wearing her Dad’s old Guns and Roses t-shirt today. Judy liked standing out.
Except for when standing out kept her from getting to check out the books she wanted.
Mrs. Williams would tell her about the reading grou, and she would tell Judy, again, about the ‘wonderful’ reading group for ‘school-age children,’ going on ‘right now in the basement of the library.’ As if Judy hadn’t heard it all a hundred times before. Mrs. Williams said the same thing every time, apparently forgetting every week that she had said the same thing to Judy last week, when she found Judy wandering around the history section of the library, or the week before that, when Judy was rifling through the science fiction paperbacks, taking a hard look at some of the most interesting covers. Or three weeks before that, when Judy had been rash enough to try and check out some books from both sections.
“These books are not appropriate for a young girl your age. There’s a wonderful reading group. . . .” She took the books from Judy. She put them on a high shelf behind the library desk. There minutes later Judy could hear Mrs. Williams telling someone that Judy had tried to check out a book “by that awful feminist.” Judy wasn’t even sure which book Mrs. Williams was talking about. The Left Hand of Darkness? The one with all the ice on it? Then she heard Mrs. Williams wondering out loud why Ms. Roberts had even ordered the thing.
Judy liked Ms. Roberts for ordering it. Why couldn’t Ms. Roberts be working the circulation desk today? Once in a great while she came out of the back office and took over from Mrs. Williams. The last time that happened Judy had seen the opening and made the most of it: she checked out three science-fiction paperbacks, four history books, and three horror novels. Judy had all but ran through the sections and then up to the circulation desk. And then she ran just as fast out of the library. She felt like a bank robber in those old westerns her Dad sometimes watched on lazy Sunday afternoons.
But today it was definitely not Ms. Roberts. It was definitely Mrs. Williams, and Judy could already see her lips going thin. She used those lips to smash home words in the sentence. Mrs. Williams had told her the ninnies in the basement were still reading that book. “It’s a wonderful book, Judy. You’ll just love it!” Judy wondered idly, yet again, how Mrs. Williams lips managed that, how they went utterly flat when Mrs. Williams wanted to emphasize a word.
And good heavens. Charlotte’s Web. It was an okay book, you know, for a kid’s book or whatever. Judy had finished reading the whole thing on a sunny afternoon three years ago. The reading group would spend all of October on it, going on and on about this chapter and the next. At least they could have picked a scary book for Halloween. They would be doing The Blue Sword for November. The Hero and the Crown in December. Robin McKinely was alright, sure. So was E.B. White and The Chronicles of Narnia and Half Magic. Really fun.
Really fun kids’ stuff.
Judy wished adults would quit telling her about books she had already read two, three times. And adults always got so upset or something if Judy mentioned that she had already read that one.
And the kids were just at the library and putting up with Ms. Roberts yammering about Charlotte’s Web because the cookies and kool-aid. And because their Moms had said they needed to do something on Wednesday afternoons besides watch The Flintstones and Gilligan’s Island and The Little House on the Prairie on TV all afternoon. Oh, and some of the sixth-grade boys thought that Ms. Roberts was ‘hot,’ whatever that meant.
Judy wasn’t even sure that the boys themselves knew what they meant. It meant sexy or pretty or beautiful. And Judy kind of knew what sex was. And she knew that there was supposed to be a big kiss at the end of some movies, and that sometimes on TV shows that she managed to watch late at night it was a big deal when two characters slept together. It was all connected, and Judy was going to figure it out.
She even wrote some of the words down in her notebook, so she could study them after, and see what they looked like on paper.
“Man, Ms. Roberts is hot.”
“I saw some of her panties when she bent over to pick up those magazines last week. They were pink! God she is hot.”
Judy liked looking at words, and she like hearing people say them, she liked underlining words she wanted to underline because underling helped show how people really said things, how they came down with a thump on certain words, and how they glided over others, and how they jammed a bunch of other words together. It was like there was a secret rhythmic code in everything everyone ever said but they didn’t even know it.
For example: every afternoon Judy walked into the Circle-K to buy candy and sometimes a comic book, Mr. Harvey, who used to teach chemistry at the high school, would say, “Wellwouldyoulookhereatthisprettylittlegirl!” It was annoying—and kinda weird—that he said the same thing every single week, but it was also interesting, the way Mr. Harvey’s words seemed to come without any stops or breathing.
Judy used her notebook to keep the rules. Judy wrote down the rules to make herself remember what she felt she had to remember to survive.
Rule #3
The best place to sit on the bus: the best place to sit on the bus is in the middle of the bus. You sit
halfway from the back and halfway from the front. If you sit too far from the back then the big kids
might staying paying attention and picking on you and teasing you and you won’t be able to read or
write. If you sit too far up front then you are sitting with little kids and they are noisy and snotty
and don’t know how to read and can’t talk about books and you won’t concentrate. If you sit in the
middle you can hear the big kids talk and that’s interesting and you can write down the interesting
things they say and look up those words in dad’s dictionary later at home. And you can read. But
it’s very important: sit exactly seven rows from the back. Take time to count.
Judy knew all of these things, she didn’t need to read them every so often in her notebook, they had come out of her head, after all. But Judy liked putting the rules into words, and then putting the words down onto paper.
Putting the words down onto paper made the words feel real. Putting them down on paper made Judy feel like she knew stuff.
And it was so, oh so important to know stuff, somehow. To know what was going to happen, and to know what had happened. Words made the world make sense, even when the world didn’t really make sense.
And Judy wanted to know more about this, and Judy looked down at her book again, and she read the title. Again. Cromwell’s Apocalyptic Vision for England.
Why did old lady librarians get to decide what she read and didn’t read anyway? They didn’t try to tell Ms. Copper she shouldn’t read those romance novels with the half-naked people on the covers.
And that high school boy, the one with the glasses. Rob. Judy liked Rob. A lot. He never acted like Judy was a baby. And Rob was always at the library and he read those Stephen King books, and Mrs. Williams always shook her head back and forth when Rob checked out a new one, but she still checked them out to Rob, and she didn’t say too much more about it.
Once in a while she might say, “There’s good literature back there Rob.” Rob would smile, but there was something stubborn behind his smile. Mrs. Williams would keep at it for a moment, “Good literature. Charles Dickens. Dumas. Edgar Allen Poe. If you must read horror why not read them? Or Ann Radcliffe?”
That time had been fantastic. Rob had smiled and said, “Oh, I quite liked The Mysteries of Udolpho, Mrs. Williams. And Bleak House. I loved the scene where that one guy just bursts into flames. Stephen King read them too. I learned about them from him. From reading his books.”
Judy had just barely stifled a giggle when she heard that. She wished she was as smart as Rob, could say things like that without thinking about it, and still smile while he said them, and still be nice, and no one could ever really say you were being a smart aleck even if you were kind of one. Somehow Rob got to be nice and smart and to read the books he wanted. And even to be a little sassy. Mrs. Williams had just smiled and finished checking out the big book with the scary clown on it.
And Rob and turned back and winked at Judy, as if he had known she was listening the entire time. On his way out the door he stopped by her library table and took a look at what she was reading. The Martian Chronicles. “It’s good, isn’t it? A bit scary though?”
Judy had considered. She wanted to impress Rob with something smart. In the end all she could think to say was, “Yes, but in a good way.”
Rob had laughed, and nodded, and Judy liked the way he did it.
“You like the one about Ohio in Mars?”
Judy didn’t like that story.
She adored that story.
“Why don’t you just check out the book?” Rob had grinned at her. Judy had tried to check out The Martian Chronicles a couple of weeks ago, and Mrs. Williams had refused, and so now Judy read it every week for about an hour while not going to reading club. She’d be finish the book off pretty soon. She was on the next-to-last story now.
Judy didn’t say a thing to Rob, however. She just looked up, then looked over at Mrs. Williams.
Rob chuckled. “Oh right, I get it. The big bad book troll isn’t letting the littlest goat go over the bridge, is she?”
Judy had shaken her head, and Rob had laughed, and then he tried to mess up her hair.
Judy looked back down at the book in her hands, Cromwell’s Apocalyptic England. Judy had started reading about Oliver Cromwell two years ago. Her father had come home from a conference in England, in Yorkshire, the first one he had gone to after the funeral. He had the usual presents. One was an illustrated history of the English Civil War he said he had found in a castle book shop outside of Scarborough.
Judy had adored that book. Judy liked using that word. She had heard a character on television say it, with a French accent, and she liked the way it sounded, and she liked to use it when she thought it applied, and it definitely applied to how she felt out that book.
When father would ask her why she was reading it again, she would just say that. It was interesting. He would smile. He would tug at one of her ponytails. She would swat his hand away. She would go back to reading. He would go back to his reading.
And generally everything was mostly okay.
Even if Mommy was gone.
Mostly okay.
Oliver Cromwell had been a big part of the English Civil War. And Judy decided he was interesting.
Later, she decided she adored Oliver Cromwell.
Well. Sort of. Cromwell sounded sort of awful.
But he was the sort of awful that was that story about Ohio on Mars where the townspeople ate the astronauts. It was awful and strange and scary and put a knot in your stomach but somehow it was all good and safe and you got to wrap up the scary in the book and then close the book when you had had enough.
“Hey Judy.”
The voice was quiet, but Judy had been concentrating on the book, and concentrating even harder on how to get it past Mrs. Williams. So Judy had jumped, when the voice came.
Rob laughed at her startled look. “Sorry, sorry to startle you like that.”
Judy tried to laugh with him. “It’s okay, just, um, didn’t hear you.”
Rob looked down at her, looked down at the book she was holding in her hands, took it from her, “You want to check out this book, don’t you?”
Judy nodded dumbly.
“You actually understand this stuff?”
Judy was hurt. “Yes,” she hissed, and then, her wounded pride informing every syllable, “Yes, I do.” Judy tried to grab the book back from him.
Rob laughed again, and snatched the book into the air before Judy could even get a hand on it, and Judy wasn’t entirely sure she liked this laugh. Was Rob making fun of her?
“Yeah, okay, kiddo, cool it. I believe you. You’re probably way, way smarter than me, after all.” Judy went from hating Rob to, well, admiring him. “You’re afraid Mrs. Williams is gonna say no, aren’t you?”
Judy went back to her dumb nod. She was close enough that she could smell Rob. It was a good smell. A bit like her Father’s shaving cream, maybe a bit sweeter.
Judy really wished she could find some way to reply other than a dumb no and a stupid smile.
Rob just laughed again. “Here’s the offer. I’ll check the book out for you. I’ll meet you in the parking lot in ten minutes. Okay? And let’s be A-Team about it all. Wait exactly seven minutes after I leave before you come out, okay? Let’s not get any suspicions up, right?
Judy just knew that this was the best day ever.
Mrs. Williams actually complimented Rob. “Good to see you moving on from that trash, to some more serious subjects, Rob.”
Judy knew which one of Mrs. Williams’s six sentences she would have heard if she had tried to check out the same book.
Judy had all the sentences written down in her notebook, and there was really only one she ever got, one she got if she tried to check out something interesting.
The list was called:
THINGS MRS. WILLIAMS SAYS WHEN YOU TRY TO CHECK OUT BOOKS
1. “I just know you’re going to love this.” (people her own age she kind of knows)
2. “That one is juicy!” (friends checking out romance novels)
3. “You should look for something more edifying, don’t you think?” (usually Rob checking out horror novels, although there is a high school girl who kept checking out all kinds of things, not romance novels. She has a pieced nose. Sometimes she gets this line).
4. “I saw an interesting review of that in the New Yorker (Pretty much every time daddy checks out anything.)
5. “That’s a bit too old for you, Missy. What would your father say? “(Me, poor poor me, unless I just give up the ghost and check out some lame book with a cute mouse on the cover from the kids’ section).
And if Judy had tried to check out Cromwell’s Apocalyptic England? Judy knew it was going to be #5, coming straight at her.
Judy was starting to loathe Mrs. Williams. Judy loathed Mrs. Williams for “That’s a bit too old for you Missy.” Judy liked the way loathe slid across her tongue when she said it. She found the word in the Thesaurus when she looked up adore.
It was under ‘anty.’
Judy definitely felt anty about Mrs. Williams.
When the seven minutes were up, Judy walked very, very slowly, telling herself to walk very, very slowly the entire time. She held her breath, because it sounded noisy to her, until she got to the glass doors of the library. When she was clear of the doors, and around the corner from the doors, she gave a little yell and kicked some leaves. Then she ran the rest of the way down to the parking lot.
Rob wasn’t there. She felt her heart racing. Where was he? What would he do that? She ran into the center of the parking lot, remembering that her father had told her to never, never run in parking lots. But she couldn’t help herself.
Then she smelled cigarette smoke. She heard a laugh come from behind her, and she turned around and saw an old beat up Mustang. Rob was sitting in the car, a lit cigarette in his hand, holding her book and reading it. He had a huge smile on his face.
“Think I split with your book, kid?”
Then he grinned even wider, and Judy adored the grin.
Rob put the cigarette in his mouth, got out of his car, and walked over to Judy.
Rob noticed that she was staring at his cigarette.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a nasty habit.” And then he took a deep draw, and then he pointed to her, with the cigarette still in his hand. “And you shouldn’t do it.” He took another deep draw, and then stubbed the cigarette out in the parking lot. “And I’m quitting now. Right now. That was the last one. But like I said, you’re probably waaaaay smarter than me, already, and would never start. Probably. Just stay smart.”
Then Rob noticed she was staring at the book, and he laughed even harder. “Oh, that’s it. Here’s the book squirt.” He took a last look at it, then handed it to her. “Always happy to do a pretty lady a favor.”
Then Rob suddenly got serious. “Actually, I’m pretty damn sure you’re smarter than me. Tried to read a bit of it waiting here in the parking lot while I was waiting for you. My head got faint. And it wasn’t the cancer sticks.”
Judy took the book. She looked at the cover, again, a little thrill went up her spine, then spread through her body.
“Just make sure you get it back to me in three weeks, okay? You know how old Mrs. Williams can be. And don’t let on to no one that I checked it out for you, neither.” He laughed, and his face, his countenance—another word Judy adored—broke into something warm and inviting. “Don’t want anyone knowing I’m giving dirty books to little girls, after all.”
Rob got in his car, and the radio blared Guns and Roses, and he was so suddenly very gone.
Judy went over to the bench that was in front of the library. She took a look at her Snoopy watch. Her father had agreed to pick her up at 4:45 pm.
Judy defended her Ph.D. twenty-six years later to the day at an ivy-covered school far from Mississippi.
After the defense was over, she lit a cigarette. It was tempting to play Appetite for Destruction on her record player, but her roommate hated that misogynistic shit. Judy couldn’t blame her.
NATHAN ELLIOTT grew up in logging and paper-mill towns in the panhandle of Idaho. That childhood did not really prepare him to earn a Ph.D in Victorian Literature but he insisted just the same. Nathan has worked as a professor in Georgia and on the island of Newfoundland; currently he makes his home in Montréal with a poet and an eccentric eight-year-old visual artist. Nathan has published creative non-fiction, fiction, and peer-reviewed research in a variety of venues. He is the 2016 winner of Newfoundland and Labrador’s Lawrence Jackson Writers Award. You can find him on Twitter at @writeronabike