As I leave the library with a canvas bag full of books that will honestly only last me the weekend, the fireflies are beginning to rise from the grass, filling me with a serene feeling as I walk the tree-lined streets of my route home. The sunset is a watercolor blend of purple, magenta, and orange, and the air smells of rain, so I rush to get home before the deluge. It’s early evening after the last day of the school year, and because most kids live in the country surrounding Ellis Field, Ohio, the last day always empties the town in the afternoon, giving it a deserted yet peaceful air. I turn onto my street, where the oak trees arch to form a dark canopy, and walk the sidewalk to my house. I shiver as the wind picks up and the temperature drops suddenly. I’m a block down the street when I feel the first raindrop. As I sprint the second block, past Victorian painted lady houses, the drops get fatter and quicker, and as I arrive at my house in the middle of the third block, my hair and clothes are drenched. The rain makes the street into a small river and pools in the grass between the street and the sidewalk. It runs down my neck and back, with rivulets falling off me. I hold the bag of books tightly to my chest, and hunch over it slightly, hoping to protect the books from the rain.

Once I’m shielded on my front porch, I check the books. They are all safe and dry, which is the first stroke of luck. The second is that under the wicker sofa is a basket where my mother keeps some old beach towels for times like this. I dry off with a bright towel with tropical flowers that I took to every swimming lesson between the age of 4 and 9, and wring out my hair. I am still damp, but I will not make a mess when I enter the house, leaving my wet shoes by the front door. The house is empty, I left the hall and living room lights on when I left for the library an hour ago, so it is not dark. I leave my bag of books on the bench in the front hall by the coat rack and go upstairs to change out of my wet clothes.

In my bedroom, painted purple and lined with bookshelves, I find a pair of clean pajamas among a pile of fresh laundry Mom has left on my bed for me to fold. The chaos of the laundry pile on the bed is a sharp context to my bedside table, where my favorite books are stacked neatly in alphabetical order. I absentmindedly run my fingers over their spines before changing out of my wet clothes. The pajamas are cozy, soft, and warm, and the bonechill from the rain is gone. I brush out my hair, which falls past my shoulders, and put it up in a quick braid for the evening, and leave my room.

It’s getting late, and it looks like I’m on my own for dinner, so I decide to heat up some leftover paella that Mom and I made yesterday for dinner. I set out a brightly colored plate and a matching mug for soothing mint tea. I use a wine glass for my water, the proper forks for salad and the main course, and a cloth napkin folded the way they taught us in Girl Scouts. Candles are forbidden because Mom is afraid there will be a fire, but there are a few battery-powered tea lights in the center of the table, flickering to add ambiance. It doesn’t take long for everything to come together and I sit down to dinner with the first of my library books. I have mastered the art of reading while I eat. It’s not something my parents approve of when they’re home with me, but during the summer, I have many lunches and dinners alone, and I don’t see any harm in reading through them. About a half an hour later, I’m finished with dinner and the first three chapters of the book, so I load the plate in the dishwasher, and I leave a plate of paella in the warming drawer of the oven for Mom. It’s starting to get late, I take my books to the sun porch in the back of the house, where I plan to spend the rest of the night curled up on the queen-sized daybed in the blend of blues and purples of my favorite quilt. 

It’s still a little chilly, the wind drifting into the sun porch sending the occasional light mist of rain, but the sound on the roof and the quilt make the night cozy as I read. Every now and then, I think I hear someone outside, before I realize it is a branch hitting above me, or the rain on the sidewalk, and I turn back to my book, losing track of time, finishing the first book and starting the second. Somewhere in the first chapter of the second book, rain turns to the storm, and I look at the clock to see that it is after ten. I get up and make myself another cup of mint tea, both because it will help me to relax and also because I am a little nervous about being home alone this late in the storm. 

My mother is not yet home because she works as a hospital administrator and is in the process of overseeing the building of a new intensive care wing, which apparently requires almost daily board meetings each evening to discuss the progress of the new construction with the donor family. My father is not home because he spends every summer as a theater camp director. His schedule as a high school English teacher allows him the time to do this. Normally he has a few days before he has to go to camp, but this year there are some major repairs to the camp that took him out there a week early. Camp Ghostlight is in Illinois, so I won’t see him for another six weeks, when he comes home for Independence Day. 

The room around me has become faded and fuzzy in the borders between sleep and consciousness when I feel the daybed sink slightly where Mom has sat down on the edge beside me.

“Samantha,” she says softly.

“Hi Mom,” I say with a slight yawn.

“How was the last day of seventh grade?”

“Not bad. Josh Murphy threw a water balloon at the principal, so he’s the first student in history to have detention on the first day of eighth grade.” If Josh were a character in a story I was reading, I would find him funny, but interacting with him in real life is usually not much fun, because he never knows when to stop his jokes. Yet his antics are frequently the most interesting thing happening on a given school day, so I find myself recounting them more often than I really want to.

“That boy does always seem to find trouble,” Mom says more to herself than to me before turning and giving me her full attention. “So… what did you do after school?” 

“I saw Dad off for Ghostlight and then I practiced my oboe,” when I mention oboe practice she smiles because she cares more about the oboe than I do, “and then I went to the library. Dr. Plume and Mr. Zaffre said send their greetings. Dr. Plume also sent this book for you.” From the bag, which is on an end table by the daybed, I hand her a heavy college textbook.

“Wonderful!” She looks through the book a bit more. “This has the case study we need. Please thank them for me when you see them on Monday,” she says. We both know I’ll be back to the library on Monday. “What is your goal for summer reading this year?” she asks.

I am the reigning summer reading champion. Last year, I read 111 books, which is not just a personal best, it is also the standing summer reading record for the entire Hayden’s Landing County Library system, beating out the previous record of 107 books. The previous record holder was also me, two summers ago. Now that I’m entering 8th grade, it is my last year of the summer reading program, I’m trying to decide what I want my summer reading legacy to be.

“I don’t know. On the one hand, I like 111, because it’s the same digit repeating, and it’s a palindromic number.” We had learned about palindromic numbers early in math this week, as a fun end of year lesson. “But I also want to beat last year. Maybe 121? Maybe 123?”

“Those are really great goals. Just make sure you also set aside some time for your oboe lessons with Miss Joon. She said both she and the middle school honors band director think you have the potential for All State Summer Orchestra next year.”

“When do my lessons start again?”

“On Monday. You’ll go to the East Building music room at noon and work with her for an hour. You can spend all the time you want in the library before and after your lesson. You’ll have lessons every weekday at noon.”

I am not very excited about the lessons, but I am excited about the East Building. Perhaps I should explain… The East Building is the school building where I went to school from kindergarten through third grade. It’s a beautiful old building with shiny wood floors in the front hallway and equally shiny marble floors in the back hallway. According to the carving on the tower at the front of the building, it was built in 1885. I love old buildings because I like to walk through the halls and imagine all the people who did the same over the years. People were walking these halls before there were cars or airplanes, and they were walking the halls when the first person walked on the moon. The building was around when there were two world wars and has seen twenty-four presidents. Twenty-five if you count Grover Cleveland twice. When I am in the building, thinking about all of this history, the building starts to feel like an old friend, and as I imagine all of the people who have walked the halls before me, it starts to feel like we’re sharing secrets together.

The East Building is also a great place for exploring, especially in the summer, when it is mostly empty. Unlike the school building I go to now, which seems scary when empty, the East Building is welcoming. It is also the location of the Ellis Field branch of the public library. Because we are such a small town, the school library and the public library share a building, which is why the school is open in the summer.  Earlier this evening, I was leaving the school when the rain started.

I start to daydream about exploring the building and potentially finding my way to the tower. I think I’ve studied the building well enough to know how to get up there if the right doors are open. They never have been open in the past, but with the amount of time I will spend in the school in the summer, luck might be on my side one day.

“Samantha,” Mom says gently.

“I got lost in my thoughts. I’m planning to explore the East Building.”

She nods. This is not new or surprising information for her. “Just be careful. Don’t go anywhere you’re not supposed to be.”

“I can’t promise that I won’t go in the tower if the opportunity presents itself.” I admit, because I am painfully honest at times.

“Samantha…” Her voice is hollow and cautious, yet warm underneath.

“You wouldn’t go up there if you had the chance?”

“I’m just worried about your safety. But also, don’t get your hopes up. I heard Dr. Plume say the key to the tower has been lost for years.”

“What if I picked the lock?”

“Like you picked the lock on your band locker?”

She had a point. I had put a lock on my band locker because Josh Murphy and Jimmy Smith used my oboe case as a football, and I forgot the key one day in December and spent the whole period trying to pick the lock with a hairpin like I had read about in a mystery novel. It didn’t work and Mom had been home from work that day and found the key. She showed up at the end of the band period with it and I got a lecture about being more responsible. I will probably never become an expert lockpick, so I’ll have to find another way to the tower.

Plus, I am a rule follower, so the door would have to be unlocked. Still, I was not ready to give up on my dream yet.

“Just be careful. If you find a way up to the tower, make sure the stairs up there are safe and don’t get too close to the edge,” Mom tells me. “And remember that I would prefer you didn’t go up there at all.”

With that warning, she kissed my forehead and told me good night, turning off the light behind her. I was not ready to go to sleep since I was now excited about the possibility of exploring the school. I grab a flashlight from the end table drawer and read under the quilt for the next half hour, until I almost drop the book on my head as I fall asleep. Around me, the storm rumbles gently, the rain is soft yet constant on the roof above me, and the wind blows an aroma that is a mixture of storm and the lilac bushes that line my backyard. 

Go to Chapter 2