The early morning sunlight warms my face as my eyelashes flutter open. The sun porch is filled with the scent of lilac and the lingering smell of rain from the weekend and awash with green light from the trees lining my backyard. I stiffly sit up and swing my feet to the floor before stretching out on a yoga mat on the other side of the sun porch. This helps me to feel fully awake, and is the start to every day since preschool. My parents and I used to stretch each morning to start the day, and now when I don’t stretch, my day feels completely out of order. As I stretch, I think about my plans for the day, which center around exploring the school building before and after my lesson and trying to find Mary. As my muscles come alive, I am filled with the sense of ease that I only ever experience during the early summer, as I grow into the idea that my days are truly my own and I can read and explore as much as I want. Well, except for oboe practice, but that’s only an hour.

Whenever I wake up before Mom--which is almost every day in the summer because it is very easy to wake up naturally with the light--I make her coffee. Last Christmas, my parents splurged on a fancy coffee machine like they have in the coffee shops in the city, and I’ve been learning how to make different espresso drinks. I scoop some ice cream into a coffee mug and prepare a shot of espresso to pour over it for an affogato.

My timing is impeccable, and Mom walks into the kitchen right as I finish the drink.

“I like this one better than the con panna from yesterday,” she says, taking the first sip. As she drinks the coffee, I make myself a London Fog by steaming some milk with the coffee machine and adding it to Earl Grey tea--my love of coffee extends to the process involved in making it, but I don’t personally like the drink itself. Mom has started making two omelettes while she directs me to the money she left for pizza for dinner, as there is yet another board meeting tonight.

“I promise things will calm down when the new wing opens,” she sounds like she is reassuring herself and not me. I smile slightly, unsure what to say.

“So is today the day you scale the tower?” she asks. “Please don’t actually scale the tower,” she adds, more worried this time.

“I think the inside of the building will keep me occupied through at least mid-July.” Though I am not making a joke, she laughs like I am. “Plus I need to track down the key.”

We eat in silence for a while. 

After Mom leaves for work, I spend a few hours reading A Wrinkle in Time on the sun porch, but I keep getting distracted from Meg’s stormy night visitors remembering yesterday’s events. Why did Mary disappear? And why was it so easy for Mrs Naves to disbelieve me? The more I think about it, the more my stomach feels heavy and unsettled. 

At about an hour before my oboe lesson, I give up trying to read and walk to the school. The heavy grey clouds looming above me remind me to mind the forecasted rain and bring an umbrella.

Arriving at the seemingly empty school, I slip off quietly and take the front stairway despite the risk of getting scolded if I get caught. I walk extra slowly so the stairs don’t creak, and also because the stories of people falling are scary and may be true. Mary is not on or around the stairs, and there doesn’t appear to be any signs of her, either. On the top of the stairs, I let out the breath I’d been holding the whole time. 

The front second floor hallway has the same shiny wooden floors as the hallway below it. The hallway lights are off, but light streams in through the front and side windows. The classroom doors are all closed and appear to be empty. As I walk down the hallway my footsteps echo, no matter how soft I try to make my steps, and I cringe with each step. 

The end of the hallway slopes down steeply over the last ten feet of the wooden floor with the floor changing to marble at the bottom of the slope, marking the back half of the building. I pass the teacher’s lounge and the music room, and arrive at the library. Inside, Dr. Plume and Mr. Zaffre are looking through a big box of books.

“Who are the people who donate these books, and where do they find them?” Mr. Zaffre is saying as I walk in. Mr. Zaffre is the school librarian. He runs the library during the school days and Dr. Plume--as the public librarian--takes over outside of regular school hours, including the summer. The two of them are very good friends so it’s not unusual to find both of them in the library together, regardless of the time of day.

“I don’t know, Charles, it leaves the mind reeling,” replies Dr. Plume. She then notices me “Ah! Here is our Samantha! How are you today?”

Before I can answer, someone starts playing a trumpet in the music room next door. It’s not too loud, so it shouldn’t be too distracting. I smile at the librarians.

“I’m great! I think I’m going to break my record again this summer.”

“That’s what we want to hear!” Mr. Zaffre smiles. He is tall with reddish hair that is starting to go grey, with wire frame glasses. He wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches and a tie that matches the shirt he wears under it. Today, he’s wearing a dark purple paisley tie with a light purple shirt.

Dr. Plume is older than Mr. Z. Her hair is completely white and she pulls it up in a twist on top of her head, held with a tortoiseshell clip. She speaks with an accent that reminds me of the actresses in old movies, especially Mom’s favorite actress, Katharine Hepburn.

The trumpet player is now trying to play notes that are too high, and it sounds screechy as a result. We all cover our ears.

“I’m not looking forward to a summer of that,” Dr. Plume remarks.

“I have oboe lessons at noon,” I say, trying to apologize for any noise I might make. These librarians are the closest to friends I have when school is not in session, and my oboe lessons are going to be a daily annoyance for them.

“Don’t you worry at all,” Dr. Plume reassures me. “We saw you at the community concert, you are a wonderful oboist. Now,” she changes the subject, “Are those books you’ve read already? Would you like me to record them for summer reading?”

I hand her the bag and she opens up her summer reading file and finds my record sheet. “Charles,” she calls out “There is a pile of books with Samantha’s name on it over at the far study desk. Could you bring it here please?”

“Certainly, Helen.” He picks up a pile of books and walks across the room. “Is this some Shakespeare I see?”

“Yes, I think Samantha is ready for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I have thought long, and I have thought hard, and I believe that this is the only proper way to introduce a young lady to Shakespeare.”

She turns to me. “When you get to 9th grade, you will read Romeo and Juliet in your English class, which I always thought was a terrible introduction to Shakespeare. No offense to your father, I know he’s one of the people who made that decision. He also knows my opinion on this matter. But this,” she picks up the book as she says ‘this’, “is the best introduction to Shakespeare I can imagine. You’ve got magic, you’ve got fairies, practical jokes, mistaken identities… you will love it.”

After she finishes recording the finished books on my summer reading log, she checks out the new pile of books to me and puts them in my tote bag. I thank her, and then I take a seat at the study desk and read until it is time for my lesson. 

Go to Chapter 4