“What do you mean, my son shouldn’t read A Clockwork Orange?!” screamed the soccer mom, her long manicured nails tapping on the library desk. Her eight-year-old son stood a little ways away, browsing the sports books.
“It’s just not age-appropriate, ma’am.”
“I’ll have you know my son is damned smart and he can read whatever he wants.”
“Ma’am. About half of this book is about rape, and the other half is about murder,” I said, losing patience.
“WHAT?” she shrieked, throwing the book down on the counter in disgust. “Why on EARTH would the school recommend such filth?! And why do you offer it here? Really, I expect more from a public institution like this!”
So, like I said. That first day was exceptionally long and brutal. The days after weren’t much better.
There were a few… odd instructions that my mom had given me before sending me on my doomed mission. They were so strange, in fact, that I asked the hospital if they’d checked my mom for a concussion, because she was obviously talking nonsense. She had to be.
“Every night after you lock up, go down to the library basement. Make sure to take along a book of your choice – it can be anything. Then, you’ll need to sit down there and read aloud for at least half an hour.”
I blinked as I stared at my mom, giving me a stern look from her hospital bed. “Um… am I supposed to record this, or…?”
“No, don’t worry about that. Just go down there and read.”
“Mom, there’s nothing down there.” It was true, the basement was a decrepit dust-fest, complete with a bare concrete floor and rows of useless crap that had never been thrown away for some odd reason or another.
“It doesn’t matter if there is or isn’t anything down there. You just do as I said. Understand?”