Miss Wagner was the kind of librarian who remembered not just your name, but what book you read last, what grade your brother was in and the color of your cat. She could identify any book ever written from the vaguest description. (“Umm. . . there’s a girl in it. . . I think she has blond hair. . . and there’s a pirate ship. . .”) And she had a way of listening when you talked that made it seem like the two of you were the only people on the planet.
When you were accepted to be a library helper, you chose the day you wanted to come in. And choosing “every day” wasn’t allowed. But there was something quietly magical about coming into the school library when everyone had gone home for the day. It was like a staging area for a hundred different little plays, waiting but not empty. Just being there made you a part of it.
I was too young to snicker at the mangy orange carpet or the chipped formica counter. I only saw the stuffed dragon presiding over the paperback corner and the bulletin board crammed full of book reviews written by kids. And there was Miss Wagner, surrounded by a crowd of eager library helpers, showing us how to shelve books, how to use the card catalog (the old-school one with honest-to-dog cards), and how to stamp due dates in those little boxes.
Mundane little tasks, true, but to fourth-grade me they were evidence of a world beyond the books themselves as artifacts, a way in which you could make a living surrounded by words and readers and stories.
I’d always loved visiting the library, but after three years as a library helper for Miss Wagner, the library became a place I belonged.
Kelly Jensen is a former librarian turned editor for Book Riot. She's the author of IT HAPPENS: A Guide to Contemporary Realistic Fiction for the YA Reader and the forthcoming Feminism For The Real World (Algonquin Young Readers, Spring 2017).