Library Staircase
by Abby Joiner
I belong at one hundred Villa Avenue, across from the high school, up the steps, through the doors, and into another world. As I enter the public library, the crisp scent of ink on paper calls out to me in whispered words. The gray and black librarian desk reminds me of all the times I checked out a stack of books and had to push them through the little slit at the bottom of the glass separator one by one. Turning to the right, I head towards the Children’s Section, where lit-up letters decorate the ceiling in messy bolded font. Tiny tables are scattered throughout the area, accompanied by even smaller chairs that I can no longer fit in. Strolling between the shelves, I retrace my footsteps from 6th grade, somewhere in the middle of the transition to young adulthood. My 11-year-old self, too afraid to stay in the dreaded Teen Room for more than a couple of seconds, used to grab a book from upstairs and run back to the Children’s Section. After all, the room was called the Teen Room and I wasn't a teen yet. But this would soon change.
The spring of 2020 was one I would never forget. It was the year my school transitioned to distance learning, friend hangouts came to an abrupt halt and, most importantly, the library closed. After a few weeks of seemingly endless waiting, the library opened again - but only for pick-ups. These were the days when I used to order a teen “grab bag” (a bag full of 10 random books) once a week. Soon all the librarians got to know my name, and I ate my way through lots of books. When the library opened again, for real this time, I was fully integrated into the Teen Room. The library had taken on the faint smell of hand sanitizer and cleaning wipes, which had slightly overpowered the smell of books. The scent still lingers today.
I set up the stairs, my feet landing on each new step with a tap. As I continue up the staircase, the shelves grow taller, the colors darker and more muted, and the desks become covered with confusing papers. When I reach the top, I navigate my way through a maze of bookshelves, my feet landing softly on the carpet. It's so quiet here, unlike downstairs where there’s always that one screaming baby or babbling toddler, accompanied by a shushing parent. I reach the Teen Room and push open the glass doors. I still don't feel completely welcome, but I’m not a kid anymore. And I'm not ready to become an adult just yet. But up here, the desks are more my size.