Page 2 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

When I pull into a spot in the school’s faculty parking lot that by afternoon will be in the shade of a maple whose colors are just starting to change, it’s 7:48. Just three minutes past my goal arrival time. See? I can be running super late and still almost be on time. I am a pro at racing the clock in order to outrun the consequences of my own actions. Probably from all the experience I have.

When I get to the media center inside the school, I unlock its doors, flip on the lights, and turn on the row of computers as I head to the circulation area to set my stuff down. Then, I do what I do every morning—I head to the stacks, close my eyes, and put my arms out, soaking in the feeling of being in a completely organized space. I breathe slowly, taking it all in, feeling it deeply in my bones. I crave this kind of organization in all parts of my life. I just can’t seem to pull it off.

I also take a moment to revel in having a job where I get to be surrounded by books and kids at the age where they’re still figuring out who they are, all while pretending as if they’ve got it all figured out.

Of course, the media center isn’t only about well-ordered books, supplies, and technology. My job also includes teaching library lessons, helping students with research projects, troubleshooting Chromebooks, making displays, processing new books and weeding old ones, meeting with teachers, helping students find books, running book clubs, and about a million other little things. I’ve been standing here for probably a minute, and already I’ve thought of three things that need to be added to my to-do list.

I go over to the U-shaped checkout space, pull out yesterday’s one-third finished to-do list, and write down two of them before forgetting what the third one was. I’m sure it’ll come to me again.

If there’s one thing I almost always am, it’s an optimist. So, every morning, I wake up assuming that I gained some kind of superpowers during the night that will allow me to get more things done on my list than history has shown I could ever accomplish in a day. And yes, today is the day that I’m going to absolutely slay this list.

In fact, I’m feeling so confident that I snap a picture of it and send it with a text to Miles.

Reese: Want to be my accountability partner?

Miles: No, but I will be your wish list dreaming partner.

Reese: This is not just a wish list! And it is going to be completely crossed off by the end of my workday.

Miles: Ahh. I see you started off the day with superpowers again.

Reese: Yep. I think it was finding out bees really do recognize human faces that did it.

Miles: So, I helped bring on the superpowers. Nice. This is why I have Best Friend status, isn’t it?

Reese: I don’t know. Best Friends offer to be accountability partners.

Miles: Well, I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my standing, so consider me your partner in accountability.

I tuck my phone into my pocket as my assistant, Marjorie, walks in. She’s got silver hair cut in a perpetually neat bob and reading glasses that hang from a beaded chain. She spent thirty-eight years as a librarian here before retiring. Then she got bored and came back, which I consider a win. I got the job I always wanted, and I still get her expertise and memory (and dry sense of humor).

“Good morning,” she says as she heads into the circulation area and sets her floral lunch bag and travel mug on one of the shelves below the counter.

Seeing it reminds me. “Oh, my lunch bag! I left it in my car again!”

Wordlessly, Marjorie points at my lunch bag, which is still sitting on the counter, right where I left it, along with my water bottle and keys.

“Oh, yeah. Points to me for getting it into the building.”

“A bold first step.”

A student walks in. Then another. Then seven more.

For the next twenty minutes before school starts, kids are reading, doing homework, talking with friends, and asking for help. I’ve got five kids around me saying, “Miss Wilder?” at any given moment, and I’m helping them all nearly simultaneously. Marjorie has another three around her. This place is a hive of activity, and I get to be the Queen Bee.

Some kids come for books. Some come for Chromebook chargers. Some come because the cafeteria before school is basically a human blender. And some, like Anna, come because they want someone to be happy to see them.

I am always happy to see them.

And I really like Anna. Actually, I really like all of them. They’re old enough to have opinions about world events, yet still young enough to believe armpit noises improve almost any situation.

When Anna comes up to me to say hi, her gaze flicks up to my eyebrows. Then away. Then back again.

Oh no. My eyebrows have become all she can focus on. Why didn’t I think to at least look at them in my car visor mirror on my way here?

“Miss Wilder?” she says carefully.

“Yes?”