Free Under the Egg by Laura Marx Fitzgerald

mid-slalom. “Whoa! How long have you been standing there?” His voice did not suggest that we were in a library. “What can I do you for?”
    â€œWhat happened to Ms. Costello?”
    â€œWell, they say she retired, but if you ask me, I think she ran off with Vincenzo the janitor, because he quit the same day.” He winked. “Just a hypothesis, though.”
    â€œAre you . . . a librarian?”
    â€œSure am. I’m Eddie.” He reached out over the desk and shook our hands forcefully. “Freshly minted MLIS and at your service.”
    â€œNice tattoo.” Bodhi pointed to the baroque symbol on his wrist.
    â€œThanks!” Eddie’s volume dial seemed stuck at eleven. “That’s my band’s logo. We play thrash ska on Tuesday nights at the Snake Pit. It’s sick! You guys should come—wait, you aren’t twenty-one, are you?”
    We shook our heads.
    â€œNever mind. Anyway, what are you guys looking for today?”
    â€œWe’re doing a project,” I said.
    â€œFor school,” chimed in Bodhi.
    â€œYeah, summer school.” I pulled out my notebook. “We need to get books on—let’s see here . . .” I glanced at Eddie. “You ready?”
    Eddie smiled and positioned his hands at the computer terminal like a virtuoso. “Ready.”
    â€œOkay, we need books on the Italian Renaissance in general, probably the Northern Renaissance too—Flemish, German, Dutch . . .”
    â€œ. . . German, Dutch, got it . . .” Eddie’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
    â€œSpecifically books on Raphael, both biographies and monographs. Also books on art fakes and forgeries, stolen art . . .”
    Bodhi poked me. “Rubbing alcohol.”
    â€œOh yeah, something on, I guess, paint chemistry? Or how paint works? Or dries?”
    â€œ. . . Paint chemistry . . .” Eddie repeated and peered into the computer. “Okay. Are you ready for a Dewey decimal avalanche?” He hit print and unleashed a sheaf of paper our way.
    â€œAll righty! Take that, summer school!” Eddie got way more pleasure out of the online catalog than any librarian I’d ever seen. “You’ll need a shelving cart just to get that to the circulation desk!”
    â€œOh.” I’d almost forgotten. “But there’s one problem . . . It’s a book. A library book. I can’t find it anywhere—”
    â€œGimme your card,” interrupted Eddie.
    I placed my library card on the desk and watched him swipe and scroll. “It’s Franny and Zooey . I know I had it, but. I’ve looked and looked . . .”
    â€œWhoa, you’re one of our frequent fliers!” he observed, glancing through my record. “I should’ve guessed.”
    â€œYes, see, I’m here all the time. I’ve never had so much as a late fee—we can’t really afford late fees—but even if we could, I’m very diligent about—”
    Eddie jabbed the keyboard commandingly a few times and hit return. “Done. The New York Public Library system has absolved you of your sins.” He made some semi-magical signs in the air.
    â€œThat’s it?”
    â€œThat’s it.” Eddie winked again. “Just make sure these don’t go disappearing. Now, what’s next? Modern animatronics? History of the hot dog?”
    â€œNo, I think we’ve got everything.” I started to gather up the stack with its columns of call numbers. “So, you are sort of a research . . . specialist, right?”
    â€œYou got it. MLIS, Master’s of Library and Information Science—with an emphasis on information.”
    â€œDo you know anything about military records?”
    â€œNot much myself, but let me introduce you to my dear friend, Google.” Eddie was back at the keyboard again.