Free The Borrower by Rebecca Makkai Page B

sandwich. He asked him about it and they talked, but before long the plane crashed, leaving them all lost in the Sahara, et cetera, et cetera, until everyone found Jesus or died. But I hadn’t actually thought those books were
good
. How could Ian, the child who’d read
The Wind in the Willows
seven times, fall for it?
    “Anyway, it was pretty cool because I got to have friends from church come to my open house after, and that’s all I get this year because I’m too old for a birthday party.”
    His birthday was in April, I knew from his computer account. “What, eleven? That’s not too old at all,” I said. “Is no one in your grade having a party this year?”
    He sighed, peeled back the cellophane, and rearranged the cookies to fill the gap from the one I’d taken. “It’s not exactly that. It’s more that, okay, last year? I had my party and all the people I wanted to invite were girls, and we had this very fantastic party that was mostly just a treasure hunt outside. But my dad said this year it has to be either all boys or exactly half and half. And no one even does a half and half party anymore. Everyone does a sleepover, and I just really don’t want to. So my dad said I can’t have a party at all, and then I said okay, could I have my friends from this religion class thing instead, and he said definitely not, but I don’t even get why. So then he said I was too old for birthdays anyway, and I should just save up my allowance and buy myself something.”
    Ian seemed sad—devastated, really—but I got the impression the wound wasn’t fresh. His birthday was still four months away, but he’d already been stewing on this one awhile. I had tried, all along, to be noncommittal, the neutral and friendly librarian—kind of like the therapist who just sits and nods. But in this case, I couldn’t help taking sides. I said, “Ian, that really doesn’t sound fair. I don’t think that’s fair at all.”
    He smiled at me, looked over his shoulder to make sure Sonya wasn’t coming down the stairs, and helped himself to an Ireland cookie. I took a second myself, although the first was still mostly lodged in my throat.
    What I needed right then was the perfect novel to put in his hands, the one that would fly him fifty thousand miles away from his mother and Pastor Bob Lawson and Hannibal, Missouri. Instead I said, “These cookies are fantastic.”

11

Pumpkin Head

    I found Tim the artistic director leaning against the wall outside his apartment, his eyes wet and happy. I was back early from Glenn’s, having made an excuse about work in the morning.
    “Lucy the librarian!” He kissed me on the cheek. “I’m completely drunk! We’re having a State of the Union party! I’m getting the costumes! Come help me!” He sat on the floor to tie his shoe. Inside his apartment people were laughing, and it sounded like plates were breaking.
    “Tim, here’s a question for you,” I said as we headed down to the costume shop.
    Tim unlocked the door and pulled the chain on the overhead lightbulb. This was the room where I came to do my laundry and had once shrieked at what I thought was an animal on the table but turned out to be a wig. It was a carefully organized space, with rows of labeled plastic bins: “Sparklies,” “Hats,” “Military,” “Tights,” “Women’s Shoes, 7–9,” “Elastics.” The walls were decorated with old show posters and an enormous buck’s head with a straw hat hanging off one antler.
    “Yes!” he shouted. “A question! Ask!” He pulled a cardboard box from under the table in the middle of the room and started pawing through it.
    “Okay,” I said. “What books would you suggest for a ten-year-old boy who needs some indirect support on some sexuality issues he might or might not have?”
    “Oh.” He picked a red bathrobe out of the box and tossed it across the ancient avocado green sewing machine in the corner. “There’s tons of good stuff out there now, but