5
Jon rounded the corner past Maisie’s and ran down the street, heading in the general direction of his school. He didn’t want to go there, but he didn’t know where else to go. He needed somewhere quiet, where he could be alone. Where he could think without having to hear everyone else think. He needed to figure out what his grandmother had meant. And he needed to know why they’d told him the Big Lie…and why the whole town seemed to be in on it.
Ahead of him, at the base of the library steps, his first-grade teacher, Mrs. Ross, stood and chatted amicably with an older man Jon hadn’t met before. He stopped, frowning, as their thoughts jumped into his head.
<<Kirk just doesn’t get it. We don’t have enough money to fund anything next year, least of all a pay increase for teachers. The mayor really needs to prioritize and figure things out. Or else…>>
<<When will she stop talking? I’ve got things to do.>> Annoyance. Hidden behind a fake smile.
Jon’s frown turned into a scowl. Why didn’t people just tell the truth and say what they meant? He closed his eyes for a moment, trying his best to concentrate, and blocked out their mishmash of thoughts. It somehow worked, and everything went quiet again. When he opened his eyes, the two had started moving off down the street, still chatting with their fake smiles and false words.
He shook his head and then glanced at the library. Maybe…it would be quiet in there. Maybe. And then, maybe…
Jon broke into a jog, took the steps two at a time, and pulled open the door.
It was indeed quiet. He saw only one other person, and that was the librarian, Mrs. Meeks. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she saw Jon, and she smiled genuinely at him. He felt a wave of pride and joy, but also a tinge of concern.
“Jon, what brings you in today? Don’t you usually go to Maisie’s with your grandparents on Saturdays?” she asked kindly. And thankfully, he heard nothing of her inner thoughts.
He swallowed hard and nodded.
“Y-yes. Usually. But, um…I needed to…look something up, and so I came here. They are probably on their way, I think,” he fumbled. It was all true. Sort of.
Mrs. Meeks just smiled at him again and nodded politely. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know…” Her voice trailed off as her smile faded a tiny bit. “Your mother doesn’t like you using the computers unsupervised.”
“Oh, I know. I was going to find some old newspapers, actually. I…remember she said…she wrote something for the
Smallville Press a while ago. I wanted to read it,” he said. And he mentally kicked himself. He did want to read his mom’s story. But not right now. So that was only a half lie, right?
And with his hesitation and uncertainty, he lost his concentration. And he heard it again.
<<Poor boy.>> The two words that had started all of this yesterday. Followed quickly by a slew of other words, not all of which made sense.
<<Supported it at first, but now… He’s eight years old. Probably never going to happen. They should be honest with him. I should talk to Martha. Hurting all of us to have to see this.>>He shook his head and turned toward the back of the library, where he knew the newspapers were kept. “I’m just going to go…to look up that article.”
“Wait, Jon. Can I…show you something?” Mrs. Meeks stood from her desk and moved toward him with another of her gentle smiles.
<<Kiddo should know his father. At least a bit.>>Tears sprang to his eyes, but he managed to hold them back.
“O-okay,” he agreed, and he followed as the older librarian led the way down the wide middle aisle, toward where Jon had been planning to go anyways.
He felt an emotion he couldn’t quite identify—some sort of sadness but mixed with hope and joy maybe—as Mrs. Meeks began to speak in a quiet voice.
“When your father was about your age, he used to come here after school almost every day,” she started. They turned at the end of the aisle. “He would grab a book and sit here, all the way in the corner.”
She stopped then and knelt down next to Jon.
“He would sit here and read and read and read. And when he’d finish one book, he’d grab another. Almost every single day until he was in high school. Then your grandpa needed his help at the farm, and he couldn’t come in quite as often.” She paused then, and he felt another wave of emotion. An image of a young boy—again, looking startlingly like him—popped into his head, and he heard Mrs. Meeks laugh softly. “I think he read nearly every book in this place. Anyways, when he was in high school, the library had some funding problems. We needed more money for renovations and such. And your dad…”
<<Gosh, what a kid. I miss him. Wish things had turned out differently.>> “…your dad wrote an article for the school newspaper. It ended up getting picked up by the
Wichita Post and reprinted by the
Kansas City Star. And that article helped to bring in more than twice the money we needed to keep this place up and running and make the repairs and… He was a wonderful man, your father. I just…thought you should hear that.”
She stepped away from Jon then and toward the back wall, where a framed article was mounted. Carefully lifting the frame, she smiled again and then handed it to him.
“I know this isn’t what you came in here for today, but maybe you should read it,” she said. And with a final nod, accompanied by a wave of gratitude and sadness, she added, “If you need help finding anything, I’ll be at my desk. Remember we close at three today, so you’ve got…about two hours.”
Then, she was gone, and he was left alone, holding a framed article his father had written twenty-five years ago. He sunk down into the chair in the corner, where his dad apparently used to sit and read for hours. And as he stared at the picture accompanying the article—a picture he’d seen on the wall in the hallway at home of a young Clark Kent, grinning, his eyes bright and hopeful behind his glasses—Jon heard a voice again.
The voice.
His father.
<<Who is this? And how are you contacting me?>>
