Lily Tyler

August sends another notice to jfoxx77@yahoo.com about an overdue book. This was the third time this month she had to send one to this person about an unreturned copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. Most people feel guilty and return the books right away after her gentle, yet firm request, but not jfoxx77@yahoo.com. She sighs and walks away to go shelve some books when the phone rings. She internally groans and picks up the phone, “Hello, Swallow Creek Public Library, this is August speaking. How may I help you?”.

After a small pause, the person on the other line replies, “Your name is August?”. “Yes… Now is there anything I can help you with?” August resists the urge to roll her eyes and taps her finger on the desk. “Um, yes actually. I keep getting sent emails about an overdue book, but I can’t return it. So if that could stop that would be greatly appreciated,” says the gruff low voice. August has no words. He can’t return it? What is that supposed to mean? She sits in silence until she hears the man clearing his throat through the phone. She stutters out, “You can’t return it?” 

“Yes, I can’t.” 

“I apologize for asking but why?” 

“Um I just… it’s very hard to explain. I’m sorry and thanks for all your help,” and the phone line goes dead. She holds the phone in her hand, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. Finally setting it down, she decides that it’s time for her break. August heads to the break room where her sister, Amelia, sits chewing on an apple and scrolling through her phone. She plops down in the seat next to her. “Whoa, what’s up with you,” Amelia comments. 

Eyes closed and head leaned back against the chair, August replies, “Sometimes I am completely baffled by the human race.”

“So am I, but what did they do to you today?” Amelia takes another bite of her apple and turns to August.

August sighs, “I’ll explain later, right now I need some coffee.” She reaches over and steals a sip out of Amelia’s cup.

“Hey! That’s mine! … Ugh, my break’s over. There’s your own coffee over on the counter so you can stop stealing mine.” Amelia says, taking her coffee back and heading out the break room door.

“Love you!” August yells to her sister and goes to grab her cup. Beginning to unpack her lunch, she thinks to herself, “This is going to be a long day.”

~

The door to the small diner swings open and in rushes August, frantically tying up her hair. Out of breath, she pants, “I’m sorry I’m late!”. Her boss and owner of Mel’s Place, Mel herself, shouts “It’s okay hon. Just clock in and take table 4.” August rushes around the counter and picks up an order pad. Taking a deep breath to recenter herself after the rush to get to her second job, she briskly walks over to table 4 and begins to recite her spiel, “Hi! Welcome to Mel’s Place! I’m August. What can I get started for you today?”. She glances up from her order pad and locks eyes with the very handsome man sitting at the table before her. 

“Did you say your name is August?” a slightly familiar low voice asks her.

That snapped her out of her trance. What is it with people and her name? Annoyed, she responds, “Yes, I said August. And yes, I know it’s a month, but it happens to also be my name. Now can I get you something?”

“I’ll just have a black coffee and a piece of the peach pie, both to go please,” the handsome, yet irksome stranger, who also happens to like the same pie she does, answers her.

“Coming right up!” August replies in the cheeriest voice she can muster. Walking back and placing the order in the order window, she thinks deeply. What was giving her serious deja vu vibes about this guy?

Leaning her back up against the counter, August asks Mel if she knows the guy at table 4. “Oh Jude? Of course I know him! He’s not here at his usual time though, must be running late today. He used to come in every Sunday since he was little with his grandmother until she started having memory problems last year and moved into Swallow Creek Ridge. Now he stops by at lunch to get her a piece of her favorite peach pie,” Mel finishes with a sad smile. “He’s grown into quite the peach himself!” Mel cheekily comments and goes back to serving customers.

Eyes filled with curiosity, August delivers the pie and coffee and is about to ask if she can get him anything else when she notices a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird sticking out of the top of his open messenger back on the booth next to him. The realization hits her hard, “It’s you, isn’t it? Mister ‘I can’t return the book’,” August prompts.

“I assumed there wasn’t more than one August living in Swallow Creek. Aren’t you supposed to be sending obnoxious emails at the library?” Jude challenges. 

August narrows her eyes at the man and crosses her arms, “some of us have to work two jobs instead of sitting around eating peach pie and purposely breaking common decency rules like refusing to return library books, if you must know.”

A small smile plays at Jude’s lips as he stands, gathers his things and tosses cash onto the table. “There’s a little extra in there, consider it a donation to the library. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go break some more common decency rules before the day is over.”

Watching him exit the diner, August is torn between appreciation for his nice blue eyes and anger at his arrogant treatment of her and the library. “August honey, can you grab Table 7?” Mel bellows from the bar, leaving August to push aside thoughts of this second odd encounter of the day until later. 

~

That night when she finally returns home to the tiny apartment she shares with Amelia, August plugs the name ‘Jude Foxx’ into the Google search bar. She finds an article from almost twenty years ago in the Swallow Creek Gazette about a terrible car accident off Highway 49 just outside of Swallow Creek claiming the life of Mary and Graham Foxx and leaving their 6 year old son Jude the sole survivor of the crash. The article mentions how devastated his maternal grandmother, Cora Winters, is over losing her daughter and son-in-law. Bells ring in August’s head. Where does she know that name from? Google doesn’t give her much information that helps. Just basic information about Cora Winters, apparently a long time resident of Swallow Creek. However, she does learn that after the accident, Jude went on to become a star baseball player in high school, went to Stanford on a scholarship, earned his PhD, and now owns a psychology practice dedicated to helping children cope with trauma. Heart melting a little at his story, August decides to attempt to reconcile with the gruff, selfish guy who refuses to return a library book. 

The following day during the slow mid-morning hours at the library, August asks Amelia if she knows the name “Cora Winters”. Popping her head up from the stacks of books she is organizing, the elderly library manager, Martha, says, “Oh that’s a name I haven’t heard in a very long time. You should know Cora Winters, dear. She used to volunteer here when you girls were little. She ran storytime every week and very kindly donated a large collection of books to us when she moved into Swallow Creek Ridge last year. Poor thing…dementia is such a sad thing to have to live with. Why are you asking about Cora?”

“Oh, well I was doing a little research and her name came up. I think her annoying grandson has one of our books and he refuses to return it,” August replies.

“Oh Jude was always such a sweet boy. He’s had a hard time of it. Cora raised him all by herself. Seeing her go through this must be eating him up inside. What book is it?” Martha asks.

“To Kill a Mockingbird.” August replies.

“Well, that was Cora’s favorite book. She said it taught you a lot about character. Let me see the record,” Martha requests. 

Pulling it up on the computer, August shows it to her. “Well, that’s his grandmother’s copy of the book. No wonder he doesn’t want to return it. Just don’t worry about it dear. Let him know he can keep that book,” Martha finishes. 

Feeling a little sheepish after learning more about the story, August agrees to drop the overdue book chase and get back to work on other tasks that need to be done. After several hours of organizing, shelving, and preschool program planning, August decides to take a walk during her lunch break to get some fresh air. She must subconsciously be thinking about the story Martha told her earlier because she finds herself strolling by Swallow Creek Ridge. Sitting on a bench under a tree off to the side of the large wrap-around porch, she spies Jude sitting with a tiny gray-haired lady who must be his grandmother, Cora. He is reading from To Kill a Mockingbird to her and she listens intently. Slowly, he closes the book and stands, beginning to help her to her feet. Not wanting to be seen, August glances around to find something to duck behind, but in her rush trips over her own two feet and drops her phone, making enough noise for Jude to look up and spot her. Face flushing, August quickly grabs her phone and hurries back toward the library. 

~

Strolling toward the diner later that afternoon, August is startled to see Jude standing outside the door. She fights the tiny butterflies beating their wings in her stomach. She isn’t sure what it is about his presence that makes her feel all jittery and tongue tied, but she is determined to not let him see that, so she holds her head up and starts walking past him when he calls, “Hey August, the girl, not the month, do you have a second?”

“Um, sure,” she says, anything but sure about why he’d be talking to her.

“So since now you’re apparently stalking me to get back the library book, I thought I’d make it clear in person that I’m not returning it. It was my grandmother’s and she kindly donated it along with a bunch of other books to the library when she had to move into Swallow Creek Ridge, but I really wish she hadn’t done that,” Jude glances down at his feet, shuffling them around, and continues, “She always loved books so much and now when I read to her, it’s one of the few times she remembers things…remembers me. So I’m not going to stop reading her favorite book to her,” he finishes firmly.

Speechless at first, August sighs, “Listen, I understand. You should keep the book. I didn’t know. I was just trying to do my job. And for the record, I’m not stalking you. I just happened to be out on a walk at lunch today and passed by Swallow Creek Ridge,” August states, trying to convince both herself and Jude. “Now if that’s all, I need to get to work before Mel fires me.”

Jude nods and steps aside. August heads inside, but can’t seem to focus on her customers that night. Her thoughts are all too consumed by her surprise interaction with Jude. When she gets home that night, she’s formulates an idea.

~

 August arrives early to the library the next morning. She’s knee deep in research when Amelia shows up. “Hey early bird! I didn’t even hear you leave this morning. What’s with the employee of the month act?” Amelia teases.

“Oh I’m just trying to find some old books that were donated. Remember that guy I was telling you about that wouldn’t return his book? Turns out there is more to the story than him just being a jerk,” August explains.

“Interesting! Tell me more!” Amelia exclaims with a clap.

“I will, just let me finish what I’m working on and talk to Martha first. Catch up to you later?” she asks.

“Of course. I’ve got to get ready for story time anyway,” says Amelia.

August works at the computer for another hour then hits the bookshelves, pulling book after book and putting them in a box. Determined she walks into Martha’s office and says, “Got a second?”.

After explaining her idea to Martha, who hugs her and tells her to take the rest of the afternoon off to carry out her plan, August leaves the library with her box in tow. She heads straight to Swallow Creek Ridge and asks at the information desk if she can leave something for Cora Winters. “We usually only allow family members to see patients in our memory care ward,” explains the lady working the information desk. Hurriedly, August explains the purpose of her visit and shows her what’s inside her box. Smiling broadly the lady says, “Well in that case, let me show you to her room.”

The attendant tells August the room number and she makes her way up the stairs to the room. Once reaching the door, she sets the box down on the welcome mat and places a little note on the top. She lifts her hand to knock on the door when a deep voice from behind her interrupts, “What are you doing here?”

Startled August turns around to see Jude’s deep blue eyes gazing at her intently. She stares back at him, trying to figure out what to say when he interjects again, “What’s in the box?”

“Just some books from the library that your grandmother donated all those years ago.” August says, eyes glued to her feet. Jude is silent in response. After another pause, August finds her voice again, “Well, I should be going. I hope she enjoys the books.” She hurries down the hallway and makes her way to the front walkway when she hears Jude calling her name. She pauses and turns around to wait for him.

“Why?” he asks.

“Well, I lost my grandfather a few years ago. He had Alzheimer’s. It was so hard watching him struggle to remember us. We would do anything to help bring his memories back. So I just thought if the books help your grandmother remember you, then she should have them,” August finishes with a small tear in her eye.

The pain and kindness behind his deep blue eyes is so evident to August in that moment that she knows she did the right thing. 

“Thank you August. Would you like to meet me at the diner later for a slice of peach pie?” Jude tentatively asks.

August has never been more sure of an answer before. “Yes!”

Christina Graham

Growing up in Wilmington Delaware I had one neighborhood friend. We should have gotten along well because we were just alike. But like everyone else, I didn’t understand her. She was tall and scary, but she embodied the elegance of no other. For a while I took her for granted, then I feared her, sometimes I felt embarrassed by her. She’d always been the most beautiful on the block, almost incomparable. Her biggest problem became the fact that she hung around two completely different crowds and never quite fit into either. I felt ashamed of her. No matter which crowd I hung around, she’d always be there and in the way. It took a 400 miles move for me to   realize she and I were just the same, touching two worlds but somehow not fitting into either. 

Delaware is the second smallest state in America. Wilmington, though, is the key point of the state. The small city has both the nicknames of “North America’s Versailles” and “Murder Town.” She sat between the two. She was my first house, and my one neighborhood friend. 

In one of her worlds, you’ll find beautiful flower gardens. 

In this world, even the president of the country is proud of her. 

In her other world if you’re a young person your risk of getting killed is higher than any other person dying from virtually anything else. 

902 stands tall between the two of these areas. 

At the age of 9-years-old, I finally realized her uniqueness. I joined my mom in the family room to watch television. On the news, a reporter stood in front of long neon caution tape and police cars. She stated in her intimidating broadcast tone that a boy had gotten killed there last night. It shocked me that someone would ever kill a young boy. I shook my head and returned to my Barbie Youtube videos, remembering why I never watched the news. The next day on my way home from school, with my dad, I sang songs with him on the radio. My obnoxious singing halted when I looked out the window at the familiar scene in front of me. Long neon tape and police cars. Here stood the place where someone killed the boy. And we were only a couple blocks from being home. I pondered this incident often.  I looked up at the ceilings of my friend as I drifted off that night; thinking of how terribly close she and I were to scenes of murder.  At times like these, I’d ask her questions like ”does death scare you too?”  She never answered me. Instead, the walls would close in comfortably, the lights would dim, and we’d fall asleep together; scared but at home.

Once I finally turned ten, I got a later bedtime. I was beyond excited to earn the power of staying up later so that I could watch an episode of Fresh Prince of Belair in the kitchen. Of course, I pushed the limits a bit too often. “Please let me finish one more episode! Uncle Phil was about to kick Will’s friend out!” I’d plead. The later I stayed up, the more things I heard outside. I heard the groans of drunk men stumbling out of corner stores. I heard obnoxiously loud parties down the block. I heard emergency vehicles wailing down the street so often, I just stopped acknowledging them. These things brought entertainment when the TV couldn’t. My mom and I would turn all the lights out and peek through the windows at the crazy man falling over the sidewalk.  I had fun until I started hearing gunshots. I had no idea how far or close they were but I heard them. I desperately wished I could move and live in neighborhoods like my friends when I heard these things. I hated the house. How could she be so beautiful in a place like this?! I wish you had feet so we could walk to another town! 

All these rattling things were behind her. Literally. On the backside of the house, the ghetto part of Wilmington roared proudly. But the front looked different. Ahead of her were beautiful churches, a children’s theater, a playground, and our award-winning garden with the pretty cherry blossom tree that my grandpa planted for me. My mom told me I should take pride in the front. And soon I did. I took pride in my award-winning garden. I took pride in the Adopt-A-Block sign on our street that said “Graham Family Block.” I took pride in the front when President Obama and Vice President Biden rode past my house in sleek black limos followed by U.S. Military tanks and secret service cars. I took even more pride when they held a memorial at my PreK.

In the second grade, excitement overwhelmed me when I finally introduced my school friends to her. We dressed in pretty, poofy dresses and drank tea in the big shiny dining room. Excitement overwhelmed me for the moment when my friends could meet my one neighborhood friend. They’d love her! How could they not? She was so pretty. Everything felt great until Samantha had just needed to run her big mouth. Her dad was a police officer, which meant he was all too familiar with my neighborhood. He said that they’d have to park blocks and blocks up the street so they’d avoid their car getting broken into. It didn’t matter that my house was touching the nice side of town anymore. All that mattered was that Samatha told everyone that if they parked on my street their car would get robbed! I wanted to say “No that’s not true! It only happens sometimes. And only at night. This is a day party. Besides, they’ll only steal your car radio. My dad can tell you. They stole his.” But instead, I stayed quiet and resented my beautiful friend for hanging around the wrong crowd. Why do you hang around thieves and embarrass me at my party!?

I spent a lot of time sitting in the window. Even though my mom told me I should take pride in my neighborhood, I wasn’t allowed to go outside. It was too dangerous. I watched the cars pass on the busy street. I watched people go in and out of the corner store at the end of the road. I watched sluggish old, drunk men stumble back and forth not knowing where they went. The front and elegant side were boring. But the back window was where the real fun happened. I’d discreetly prop the blinds open and watch the neighborhood kids play outside in our parking lot. They’d play kickball, sit on cars, laugh hard at jokes I couldn’t hear, chase stray cats, steal rocks from our garden, and best of all: they looked like me.  I couldn’t relate to Samatha the way I did to these kids. We looked alike. These kids wouldn’t ask strange questions about my skin (theirs were the same shades of dark brown). These kids would park on my street and I wouldn’t feel embarrassed, I’d feel proud. I begged my mom to let me play with them. She’d rub my shoulders and say “baby it’s not safe for you.” So I’d watch intensely through my window and envy those kids. 

I watched them so hard it was like I knew them. I never really met any of them but I knew them. I knew that Yasir was a ball hog. I knew that China liked whipping the beads in her hair. I knew that Mitchell had the worst shoes. I even knew that they’d all gotten in trouble one time for staying out past the time the street lights came on. I knew that Aniya hit one of my neighbors’ cars and broke the window. I knew she did it but I didn’t tell when they tried figuring it out. I didn’t tell them because I knew them; even though they had no idea that I existed. At least I had my one neighborhood friend. She couldn’t talk to them either. She didn’t talk at all, she couldn’t. Together we watched the kids and laughed at jokes we could never reply to. 

The one year of middle school I spent in Delaware was a train wreck. My beautiful house and I experienced a literal identity crisis. I made tons of friends at school, a Greek charter school with an insane amount of diversity. There were kids who lived in my neighborhood, on both sides of it. There were kids who lived in fancy parts of town in huge brick mansions. There were kids who lived in parts of town I’d never go through because they were far too dangerous. Everyone was there. And it felt great.  Best of all, now I was old enough to have real sleepovers!

My friends who lived like the backside of my house called me “rich girl.” They’d come over and look around at my house in awe. “Damn girl! I didn’t know there were houses like this up the street from my house” they’d say in amazement. I had grown in popularity with them because they all wanted to see my “rich girl house.” This should have been cool. But it seemed odd when Yasmine started calling me things like “white girl.” They’d say things like “Christina is an oreo. Black on the outside white on the inside.” Everyone loved that joke. I wanted to say “But you only live a couple of blocks away from me! I heard those gunshots last night too! I’m just like you guys.” I felt misunderstood. And my beautiful one neighborhood friend must have felt the same way. “Who are we?”

I made other friends though. These friends didn’t live in the city like me. They lived in real neighborhoods; the ones with pull-open mailboxes, one’s where I’d be able to play outside. I invited them over too. On two occasions my friend Makayla came over and we had a great time during the day. It wasn’t until night that I heard her crying on the phone in the bathroom. “Mom please pick me up. I can’t stay here. It’s too scary in this place at nightime.” I felt my heart sink, I was embarrassed. But I couldn’t blame her. Even I felt scared at home during the nighttime. Another time I invited my friend Cheyanne over. There is no story for how that went because her parents told her she wasn’t allowed to ever go to houses in my zip code. But should I take pride in this place? This place that made all my other friends judge me. 

That next year I moved 400 miles away to North Carolina. In the four years that I’ve been here, I haven’t once seen my one neighborhood friend.  I miss her like crazy some days, especially on days when I feel misunderstood. Despite being away from each other I know she’ll never have a friend like me. And I know I’ll never know anything like her again. She and I were just the same. We have this bright colorful splash of the backside of town. Ghetto, rectless, party going, and super loud. But we also have a polished and shiny splash of the front side of town. Professional, presidential, award-winning, and super loud. Having this mix of two very different worlds is exactly what makes us beautiful. For this, I’ll always remember my first house as my beautiful one neighborhood friend.