When I last saw you laughing.

I made a mistake coming here. I made a mistake in not keeping my focus.

It’s bad to let yourself be distracted. Deviate from your mission.

I can’t help myself.

I watch and listen with fascination at the scene unfolding before me. It’s shocking.

A display of such abominable proportions that I can’t close my eyes and turn away.

I can’t believe they allow this sort of thing in such a sacred place.

It’s disgusting. Something like this happening in a library. It’s almost unbelievable.

“And they all lived happily after.” said the voice of the story-teller as the little children gathered in a swarm at her feet started to applaud with joy at the ending. They’d been enthralled for the past thirty minutes, rapt with attention, focused on the words of the story, and looking at the pictures from the book as she held them up.

Such a horrible person.

Lying to children. Telling them about happy-endings.

Not preparing them for the cold hard realities of life.

The monsters. I should do something. I should save them.

I should stand up and tell the kids the truth, that no woman spends her days in a house with seven hard-working guys and only does the cooking and cleaning.

I should tell them that no handsome prince comes riding up on his white stallion to sweep you away.

I should tell them that the huntsman isn't interested in saving anyone from the wolf, he's just another kind of predator.

I should warn them.

I can’t. I can’t even tell them about the reality of working in a mine, the hard drudgery of it, the way it leeches away the health of the workers, the dangers, the exploitation, the consequences.

It’s not a bunch of singing. It’s a hushed oppressive silence that eats away at you.

I chew my lip, feeling the silver ring going through it, keeping the words I want to shout inside, hidden, restrained.

I dare not speak the truth. They can’t handle the truth.

I turn my focus away, back to the paper I’m supposed to be writing, the little blue lines holding the words in place, the black ink contrasting against the whiteness of the sheet.

I’m telling a story myself, words painting a picture for the mind.

So you want to know what I did last summer, whether this is to settle your insatiable curiosity or because you can’t think of a more interesting assignment than this hackneyed approach to pretending you have any concern for the lives of your students outside your classroom, I can’t say I know yet. Perhaps I will learn. Learn more than I want to know. Or it could be you who cries out in lamentation.

I scratch that out. It’s not a good way to start.

My summer of fun by Morgan Weathers. I had a lot of good fun this summer, the early part with all my friends, it was great doing things together with them. For the last time, ever. It will never be the same again, not now.

More scratches. I can’t go with that. It’s too ominous.

Summer was a season I’ll never forget unless I should happen to suffer some traumatic brain injury which would be a blessing to me because then I would not remember it.

And another sheet ruined. I take it and crush it in my hand, adding to the balls already crowding the table. I pull out another piece of paper. I know what I have to do.

I need to keep myself from telling the truth. I need to commit to a lie. Any lie. Just one. One tiny lie, and make the reality bend to that deception.

I don’t want to do it.

“Do you need any help?” says a voice at my shoulder.

I turn, surprised somebody would come to me with that offer.

Dressed in a pleated skirt and brightly colored vest, brown hair tied in a braid. It’s the junior assistant librarian in training who was entertaining the children earlier.

With lies. Liar. Fraud.

“I’m just having a little trouble starting with my homework, the teacher, well, you know how they think it’s a good idea for us to write about our summers to start the year off.”

“Oh, you don’t like it? I always like writing about my summers.” she cooed, “I almost wish I could live them all over again.”

She’s beaming so much she doesn’t notice my shudder.

“Who do you have? Freshman, right? Is it Cartwright?”

I nod, her voice is so bubbly, I wish I could bottle it up.

“I liked her, I think I learned a lot, though maybe Newton might have been better, but she retired now so I guess you don’t have to worry. Not that I’m saying the new teacher is bad, but I don’t know him at all.”

She stops and smiles.

“He is very handsome though, isn’t he? I almost wish I had signed up for Yearbook this year, but I had to drop an elective to double on science. I suppose it’s more useful. For college.”

She pauses after a moment.

“Enough about me, are you taking Yearbook? I thought I saw you coming out of the classroom, you’re easy to recognize. Very, ” she searches for a word, before finishing with the simple truth of “unique.”

“No, I, well, I’m new here, I just moved, so I figured I would pick up a copy of last year’s, so I could, well, learn who everybody was. Or had been. Just to see. He let me borrow one.”

“Well, isn’t that clever of you. But you really should try to get out and know people more socially. Hey, would you like to come to a party? I know some people who won’t mind meeting a stranger.”

“I don’t know, I’m still kinda adjusting, I’m not sure.” I reply with just a touch of nervousness, “I wouldn’t know hardly anyone.”

“Don’t worry about it, that’s the whole point of a party, getting out, be friendly and you’ll be fine.”

She takes a scrap of paper, and writes down a number.

“Look, you just give me a call, if you change your mind.” she says before leaving.

I look at it, the numbers are different, they change all the time, but written just like always, even the spot of ink, and I know what’s going to happen when I go.

It won’t be the same. I don’t want it to be the same. Not again. Never again.

I’ll take care of the problem here. This time.