Little Secrets

Every day, after the librarian shuts off all of the lights and checks in every last book, a little boy creeps up to the door. Using his lockpicking skills taught by years of being a kid, he unlocks the big metal door, uncovering a janitor's garage. He quietly closes the door again and tiptoes his way over to the door leading to the hallway. Every bang and creak becomes a lion amongst mice as he approaches the door, carefully turning the handle. The hinges moan ever so slightly, and he slips through the door, not making a peep. The linoleum tiles emphasized his presence. But he had not one care in the world. All he wanted was to get to the library, to read, to become lost. A distant whir brought him back to reality. A security cart was approaching the corner! The boy dove out of the way into a bathroom just as the cart turned. It senselessly moved past him. He let out his breath in relief as he entered the vast library. Eagerly, the boy began to pick books off of the shelves, one by one.

The boy kicked up his feet onto a desk, pretending to smoke a cigar. He leaned back and read further into a detective story. All of a sudden, the boy stood up.

"Mr. Watson." he mouthed silently, deeply lost in his imagination. "What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting you." He sat on the desk, the same time as the detective.

"We have rather unfortunate news. Mrs. Laybell has been murdered!" the lamp-book hybrid said. The boy, under the guise of indifference, scoffed.

"And why do you think I need to take this case? There are other detectives here, you know."

"Well, sir, that just the thing. The killer's modus operandi matches with two other murders committed in the area!" The boy stopped. Darn! He had mispronounced modus operandi. His dear Mama never taught him how to spell, nor read. Only his schoolteacher, Mrs. Brayden, taught him how to. Every time he asked for help, Mrs. Brayden would be there to answer, unlike his mother, who unfortunately was quite illiterate.

"She's sorry," the boy thought. Obviously, Mama was trying her best, right? It was always "I'm sorry, Devon. I don't know what it says." The boy put down the book and picked up a new one, a certain Wonder. The boy in this book had autism, just like he! Immediately, Devon got lost in the book and his imagination.

"Just because I'm different doesn't mean I can't fight!" the boy pretend-shouted, making a variation on August's words. His hand fake punched a bully, scaring away the others. Devon flexed his biceps in victory as he planted a kiss on both of them. He had won today, in the battle of bullying. If only he could do it in his school, like Auggie and Jack Will! He would make his mother proud, and all of the kids would want to be his friend. Even Madeline! He blushed at the thought of her. His silly little crush on his classmate Maddy had lasted quite a long time, and he couldn't wait for the day to tell her. Having enough excitement for one book, he put Wonder back on the shelf. A clock struck two as the boy restlessly flipped through a new book. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Was it already time to go? He put back all of the scattered books onto the shelves and began to walk out. At the last second, he turned around and saw a computer. The login screen dimly lit the now pitch-black room. Intrigued, he shut the door once more and sat down. He had remembered the school's password for everything (Hugho Elementary 22), and the username was just his name. He typed in both and a word document popped up on the screen.

With a quick thought, Devon got an idea. How about instead of reading all of these great stories, why not make one? He pretended to crack his knuckles like a real writer and sat there. His first writer's block hit him like a wall. Bajillions of ideas raced through his brain and he just couldn't pick the right one! He shrunk back, defeated. But it was only for a moment. He looked down and his black skin was being illuminated by the white emptiness of the document. His hairs seemed to stand on end as he started typing away about a young black boy. Devon's knowledge of human society was good enough for him to at least describe racism. He knew that some people got shot for no good reason and Mama had always talked about how Dad got into a street fight with some white boys and got thrown into jail, sentenced to 2 years. And as his fingers typed away, the sun began to rise ever so slightly over the horizon. After noticing the time, he quickly saved the document and rushed out, not having a care in the world if anybody heard him.

And just before Mama woke up, Devon slid into his bed and fell asleep with the snap of a finger. He worked on that story until he was 10 (8 in this time period). When he printed it and showed it to Mama, she was, at first, enraged. She gave him a scolding about responsibility and carelessness. But, after she read it, her expression seemed unreadable. All she could mutter out was,

"Good lord, I've got to show Bryan."

She rushed to the jail and requested a package, containing Devon's story, be sent to her husband, Bryan Grayling. His father read it, and his thoughts turned to the days when he was young, carefree. Right before the segregation of America, when everyone was at some sort of peace. The last words of the story hit home for him the hardest.

"When the harsh times hit and racism occurs, fight with your soul. I love you, Dad. Don't let your race get in the way of your dreams."

-Devon Grayling

(Although it may seem that Devon Grayling is a real person, he isn't. Just a fragment of my imagination. Just thought I'd let you know.)