On the Basis of Names

L. Thomas. Now, who was this guy? Every book I’d checked out from the library had their name in it. Wuthering Heights, Heart of Darkness and hell, I bet if I found the Junie B. Jones books, even those would have their name on the checkout slip. But I had never heard; nor seen their name anywhere else. I’d checked the yearbooks all the way to nineteen-ninety two. Nada, zilch. Nothing. No Leah, no Lester, no Leeroy. Well, there was a Leeroy, but from what Miss Claron said, he’d up and gone to Mississippi before his freshman year started, and his last name was Turner, so I was fresh out of luck there, too.

If it wasn’t for me having a gap period in-between lunch and Math, and Miss Claron having some type of contempt for me, I couldn’t care less. But she’s the one who had barged into my study hall, told old man Kessler she needed some fresh hands who “got a keen eye for organization” then looked at me. She must’ve thought the folder packed with a textbook’s amount of paper wasn’t mine. ‘Cause she’d made her mind up then and there that I was the “right fella for the job.” Told me to grab my things and follow her to the library. That’s when all the madness started. 

Every day, there it was, another book checked out by L. Thomas, stuffed at the bottom of the turn-in bin. 

“Maybe it’s a pseudonym.” Miss Claron said as she slammed a stack of books onto the giant desk in the middle of the shelves. 

“Pseudo-what?” I scanned each barcode of the books and punched in RETURNED on the keyboard.

“Pseudonym. A fake name for when you don’t want to use your real name.” She snickered at me as she sat in her chair, punching her login into the computer. She was a real enigma, dressed in suit jackets, sometimes with ties, but had the weirdest of demeanors. 

“Like how Bruce Wayne uses Batman?” I asked.

“That’s more of an alias, but I think you get the idea.” 

“Why would someone want to do that, at a school library, of all places?” I threw my hands to my side, knocking over the tower of books onto the floor. I held back a couple curse words and let out a

“Well, damn,” Before I scrambled to pick them all up, Miss Claron laughed. 

“Maybe we’ve got a ghost situation on our hands.” I’d placed the books back onto the desk, out of order now and I don’t remember the last one I touched so now I’m gonna have to scan them all again. Great. 

“A Ghost? What kind of ghost goes and checks out Wuthering Heights? They tryna understand how to communicate with us?” I asked. 

“They may just have a lot of time on their hands, they are a ghost of course. Can’t be haunting people all day.” Like I said, a real enigma. 

“Well they’ve been haunting me for the past three weeks and I’ve not even seen ‘em.” Did I already scan this, I opened the spine of Huckleberry Finn and flipped to the front, and there it was again, about five names down: L. Thomas, no return date, no checkout date. “I already scan this one Miss Claron?” I waved the book as she spun around in her swivel chair, pushed up her glasses and replied:

“You know, I’m not really sure.” She giggled as she spun back around and continued tapping away on her keyboard, answering emails and sending out overdue notices to students if I had to guess. 

“Guess I’ll just scan them all again.” I grabbed another book, a dilapidated copy of A Tale of Two Cities and continued scanning. “Say, Miss Claron. You ever met someone who used a pseudonym?” 

“Well...” She leaned back in her chair, her curly black hair jambling around like snakes let out by their handler. “I used to use a pseudonym back when I was in school, probably around your age.” 

“And that was a long, long time ago, I reckon.” I jested.

“Oh yes, the bus used to just be a horse and cart. Took us hours to get to school then.” She countered. We both giggled. “Just a time in my life where I didn’t really like my name, or who I was, really.” 

“Why didn’t you?” I asked, Maybe I shouldn’t have. 

“Didn’t really feel like my name was meant for me, or that it meant me. You know what I mean?” 

“I mean I guess. I’m not sure. I hate my name. Kelly.” My voice quivered as I said it. It was such a girl’s name, and everyone around me always bashed on it so I guess I ended up hating it too.

“Do you hate your name because you hate it, or do you hate your name because everyone around you tells you it's not a good one?” She leaned forward into her seat and turned back around, pushing up her glasses as she scooted towards me. 

“I mean. I never really put much stock into it, I guess. People used to make fun of me for it. Still do… sometimes.” 

“Don’t hate your name because everyone around doesn’t like it. I bet it means an awful lot to your parents if they named you it.” 

“Maybe, I don’t know.” I slouched into my chair, waiting for the tower of books behind me to crash onto my head so I’d wake up in the nurses room with a thing of apple juice next to me.  “What name felt better on you, back when you were in school?” 

“Skyla.” She said, emphasizing the A as her face coiled from a slight frown to smile.

“Ain’t your real name Skyler though?” I tilted my chin up, then back down. “Sorry, I don’t know if I should say that.” I rubbed my eyes. 

“No, no. You’re fine. It is. Skyler just didn’t feel right then. Didn’t feel me.”

“So what, you just drop two letters and add an A and you felt better?” 

“It’s a bit more than that. But yeah. I guess so.” 

“You think our L. Thomas is doing something like that. Maybe they don’t like their name? Maybe it doesn’t sit right with them?” 

“Maybe.” Miss Claron closed the conversation and intensely stroked away at her keys. 

I scanned three more books until I came across a copy of The Key to the Golden Firebird, and with it, L. Thomas’ name again, scribbled some five lines down. But this time, they wrote their first name too. Lina. Finally, I sat upright in my chair and hovered my mouse towards the student database portion of the library software. I tapped each key slowly, first the L, then the I, the N, and finally the A, followed by Thomas. I pressed the enter key. Nothing, no results. I highlighted Lina and deleted it, then pushed enter again. A single name popped up. Andrew Thomas. The bell rang. 

Miss Claron had said each book told its own type of story, not with the words in them, but how it was treated. Some of their covers were ripped or dipped in something that soiled ‘em. While others you could barely call a book, their spines exposed and their pages torn, seams bent, like someone decided to do everything but read it. They all read the same though. If every page was still there, it’ll keep telling its story 'til its spine gave out. That was the book's job, looking pretty and kempt was secondary. 

I never told Miss Claron that I found out who our ghost was, but maybe she already knew.