Rated

I sat nestled in my favorite spot in the Wildwood Grove Library, a warm cup of peppermint tea sitting in my hand. The steam fogged up my round rose-gold glasses which were resting on the tip of my nose. My gray cat, Chesterfield, slept coiled under my book. It was a peaceful moment indeed. The smells of tea and freshly printed books, the sound of pages turning, and the feeling of warmth and safety in this cold, cold winter. 

Before I knew it I was the last person in the library besides Ms. Talbot. I looked up from my book, Anne of Green Gables, and saw snow coming down outside. I quietly resumed my book when Ms. Talbot said to me,

“Well my bookworm friend, I’m afraid it’s closing time.” I looked up at the clock. Six-o-one already. Miss Carneil would want me back anyway.

“Thanks.” I mumbled as I gathered my book and cat and slipped them into my backpack.

“Anytime, sweetheart. You have a good one," she said with a smile. And just like that I was putting on my snug purple hat and zipping up my puffy coat, stepping outside into the brittle cold. 

The sun was setting, creating a beautiful hue of sunlight filtering through the trees, like water through a colander. As soon as I set foot in the Chinese Grill property, I knew there was trouble. I hoisted myself up onto the dumpster, climbed the ladder that led to the roof, sliding through the sun window. I fell into my home, a small space above the restaurant, and what I called "the loft." Miss Carneil, the chef, had her own little apartment a couple blocks away. She spent the day here cooking, but at night after I fell asleep, I would be alone.

I could smell the Chinese food simmering in sesame oil downstairs as I unpacked my backpack onto my mantle.

The loft was small but big enough for me and my cat. There was a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, and a shower, which was old but still usable. I had a cot with my lemon fuzzy blanket I got for my twelfth birthday, and a small mantle with a lamp, books, my favorite teas, and cat food. 

Downstairs Miss Carneil had made me my own tea corner, with a  blue kettle she had painted lemons on and a small stove. There was also a shelf with sugar and cream, because sometimes Miss Carneil would have me make her tea as well. 

I rearranged some of my decorations on my mantle before getting called down for dinner. I added a picture to my Instax wall where pictures of my old friends, my cat, pretty sights, and my parents were hung. Today I snapped a picture of the snow just before leaving the library. 

“Lem! Come get your food!” I sighed and clambered down the old ladder to meet my guardian downstairs. 

“Honey, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

“Mm-hm?” I said with a mouthful. Miss Carneil was playing with her food anxiously.

“So, unfortunately this restaurant is the lowest rated in town." "Well, I already knew that." I thought. “And nobody really comes so, so- well, a critic is coming tomorrow to see if I should shut it down or not.”

I dropped my fork.

Well, I didn’t know that. I thought as I bent over to pick up my fork off the ground.

“But, don’t worry. I think, well, I might be able to find a job in the city nearby. If all else fails I can just work at the other,” she said bitterly, “Chinese restaurant in the marketplace,” she paused, “or just any other shop in the marketplace.” She finished with a shrug.

I had lost my appetite after that, so I cleared my plate and went to the attic with my cat trailing behind me. 

I heard Miss Carneil on the phone trying to get interviews as I showered, and every time, I heard her end with a solemn "goodbye" and small weeps. 

I went downstairs again to say goodnight and get some warm milk.

“‘Night, Miss Carneil,” I said and planted a kiss on her teary cheeks.

“‘Night sweetie," she half-smiled. 

I crept into bed and opened the battered journal my mom had used to record her favorite moments. I flipped to my favorite page, the one where she wrote about her last successful climb before her fall. 

Crisp air whips around my rosy cheeks.

 I feel the pressure decrease as my tired legs climb to the top.

I can see my warm breath floating in the air, slowly disappearing like a candle’s sting of smoke.

Almost there.

My little voice says, pleading, a hope for rest.

Snow falls harder, a layer of white covering all the eyes can see.

My vision blurs.

Almost there.

The voice is crying out, begging now.

I can almost smell the victory as I reach the top,

I can hear the whipping of the wind,

Like a mixer brewing up a recipe for disaster.

Hurry!

The voice calls.

My brain knows something is bound to happen.

My feet may fail, but I keep trying.

A headache slowly staggers in

My eyes try to flutter closed,

But I will not give up.

I’m so close,

So,

So,

close.

And then,

I see it.

I’ve reached the top.

It’s beautiful.

I breathe deep.

The snow is falling lightly now,

And I see blanketed caps of mountain, 

Three of them to be exact.

Sticky flakes, falling to the ground

Dancing until they clump together,

Weaving a blanket of white. 

I feel better now,

Knowing the earth holds so much promise,

Promise of the sun always coming out,

Or maybe the snow always falling

Covering all the eyes can see. 

I dig through my mantle’s top drawer to find a pen. I write at the top of the poem,

"All the Eyes can See. -Aspen Anderson 1969-2008"

“Wow.” I mutter. It had only been five years since she died. I had been eight when she passed, and I was thirteen now. My cat was already snoozing beside me, so I put my pen and mother’s journal down and clicked off the light.

“‘Night, Chesterfield,” I whispered into the darkness, feeling his steady breath beat against my chest slowly. I closed my eyes, trying to sync my breath with his, knowing that the road ahead was going to be long and bumpy, but worth it in the end. 

       *****

The next day, I found myself in the marketplace, shopping for Miss Carneil. I checked the grocery list again. Miss Carneil’s sprawling handwriting was a little bit hard for me to read, so I squinted.

• Eggs
• Fresh milk
• Flour
• Japonica Rice
• Soy Sauce

Where on earth would I find Japonica rice in a supermarket? I squinted harder, as if that would help when a couple girls came snickering by.

“What a nerd,” one said with a smirk.

“I know! I think she’s the orphan of that rip-off Chinese restaurant.” I try not to stamp my foot. Our restaurant was there even BEFORE ‘Chops and Hops’ came along. They snicker again. “Bet she can’t even read; she is so dumb. Bet she doesn’t know a thing.”

“Actually, I do know a thing or two. ‘Bet ya didn’t know every second five people get stung by jellyfish. ‘Bet ya didn’t know dolphins sleep with one eye open. Bet ya didn’t know we extract 55 billion tons of fossil energy, metals, and biomass from earth each year.” Is what I want to say, but I don’t. My motto is, don’t say anything if there’s nothing important to say, and there was really nothing important about arguing with those girls. 

So I kept my mouth shut, my face impassive.

*****

When I got home, I pulled off my hat to reveal a mop of strawberry blonde hair. I shook it out, pet Chesterfield and fed him. But then I noticed something was off. The loft- and the kitchen for that matter -was awfully quiet. That’s when I came to realize the Chinese Grill parking lot was empty, and so was the kitchen, except for a small sticky note with Miss Carneil's same scrawling on it.

Meet me at the park as soon as you get home. Pack all of your things in your bag and leave anything you don’t want behind.

Anxiously, I did as the note told, and packed my toiletries, books, cat food, camera, and memory album (also trying- and failing -to stuff my blanket, but I ended up just holding it). I put my cap back on and went out into the snow and ice, and that was that. 

I found Miss Carneil waiting for me like her note said. I expected more of a,

“You’re gonna have to come stay with me in my apartment, and I found a job in the Supermarket,” but instead all Miss Carneil gave me was a long look and a, “I’m sorry sweetie,” with tears rolling down her cheeks, forming sad puddles in the park. 

“Sorry for what?” I asked.

“Oh, Lem, honey, I know you’ve already lost so much. And I- well, I was your guardian, right? I was your adopted mother?.” 

     “Yeah..?” I nodded.

     “Oh, honey. I just-” she hiccuped. “I feel like I’ve failed you. I’ve lost my job; I have no home besides a small apartment that can barely even fit me. I don’t even know what to do now," and she started breaking into sobs. I rubbed her back, the way I remember my mom used to do. Then it hit me.

     “What if- what if I didn’t stay with you? Well, at least for a couple days. Until you can get a job, and maybe expand your room? I don’t know. I’m not an adult, but I was just think’n.”

     “Where on earth would you stay?” She said, looking up at me with a blotchy face, but a hint of hope in her eyes.

     “The library.” I said, a little too quickly.

“Why there? I mean, I’m just curious. Also, how would you sleep? And eat?”

“Well, I’m sure Ms. Talbot will be willing. I practically live there already on the days you don’t give me chores. It’ll only be a couple of days, right? I can find my own food, too.” I was feeling amazing. But I knew Miss Carneil was doubtful. 

      “Please. I promise I can handle it," and all Miss Carneil could do from there was grin.

      So here I am, sitting in my favorite spot in the Wildwood Grove Library, a warm cup of peppermint tea resting in my hand. Chesterfield, slept coiled under my book. It was a peaceful moment indeed. Yes, the smells. And yes, not just feeling but knowing I was safe. I was sheltered. And I am home, in this small town, of Chesterfield.