Walls within Walls Read Online Free Page B

behind, but they knew that Maricel could never be convinced to leave Pat in CJ’s care.
    On the bus, CJ read a book, covered up with a magazine. He was always reading—manuals, mysteries, technology magazines, sports guides, anything. He got embarrassed when other people commented on what he read, so he had learned to never let people see such titles as How Does Aspirin Find a Headache? Brid understood why he read in secret, but she still hated that he did it. She liked to know everything that was going on with herfamily, including what book CJ was reading. She peeked over his Mad magazine and thought she saw a poetry book inside. Hmm.
    New York City’s main library was a huge marble structure that stretched for two whole city blocks and had enormous lion statues out front. “It opened in 1911 and has fifteen miles of shelves,” CJ said as the kids stood in front of the massive building, feeling small. “During the Great Depression, the mayor named those lions Patience and Fortitude.”
    â€œWhy the fancy names?” Brid asked.
    â€œThose were the traits he thought people needed in order to get through that difficult time,” CJ said.
    As they swept through the revolving doors into the grandest lobby they had ever seen, they had to open their bags to be checked by a security guard. It was then that Brid saw the real title of CJ’s book: Poetry for Dummies.
    â€œWhatcha reading?” she said innocently.
    â€œJust trying to understand something in my room,” CJ said. “You know those poems on my moldings? I’m wondering why they are there.”
    â€œYou mean, like, what’s their story?”
    â€œLike what story the poem is trying to tell the reader,” he said simply.
    â€œYou don’t even like poetry.”
    â€œI know, but the guy who used to live in our apartment did.”
    â€œThat’s weird that you care.”
    â€œA little weird,” CJ admitted. “I mean, he probably just did it for decoration, but still, I like when people can say a lot with the least amount of words. That’s one good thing about a poem.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œLike maybe you could say more by talking less,” CJ snapped.
    Brid just rolled her eyes at CJ as they waited in line to be checked in. People with backpacks, tourists, a lady in a wheelchair—all seemed to move with purpose, knowing exactly where to go. When the security guard took Brid’s backpack, she asked him, “Where are the returns?” The guard was tall and big-bellied; his shirt buttons looked as if they might pop.
    â€œReturn of what?” he said.
    â€œAn overdue book.”
    â€œOverdue? Honey, that book must be from somewhere else, because this library is a research collection. It’s not a lending library.”
    â€œIt has to be,” Brid said.
    â€œIt’s not,” he said sternly.
    Brid stamped her foot, which is not something anyone should do in a library. “It says right here, it’s overdue.” She flipped open the book cover to show the guard the handwritten card listing the borrower’s name, the date it was taken out, and the due date. The name was written in aclear cursive with little flourishes. It read, Mr. Lyon F. Post .
    The guard pulled reading glasses from the lapel of his blazer and held the book away from him in the way grown-ups do when they read small print.
    â€œWell, I’ll be.” He pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat. “Shimmy, come in,” he said into the radio.
    â€œShimmy here,” a voice answered almost immediately.
    â€œSome kids here with an overdue book from this library.”
    â€œCan’t be.”
    â€œWas due in 1937.”
    â€œYou’ve got one slow reader there.” Shimmy cracked up loudly at his own joke, while the people in line behind CJ and Brid tsked with annoyance.
    â€œWhat year did we stop lending?” asked the guard, looking