TÇ hÇàÉÄw gtÄx
This is a sweet little story with some violence. It’s
not terribly disturbing, but be warned . . .
Bonnie McCullough laboriously typed into her laptop, while reading from a pink Post-It note covered with neat round handwriting that included little circles over the i’s: The Conscience of A Queen.
It was her history report, which would determine thirty-percent of her first semester grade in European History. And she had a good idea for it, a really good idea: original, easy to understand and thought-provoking. What, so her theory ran, would have become of England if Catherine of Aragon had had not been so obedient to the husband who had disowned her, and had allied herself with Spain (where she came from in the first place) and then led these forces combined with the English who were still loyal to her to battle Henry VIII’s army. She was advised to do so often, and only her refusal to take up arms against her husband. Catherine might have been able to establish her little daughter, Mary, successfully as heir, instead of letting Henry have his way in everything; and Henry’s second daughter, Queen Elizabeth, would never have been born.
No Queen Elizabeth! No Sir Walter Raleigh! No British Empire—probably no America! Nothing would have happened the way it had down to modern times.
A ferociously huge pile of history books loomed over Bonnie on her right right. An equally formidable pile leaned over her from the left. Most of them had Post-Its stuck in them, where she had found evidence to help her theory.
There was only one problem, Bonnie thought, her small strawberry-curled head drooping almost to the library table. The report was due the day after tomorrow and all she had written was the title.
Somehow she had to combine the facts from these books that held evidence to uphold her theory. Other facts were waiting for her out there on the Web, represented right now by the cheerfully lit computer screen in front of her. But how, how to make a coherent paper out of them in only two days.
Of course, she could ask for an extension. But she could just imagine the look on Mr. Tanner’s face if she did so. He would embarrass her mercilessly in front of the class.
I can go without sleep for two days, Bonnie thought resolutely.
As if triggered by her thought, the lights of the library went off and then on and then repeated the cycle.
Oh, no! Ten o’clock already? And she seriously needed some caffeine. Bonnie reached toward the bag beside her, then hesitated.
Her hunches, as always, were good ones. Mr. Breyer came walking down the aisle, glancing at the study carrels left and right.
“Why—Bonnie! Are you still here?”
“Apparently,” Bonnie said with a nervous laugh. Everything depended on her acting abilities right now.
“Well, but, the library’s closing. Didn’t you see the lights?” Bonnie had heard that Mr. Breyer always whispered inside the library, even before opening and after closing time. Now she could confirm that it was true.
“Mr. Breyer, I want to ask a favor,” Bonnie said, looking up at him as soulfully as she could through her brown eyes.
“What favor?” Now Mr. Breyer wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I want,” Bonnie stood up, which at least allowed her to see Mr. Breyer’s face, “to stay in the library overnight.”
Mr. Breyer was shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Bonnie. But the library closes at ten, no exceptions. Think you’re the only one who’s asked me?” Mr. Breyer drew himself up, and murmured for a moment, as if counting. “Why you’re the twenty-forth student to ask that very question.” He seemed to take some comfort in precision. He was picking up her backpack to hand it to her. Bonnie hastily took it, worried it would slosh. “And I told each of those who asked the same thing I’m telling you: “The library closes at ten, but tomorrow is another day.”
