Page 16 of Her Alien Librarian
Mylo laughs heartily as he climbs the steps and walks ahead of me down the hall, his grin widening when he finds her room. “Good evening, Elena,” he greets her with a bow. Then turns to me. “You are Papita, I gather?”
“No, we don’t need to get into–” I start to say, but Mom pats a spot at the foot of the bed and launches into the story.
“When Sammy was little, she got tired of playing with dolls and became obsessed with Mr. Potato Head. She wanted an entire army of Mr. Potato Heads, but I was working two jobs at the time and couldn’t afford to get her more, so one night I handed her a russet potato that I had drawn a smiley face on.”
I climb into bed next to Mom, over the covers, and she grabs my hand. My cheeks are bright red, I can feel them, but there’s no getting out of this.
“So a week goes by, and I notice the bowl of potatoes in the kitchen suddenly has only two left.”
I’d be annoyed with the fact that she’s sharing this embarrassing story if it weren’t for how much fun she’s having. Her face is lit up as she giggles and elbows me in the ribs to make sure I’m paying attention. I don’t love the nickname, and I’ve always assumed it had a double meaning relating to my size, but it’s hard to be mad at her when she’s reliving a memory in detail. I’m grateful this moment exists at all.
“I go up to her room, and through the door I can hear her talking, just chatting away,” she continues. “When I open it a crack, she’s surrounded by a dozen potatoes. They’re covered in marker scribbles and wearing doll hats and other accessories. She’s talking to each one as if they’re her best friends.” She’s laughing so hard at this point that she wipes the tears from her eyes and leans her head on my shoulder. “Hence, my little ‘Ita.”
Mylo’s smile reaches his eyes as he continues to laugh. “Potato friends are almost as good as real friends.”
She turns to look at me. “I think you gave them all names and birthdays, too, didn’t you?”
“I did,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “I only remember Tag and Bianca, though. They were my Barbie and Ken.”
“Oh, Bianca!” my mom shouts excitedly. “Was Bianca the one you snuck into school with you?”
Ugh, I forgot about that. This is getting painful now. “I believe so, yeah.”
Mom is practically bouncing as she continues. “I got a call at work one day from her teacher asking why Sammy has a rotten potato in her desk.”
“You let your potato friends rot?” he asks me with mock sincerity. “How sad.”
“Well, my other dolls didn’t do that, and throwing a friend in the trash seemed cruel, so…” I trail off.
“I had to buy her a brand-new bag of them that night,” Mom adds. “And she sobbed as I threw each rancid potato in the garbage.” Mom looks at me with eyes full of unshed tears. “Such a fiercely independent girl. Never caring what others think.” She presses a kiss to the back of my hand. “Mi cielo.”
Mylo’s brow furrows in a way that makes him look amused by the tale. “Did you keep the same names for the new potatoes?”
“No, they weren’t the same potatoes, so why would I give them the same names?”
He nods as he leans back and rests his elbow on the bed’s wooden footboard, putting his veiny, muscular forearm on display. My cheeks grow hot just looking at it. “Excellent point.”
Mylo grabsWed to the Alien Warlordby January Bell off my mother’s nightstand and begins to read. Time flies as he reads the first seven chapters, his voice smooth and animated as he goes, getting into character just enough to keep me fully engaged, but not overdoing it by attempting a woman’s voice when the point of view switches between the lead characters with each chapter.
At one point, I look at Mom and find her eyes locked on Mylo, a warm smile tugging at her lips, and I realize what an incredible gift he has given me. I focus on her face as I file this moment away in my brain. I need to remember it later. When the next bad day comes and she can’t remember me and she’s frustrated and scared of what awaits her, I’ll think of this.
It’s a little past nine when she drifts off to the sound of Mylo’s voice, and he and I exchange a nod to leave and let her sleep. I press a kiss to her forehead, pull up the blankets beneath her chin, and turn off the light on her nightstand before closing the door to her room.
Once Mylo and I are alone, I decide to show him just how thankful I am. I tug on his hand and pull him down the hall to my room, locking the door behind us once we’re inside.
“Wha–” he starts, but I silence him with a kiss.
I love that I keep catching him off guard with my boldness. Then I remember a question I still haven’t gotten an answer to and pull back. “Mylo, why did you offer to read to Mom?”
One side of his mouth curves up into a half-grin. “I have seen many children read at the library during the monthly practice session I offer for students who are struggling with reading comprehension. The look on your face when she asked you to read to her is one I have seen before.”
I nod, saying nothing and waiting for him to continue.
“I would guess that you have the brain condition that jumbles the letters in front of you.” Nervously, he searches my face. “Am I right?”
The sigh I let out is so heavy, I feel like I’d float away if Mylo’s arms weren’t holding me in place. “Yes,” I whisper, the admission instantly removing decades of stress and anxiety that have kept my back muscles tightly knotted.
“It is quite common, you know,” he says, crooking a finger under my chin, forcing me to look deep into his eyes. He holds me tighter, and I melt into his embrace. “Many people struggle with it.”