Chapter 3 — Second Floor Library Girl

By the third day, Nguyen Bao Ngoc had learned three important things at An Hoa school: the cafeteria runs out of food before the second recess, the projector only works when no one needs it, and Tran Tuan Phuc can turn every reminder into a negotiation.

“You return the raincoat,” Phuc said when he met her in front of the class.

Ngoc handed over the neatly folded shirt. “I washed it.”

Phuc took it and looked at the shirt. “What do you wash with?”

"Water."

“I asked if I use conditioner.”

"Have."

“This smells like a flower shop.”

“You don't like it?”

“I sell bread, not flowers.”

“Then next time I won't wash it.”

Phuc stuffed his shirt into his bag. “Don't borrow next time.”

“I will remember.”

"You remember very well. Yesterday you wrote down eight things in your notebook."

Ngoc looked up. “You steal?”

“You left it open on the table.”

“Curiosity is the polite name for peeping.”

Phuc burst out laughing. “You learn quickly.”

At the beginning of the free period, Ms. Hanh assigned the group a task: plan to turn the reading room into a space that could be used during the student festival. An Hoa School organizes a book exchange festival every semester, but in the last three years there has only been one book table placed in the yard. This time, Ms. Hanh wants to bring the activity to the second floor, if the group can prove that the room is safe and useful.

Minh Chau immediately created a job board. Lam wants to divide the zones by genre. Bao suggested adding a "books to read while waiting for your lover to text back" corner. Phuc asked how many books there were in that corner. Bao said it depends on whether his lover texts or not.

Ngoc looked at the room map. The shelf on the window side is missing two bars. The reading corner is occupied by boxes of old books. The light bulb in the middle of the room flickered. The ceiling fan makes a rhythmic sound. Ms. Hanh gave them a small amount to buy supplies, but the money was only enough for paint, light bulbs and a few cardboards.

“There's not enough to buy chairs,” Minh Chau said.

“You can ask for old chairs from the class,” Ngoc suggested.

“No one wants to leave their chairs on the second floor,” Bao said. “Murder Stairs.”

“Stairs don't kill anyone,” Phuc said.

"It makes me short of breath. Being short of breath is a slow kill."

Phuc rubbed his forehead. “I understand why Ms. Hanh doesn't let you become a librarian.”

“I understand why you were chosen,” Bao replied. “You have a good look on your face.”

Ngoc came up with the idea of asking for chairs from families in the neighborhood. Phuc looked at her and asked who would transport her. Ngoc said he could post a notice. He asked who was responsible for receiving and checking. She said the group would do it. Phuc asked what if the chair broke. Ngoc replied that she would refuse.

“Easy for you to say,” Phuc said.

“Because I haven't done it yet.”

“That is the truest sentence today.”

Ngoc knows she is used to coming up with solutions in rooms where others take care of the rest. Here, each idea has a list of questions to follow. She didn't like being asked questions, but she didn't like realizing she had missed out even more.

After class, the group cleans up the warehouse. Bao opened a box, inside were all old exercise books. Lam read the publication date and then said they were no longer usable. Phuc did not immediately throw it away, he arranged it into three piles: reuse the paper, pass it to the lower class, keep it for reference.

“You keep this whole book?” Lam asked.

“There is a difficult geometry lesson.”

“You learned it.”

“Maybe other people haven't learned yet.”

Bao took a book and put it on his head. “I kept it because the cover is beautiful.”

“It's a civics education book,” Phuc said.

“Citizens also need to be beautiful.”

Ngoc laughed. Phuc glanced at her, as if he was used to her smiling but still didn't understand why.

A while later, they found a small glass cabinet in the corner of the warehouse. The cabinet door is jammed, inside there are old books bound in brown paper. Ms. Hanh went up to look and realized that it was a set of books given to her by a student ten years ago.

“Maybe make library history shelves,” she said.

Phuc opened a book and saw a dedication on the first page. Ngoc read the names of the graduating students, many of them written in faded blue ink.

“A library has memories,” Lam said.

“A library has evidence that people have borrowed books,” Bao corrected.

Phuc turned to the last page. “There are still people who haven't paid yet.”

“Are there any books missing again?” Ngoc asked.

“No. The borrower's name does not have a return date.”

Ngoc received the small notebook from his hand. The front pages list the student's name, book title, and date. Near the end, a page was torn away. The front and back pages have hastily written lines and some names are circled. Ms. Hanh saw it and her face changed very slightly.

“This book is old,” she said. “Don't second-guess yourself.”

Phuc asked: "When did the page get torn?"

“I don't remember.”

Ngoc looked at Ms. Hanh and realized that this was the first time the teacher answered without looking directly at the questioner.

Bao immediately started talking about something else. "If I make a historical shelf, do I need to decorate it? I can draw a cat reading a book."

Lam replied: “Cats do not belong in library history.”

“A cat always belongs to history if it is cute enough.”

The afternoon ended when the group moved four boxes of books to the hallway. Phuc recorded the condition of each box, Ngoc took photos, Lam marked the area, Bao sat on a small box eating rice paper.

“Since when do you eat?” Ngoc asked.

“Since everyone started working, no one gave me the task of being able to eat.”

“You can label the books.”

“I did.”

Ngoc looked at the stack of labels. There are a few labels that say “The book is very likely to get lost”, “The book is unlikely to be understood by the reader” and “The book should be placed away from Bao”.

“This is not a classification,” Lam said.

“It's a warning to the community.”

Phuc took a pen to erase the last label. “Say, can you do one thing right?”

"Okay. I'll keep the rice paper."

Ngoc intended to blame him, but Phuc smiled too calmly. She suddenly understood that Bao was also his way of keeping the air from getting too heavy. He's not good at arranging things, but he's good at making others less afraid when things aren't complete.

On the way down, Phuc gave Ngoc a piece of paper. That's a list of things to ask for from the school: light bulbs, anti-humidity paint, shelf rails, curtains and new locks.

“You write the reason,” he said.

"Me?"

"You wrote clearly. I saw your notebook."

“You're peeping again.”

“I read when you showed me.”

“I haven't given it yet.”

“So you could call it involuntary sharing.”

Ngoc held the paper. “I will write, but you have to fact-check.”

"Okay."

“And don't delete your sentences without asking.”

"Okay."

“And return the books on time.”

Phuc stopped at the stairs. “That's irrelevant.”

“Relating to the qualities of library users.”

“Do you remember the line on the board?”

“I can read it.”

Phuc bowed his head slightly as if he had been caught red-handed. “I will try.”

“Not a firm promise?”

“I don't make promises that might fail.”

Ngoc didn't know whether to laugh or find that sentence sad. She just nodded.

At night, she sat at her desk, writing proposals for the library. She writes about old books that need to be inventoried, about reading corners for students waiting for parents, and about how to borrow books without embarrassing late returners. She wrote and deleted many times. Every sentence runs the risk of sounding like the words of a stranger I had to ask someone for a chair.

Finally, Ngoc added a paragraph: "The reading room doesn't need to be the most beautiful place in the school. It just needs to be a place where people can stay without having to prove they belong."

She read it again and found that sentence was a bit big. But she didn't delete it.

Tomorrow, the group will present the proposal to Ms. Hanh. If refused, they still have to find a way to fix the fan and light. If approved, the second floor will have more people, more laughter and more things that can go wrong.

Ngoc closed the book. She began to think that the old room was not waiting for anyone to save her. It just needs a group of people to ask questions before starting to fix it.

On the way down the stairs, Ngoc suddenly realized she was still holding the unsealed book label. She turned around, stuck it on the back of her neck, then locked the door. It's a small thing but makes her happy, because for the first time she doesn't need anyone to remind her that a process is only meaningful when it is completed to the end.

Phuc stood at the foot of the stairs and asked her if she needed him to wait for the bus. Ngoc said no, she had recorded the correct station. He nodded, then pointed to the right. “The station changed today because the road is being repaired.”

Ngoc looked at him. “You just said you wrote it down correctly, then changed the information.”

“Life has an appendix.”

“I hate appendices.”

“But you will read.”

Ngoc smiled and walked with him to the gate. She no longer sees the second floor as just a room that needs to be repaired. It's like a lesson in always having a back page, where plans have to give way to what actually happens.

Returning home, Ngoc opened the proposal and saw a dusty corner of the bookshelf. She didn't brush it off right away. She wanted to remember that the plan was not born in a clean office, but amid the sound of fans, crumbling rice paper, and annoying questions.

Dad asked her if she needed a typing assistant. Ngoc said she would make the first version herself, but could ask someone to proofread it. Dad said that was a good way to do it. He did not ask who she asked for sponsorship.

Ngoc wrote the reason for editing the verse, then passed it to Phuc to see. He responded with three points that needed to be added: the load, how to lock the book, and who to check after repair. Ngoc added, realizing that an idea only becomes a suggestion when someone thinks about the day it will be misused.

Lam sent a color palette, Minh Chau sent a calendar, Bao sent a photo of a rice paper placed next to a box of labels. Ngoc didn't know why that photo was needed, but she saved it in the group folder. Everyone has their own way of saying they participated.

At night, she wrote the last line: "No one owns a library just because they did the most." She read it again and saw that that sentence was for her too. Tomorrow, she will give suggestions to the group to continue editing, not keeping the complete version on a separate computer.