Page 73 of Wicked Pickle

Sometimes, we stick to the juvenile section. Other times, we sneak into the health and sex section to look at illustrations of naked people. Or intestines. Both were good.

I forget to look for Symphony, taking in the high ceiling, the carts parked at the ends of rows. The checkout desk.

It’s been a wildly long time.

“Diesel?”

I turn to spot Symphony, my whole body reacting to the sight of her. She’s got the schoolgirl look down today, her blonde hair twisted up messily, skewered with a pencil. She wears a white button-down over a black-and-white checked skirt. I remember what she said about no panties and have to will my dick to stay in check.

I clear my throat. “Hey.”

“You were checking this place out pretty hard.”

“That’s a library joke, right? Checking out.”

She laughs, and I’m caught by how her eyes go bright and her nose crinkles. “Didn’t realize it. Have you ever been here? It’s my favorite library.”

“Never. What makes it your favorite?”

She walks up the main aisle, pointing at the ceiling. “I love this domed roof. It lets light in and makes you feel like you’re in a cathedral, like reading these books is sacred.”

I get that. “Was this always a library, or did they reuse a church?”

“I think they built it this way. Maybe they intended for us to make the connection.”

We pass the information desk and stacks of nonfiction. Toward the back is the children’s area. When I spot a circle of mothers on the floor, the librarian in a chair holding up a book,my legs stop moving. I’m frozen, almost sure I will spot Mom there with a mesmerized Sunny and a bored, wiggly Greta.

“I never got to go to a story time,” Symphony says. “Did your mom take you?”

Did she? I remember going when we were older, when the girls were young enough to take part. But I don’t recall sitting in that circle. Maybe we were too young for it to fix in our brains. Or maybe we were little assholes who wouldn’t sit still, and Mom gave up.

“She definitely brought my sisters. Merrick and I were older by then. We’d wander around.”

“What did you look for?”

“Books that didn’t look boring.”

Symphony pulls aDogmanbook from a display. “Like these? Graphic novels are all the rage.” She flips through it, showing the comic-book style pages.

“We would have read the hell out of that. We were intoCaptain Underpants.”

“I remember those.” She sets downDogman. “Oh, look!” She points to a hardcover emblazoned with the bald man with a cape, wearing nothing but big white underwear. She passes it to me.

“I haven’t seen that in a hot minute.” I flip through the pages, stopping on the part where Harold and George rearrange the letters on the school lunch sign. “Merrick and I did this once. There was a marquee in front of the school where they announced things like parent-teacher night or vacation holidays.”

“You didn’t!”

“We did. It was our favorite part of the books, and we jumped at the chance to be like them.”

“Do you remember what you put on there?”

“Let me think. I’m pretty sure it said, ‘Christmas Break,’ and we changed it to ‘Karate Ms Birch.’”

Her face lights up. “Please tell me Ms. Birch was the PE teacher.”

“Worse. She ran the after-school detention.” I can’t help but grin at the memory.

“Yes! Oh my gosh!”