Squeeeeeeeee-ahhh!
My head whipped up so fast that there was a low moan of a croak snapping into the quiet of the room from my neck. No one else seemed to notice, keeping their own heads fixtured in concentration to the scantrons lying crisp and off-green on the desks in front of them. I had just scribbled in the last bubble with my dulling no. 2 pencil before the all-too-familiar sound had echoed into the painted-shut windows of the classroom. My eyes peered through the dirty glass, aged by 30 years of wear, trying in vain to see the source of the noise. I couldn’t pinpoint its location, but it didn’t matter. I knew what it was. I knew what was out there, parked off to the side in the cracked lot that trailed up to the open field that posed as an upperclassman playground. Only for grades 4 and 5.
My leg began to bounce under the desk, starting quietly, unassuming, and quickly building crescendo to something distracting. The teacher glanced back from the blackboard she was dragging a dusty eraser across, giving me a look. I turned my attention to the clock above the board, silently willing it to forge ahead, to transcend time by just 6 minutes to the bell ring. When it didn’t work, I began rolling my pencil against the lazy glaze of the melamine desktop. I planned my quick retreat from the classroom, the path I would take to get me across the front row of desks, out the door, down the hallway, to the left past the bathrooms, and out the double doors. Once outside, I could pound pavement in probably under 45 seconds to make it the 80 yards to—
“Tabitha.”
I looked up, startled. The teacher made a gesture to the pencil. I stopped rolling and folded my hands in my lap.
“Are you done?” she asked me. Teachers always seem to have this knack for being quieter than a whisper without whispering at all. It’s like a mom voice, only worse because they grade your papers and have the ability to ruin your elementary school future.
Or your brilliantly planned-out sprint to the Scholastic Book Fair Truck.
I nodded silently and handed her my scantron and corresponding test paper. She took them, looking at the soft gray ovals of answers, and then lifted her gaze to me again. A smirk tugged at the right corner of her mouth, and I think it was a look of pride, but I’ll never be sure. I was the only person in that class that couldn’t get enough of the Language Arts portion of the day. I did end up getting a 100 on the quiz, though.
She walked away and one of my classmates from nearby muttered, “Suck up.” But I didn’t care. T minus 3 minutes and I was out of there. I popped my knuckles nervously, saying a silent prayer that the newest Goosebumps would be in. There were never more than a few stocked, so I made some silent deals with the good Lord if He would just please, please keep that new Slappy sequel on the shelf until I got to the truck.
I squinted hard at the clock again, envisioning my journey. I had particularly short legs for a 9-year-old, but I had the heart, and if it worked for Rudy, by God, it would work for me. Anything was possible, and I knew I had just enough gumption to make it to the truck and be head of the checkout line with Slappy in tow before anybody else could even set foot inside the thing. I stuck my hand in my pocket then, crumpling and counting the dollar bills inside. I’d have to use all my snack money that my grandma had given me (my parents didn’t believe in sending extra snack money when we had snacks at home, but they were out of town, I was staying at Grandma’s, and she would never even think about letting me out the door without at least 2 snacks’ worth of cash). I formulated the fib I’d tell my grandma later when she asked what snacks I got. A Drumstick cone and a pack of Nekot crackers seemed believable enough.
The bell rang.
A literal gasp escaped me, because I had not been ready. You had one job, Tab! I deserved this for premeditating a lie to spin my grandma. I jumped up, dropping my pencil, lurching my arms into my electric blue Lisa Frank backpack straps, and bolted for the door. I nearly knocked down 3 people, pretended I didn’t hear the teacher yelling at me to slow down, and the worn rubber of my sneaker made a familiar screech as I rounded the doorway and into the hall.
Squeeeeeeeee-ahhh!
Everything went into a hazy, slow motion as I made cheetah-like strides down the hallway, tunnel vision on the quest at hand. I hung the left, too sharp, ran into the wall and took casualties of fall festival fliers with me as I continued to pump my little legs towards the double doors. I threw my entire body weight against the pushbar, the release of the astragal breathing a cheer as I hit the morning air.
Now I could see it.
The Scholastic Book Fair vehicle was…well, calling it a “vehicle” in any shape or form was generous. It was a clunky old truck, with a beat-up front cab, painted over probably 457 times with a cheap sky-blue color that usually was meant to mimic the cover of a Clifford book. It was a challenge—a must, really—to pick off as much of the crackled paint you could while you waited in line to get into the truck. You’d store it in the bottom of your front zipper pouch in your backpack for approximately the next 8 years. It was probably teeming with lead, among other toxic entities, but hey—like most things back in the early 90’s, we survived somehow anyway.
As I got closer to the thing, marveling at those big, commanding yellow letters on the body of the truck that housed the magic morsels inside, I realized the door was still shut. No one was there. The makeshift ladder-staircase hybrid wasn’t even dropped yet.
New anxiety formed. What if they were running late? What if I didn’t have time before the next bell rang for P.E. to get a book? Worse, what if Jordan Johnston got in line behind me and passed? He had a good 150 pounds and 3 feet on me, so I didn’t stand a chance. And he was ruthless. I saw him fart in class once and blame it on Doug O’Neill, who sat behind him. That was way back in 2nd grade, and quite frankly, Doug had never socially recovered.
I heard chattering from far behind me and I turned around to see a handful of students leisurely exiting the school building and heading at a casual pace toward the Book Mobile. I turned back and stared at the bolts on the truck, breathing in, breathing out. I tried to relax, tried to pray hard again, and just when I was in the middle of another dramatic deal with Jesus, the insufferably loud sound of metal scraping against metal punched me right in the ear.
The door was opening. A figure towered in the doorway, making a scram motion of her hands for me to get out of the way so that she could drop the stairs down.
I took one step back. It wasn’t enough, but I couldn’t risk it. Broken toes or losing out on getting into that book haven first. Sacrifices would have to be made.
It felt like years before the lady stepped aside and beckoned us in finally (and by us, I mean it really did take some time for her to set up because a line of about 7 kids had formed behind me). I skipped the top step and flung myself inside the hot, stuffy box of the truck, my entire insides erupting with confetti when I saw the mirage of brand-new spines lining the walls.
I immediately ran to the far-left corner of the truck, which was really only about 10 or so steps. We lived in a small town, with an even smaller elementary school, so the Book Mobile was pretty small, too. Beads of sweat had begun to form all across my forehead after those 10 steps because there was no air conditioning and the tiny, battery-operated box fan near the checkout counter was broken. It may have been October, but it was a Georgia October, which means we were all still in shorts and sunscreen.
But the sweat was only partly because of the lack of circulated air. It was born just as much from the excitement of seeing the glimmering covers of purple and silver paperbacks. I reached out and ran my fingers across the lime green bubbly letters of the row of them, before flipping through the short stacks looking for The One.
And there he was. The very last of 6 books before him, crisp and unbent. Never opened, spine never cracked, pages never dogeared. I pulled him out, white packing foam floating into the air as I marveled at the new cover artwork that I was seeing for the first time. There were never spoilers back then because we didn’t have internet or social media yet. Everything was a surprise. And boy, was it ever a masterpiece. A terrifying mashup of an animated ventriloquist doll ready to make me sleep with the lights on forever within those 100 pages.
I craned my neck to scope out the other students in the truck, but they were gathered around the BOP magazines and car posters, so I reached into my pocket and counted the dollar bills again. A sign was taped crudely to the top of the bookshelf with “Buy one, get one free” scratched out in a dying black sharpie on a torn off piece of cardboard. I mused at the other options while clutching the new Slappy close to my chest. I decided on a Choose Your Own Adventure Goosebumps—a new, innovative concept at the time—and then made my way to the checkout desk.
I’d done it. The quest had been a success. Golden.
Five minutes later, I took in a deep breath as I made my way back outside and down the steps, carrying empty pockets and a full paper bag of Book Fair goodies.
I walked past the long line snaking outside the truck, feeling triumphant to have been the first one to step inside this year’s Scholastic Book Fair. It would be all but empty and rambled through by the end of the school day, but I’d seen it in all its glory.
Something grazed the top of my head then. I stopped walking and reached up, pulling a leaf from my hair. It was bright red-orange. A burnt hue. A color of autumn.
I took out the Slappy book and gazed at the cover again. An abrupt breeze blew by, surprisingly cool, wisping the pages open to the world for the first time.
It may have been 85 degrees outside, but not in this book.
No, now that the pages were open, Fall would begin.
And as it seemed to do every year without waver, that truck of books would usher us into the magic of October once again.
Wow! The book fair was the best day! Nothing beats getting a fresh new book. 💛
Dear Sweet Tabitha, you have taken me back in time! You ever so delightfully described Demorest Elementary! As a teacher, I don’t think I ever realized how important the book fair was to students. Perhaps in another post you might describe how it felt to be able to train your teachers and other students in the intricacies of that new piece of classroom equipment, the computer!❤️❤️❤️