FIFTH WALL: A Reader's Broken System.

A/N:

Confession: I wrote this chapter while consuming unhealthy amounts of instant noodles and rethinking every life decision that led me to personify a cactus.

Buckle up. It's library time.

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I couldn't stop staring at Mrs. Stanford. And not in a wow, she's beautiful kind of way. More like... is she real? Is she made of frosting and stress?

She was... a lot.

Chubby in that soft, grandma-who-knows-your-business way, with skin so pale I genuinely wondered if she had blood or if she was just running on tea and sheer optimism. Her glasses were these massive double-rimmed circles that made her eyes look like they'd been magnified in a funhouse mirror. And that smile? Huge. Too huge. Like, you definitely rehearse that in the mirror every morning while whispering affirmations to your cactus huge.

Which, speaking of—there was a cactus. Sitting on the corner of her desk. And wow, I have never seen a plant look more emotionally damaged. It was half slumped over like it had given up on being spiky and had entered its existential dread phase.

I was trying really hard not to laugh or cry or… exist, honestly. My brain was bouncing between don't make eye contact, don't fidget, and when's the right time to fake a medical emergency and get out of here?1

Dad and Mrs. Stanford—Margaret?—were talking. Probably about me. Definitely about me. But I wasn't really listening. Something about hours, and "he's a good kid," and "this will be a great way to keep him occupied." Yeah. Awesome. Just what every teen dreams of. A forced library internship with the Ghost of Education Past.

"Mr. Thomas?" she said, voice bright and syrupy, like she was about to sell me cookies and life advice I didn't ask for.

I flinched so hard I nearly knocked over a paperweight.

"Yeah! Uh, yes… Mrs. Stanford?" I said, pretending I hadn't just zoned out so hard I forgot I had a body.

She chuckled, and I swear the sound had glitter in it. "Call me Margaret, please. I insist."

I blinked. "Oh. Uh. Sure… Margaret." It felt wrong saying her first name. Like calling your teacher by their nickname or accidentally calling your mom 'dude.' Some lines just shouldn't be crossed. But okay.

My eyes did one last lap of the room—cactus still depressed, brown walls still sad, and Margaret still beaming like I just agreed to adopt a puppy and a part-time job.

I gave a wobbly smile, tried to sit up straighter, and nodded like I had any idea what was coming next.

Inside though? I was already plotting my escape. Maybe I could fake a sudden allergy to books. Or sprain my soul.

Either way… this was happening. Whether I liked it or not.

I turned to Dad, who was hunched over some form like he was about to sell his soul or sign me up for space camp prison. He squinted, sighed, and—boom—signed it. No hesitation. Just scribble, sigh, doom.

For half a second, I was like, Wait... did I just get disowned? Legit wouldn't have been that surprising. My brain started running worst-case scenarios on autopilot: maybe it was one of those foster home waivers, or some "I release this child into the wild" deal.

But then I leaned over and caught the title stamped in red, all dramatic and terrifying like it was straight out of a dystopian movie: PROPERTY DAMAGE CERTIFICATE.

My stomach did a full backflip.

And yeah, the next line made it worse: In the case of any damage to property, whether intellectual or physical, compensation will be charged to the caregiver. Basically: If your spawn breaks anything, YOU pay.

He signed it. HE SIGNED IT.

I stared at the page like it just cursed me. My throat went dry—like sandpaper-dry, like I'd swallowed a mouthful of regret and poorly thought-out decisions.

We locked eyes for a hot second, his gaze doing that silent dad thing where it speaks a thousand "don't screw this up"s with zero actual words. His face was calm, too calm. Which is honestly worse than yelling. It's like... calm disappointment wrapped in legal obligation. You can't scream back at that.

I looked down again. Yep. His signature was there, right next to mine like a depressing little family tree of potential lawsuits.

God. Why did I suddenly feel like a criminal on parole?

I swallowed the boulder in my throat and took a deep breath—one of those big, dramatic ones that makes your chest puff out like you're brave even when you're 98% sure you're about to emotionally combust.

This was it. I wasn't just grounded anymore. I was on notice.

Don't break anything. Don't say anything stupid. Don't even look at anything that looks expensive or, like, breakable or... intellectual? What even counts as intellectual damage? If I insult a book, does that count?

I was officially the human equivalent of a walking liability.

And worst of all? He didn't say a single word.

He just stood there, signature drying, eyes quietly judging me like, Go ahead, test me. Let me sell your Xbox and dignity in the same afternoon.

I nodded to no one in particular, like that would somehow reset the situation, then sat back with my hands in my lap. Fingers twitching. Breath shallow. Trying very hard not to break the air itself.

So yeah. That's the story of how I became a legally recognized threat to society before 9 a.m. on a school day.

Awesome.

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After a couple more "introductions"—which, let's be honest, was basically Margaret doing a TED Talk about the Dewey Decimal System like it was sacred scripture—I officially got the job. Or, well, the probation period of the job. Baby steps.

Apparently, I was supposed to start today. Like today today. Zero warm-up. No emotional support toast. Just straight into the fire.

My "task" (her word, not mine) was simple, she said. That word really carried a lot of weight for someone who probably alphabetizes their cereal boxes.

All I had to do was:

1. Be available for the other librarians.

2. Re-shelve all the books students and clueless adults couldn't figure out.

3. Keep track of return dates.

4. Handle late fees like some kind of underpaid debt collector.

Totally casual. Nothing terrifying about being in charge of the entire adult world's overdue fines or possibly being blamed if someone loses a rare edition of Shakespeare's tragic sob-fest.

But I nodded like a pro. Real cool. Real composed. Like sure, Margaret, I was born to chase after Karen who forgot to return her murder mystery paperback.

To be fair… I could do that. I mean, I wasn't thrilled about the responsibility part, but hey—free books? A chance to escape the house/prison/dad's disappointed eyebrows for a few hours every day? Worth it.

Also, this technically counted as not being grounded, right? Like, legally, I was being productive. That had to cancel out at least two of my screw-ups.

Margaret leaned back in her very creaky chair (seriously, that thing screamed like it had trauma), and smiled so wide I thought her glasses might fog up from sheer enthusiasm.

"Your identity card will be ready before the end of the week," she chirped. "Until then, just stick close and learn a thing or two."

Stick close. Right. Like a librarian's apprentice. A padawan in the Jedi Order of overdue books.

I nodded again—my default move when my brain short-circuits—and tried not to look like I was about to pass out or accidentally knock something over.

Just then, my dad stood up beside me, shook her hand like this was a business deal and not the start of my exile, and walked out of the office without a backward glance. No "Good luck, son." No "Don't screw this up." Just a quiet whoosh of the door behind him.

Cool. Awesome. Totally fine. I'm not spiraling, you're spiraling.

So yeah. There I was. In a giant library that smelled like old paper, lemon cleaner, and maybe just a hint of sadness. No map. No guide. Just me, Margaret's unsettlingly joyful energy, and the promise of an ID card that would probably have the worst photo of me ever taken.

Welcome to my thrilling new life as a part-time teen librarian. God help the books—and the people who cross me.

I was still in the chair. Staring. Like, full-on frozen statue mode—just me and Margaret's impossibly wide smile and her cactus plant that looked like it wanted to die quietly in the corner.

Then it hit me like—boom—my dad had left. Like, just walked out and left me with a lady who probably alphabetized her breakfast cereals and called books her "paper babies."

Panic kicked in. My legs snapped into action like they had their own plan, and I launched out of that chair so fast I almost tripped over the side of the desk. Smooth. Real smooth, Thomas.

I burst out into the hallway, shoes squeaking against the tile like they were screaming I'm desperate, and spotted my dad already halfway to the exit like he had a hot date with silence and peace of mind.

"Dad—wait!"

He turned, not all dramatically or anything—just… turned. Like he knew I was gonna come running. And that honestly made me feel kinda pathetic but also kinda warm in the chest area, which is annoying because I'm not about to admit my dad makes me feel stuff. Gross.

I stopped a few feet away, suddenly very aware of how loud my breathing was. My hands were doing that weird twitchy thing they do when I'm hyped and trying to pretend I'm not.

"I—uh…" my voice came out croaky, like my throat was trying to swallow the emotions before they embarrassed me further. "Thanks," I blurted, and it was louder than I meant, like I was yelling gratitude at him. Cool.

He didn't smile. Of course he didn't. He just stared at me for a second, like he was trying to figure out if I was about to explode or pull another dumb stunt.

"Just don't make me regret it," he said.

I nodded fast, like a bobblehead on caffeine. "I won't. I promise."

And for a second—a real second—I actually meant it.

Not in a "promise I'll never mess up again" kind of way, 'cause come on, I'm still me. But… I meant it in that deep, achey way, where you want someone to believe you so bad it stings.

Like maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could glue the cracked parts of myself back together. Be the version of me that doesn't disappoint him.

He gave me one last glance—just a flicker of something in his eyes—and walked away.

I stood there, stomach buzzing with excitement and shame like some fizzy soda mix of emotion, and whispered under my breath, "This time, I won't screw it up."

And for once, that didn't sound like a lie.

I kinda barrelled back into Margaret's office like I'd just remembered I left my dignity inside. Which, honestly, I probably did. The door squeaked like it was judging me.

She was already up—because apparently, she moves at light speed—and pouring coffee into two sad little paper cups that looked like they came from a funeral for optimism. The smell hit me first: strong, burnt, and vaguely like regret. You know, like adult responsibility in liquid form.

She turned and handed one to me like it was sacred.

"I don't drink coffee, ma—uh, Margaret. Thank you though," I mumbled, trying not to sound like a five-year-old turning down broccoli.

She just gave me this look. That overly kind, terrifyingly patient adult look, the kind that says you will learn pain. "Trust me, Thomas. You'll need this coffee."

Right. Because nothing screams "new job" like bitter bean water and high-stakes emotional risk.

I stared at it like it might bite me. It smelled like overcooked ambition. I took a sip anyway. Instant regret. It was like my tongue got into a fistfight with asphalt and lost. But I nodded, like yeah, totally used to this, I'm a mature caffeine enthusiast with dreams and taxes and whatnot.

She clapped her hands suddenly, like some kind of sparkly stage magician. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

I jumped a little. The coffee sloshed dangerously near my hoodie sleeve, and for a terrifying half-second, I thought I was gonna baptize myself with boiling disappointment. "Yup," I said, voice cracking like puberty just clocked back in.

She handed me a stack of files. Not folders. Files. Like plural. Like more paper than I've seen since that one time I accidentally printed an entire Wikipedia page in school and jammed the library printer for three days.

I took them with both hands, fingers slightly sweaty and heart trying to breakdance in my chest.

"You can do this, Thomas," I muttered to myself through gritted teeth. "You can totally not screw this up. You're the file master. You're the coffee-drinking, book-sorting, emotionally-functioning adult teen they never expected."

My eye twitched.

Margaret didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did and just silently pitied me. Hard to tell with the glasses.

And just like that, I was off—armed with bad coffee, shaking hands, and sheer desperation.

Day one. Library boy. Let's freaking go.