Page 13 of Hiss and Tell
“The board wants preliminary attendance numbers for next month’s budget meeting,” she says, glancing around the nearly empty children’s section. “And they’re specifically asking about incident rates affecting our reputation in the community.”
My snakes coil tighter against my scalp. “One incident in eighteen months hardly—”
“I know that. You know that. But Mrs. Randall’s been circulating concerns about your… unconventional methods.” She glances around nervously. “Some board members worry that yourdream manifestations might frighten smaller children. Others question whether someone with your particular background can maintain professional boundaries with struggling families. They’re asking if the library needs programming that draws attention to our more… unique community members.”
The coded language stings, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. In many people’s minds, my Gorgon nature makes me either a curiosity to be managed or a liability to be contained. They can’t see past what I am to understand what I offer.
Jenny’s voice drops. “Sebastian, they’re looking for reasons to cut weekend programming. The budget’s tight, and children’s services are always the first target.”
The weight of professional pressure settles on my shoulders. All those years of carefully maintaining peace, of making myself smaller and less threatening, and it might not matter if the board decides these programs are expendable.
“What do they want to see?”
“Innovation. Community engagement. Proof that we’re adding real value, not just providing childcare.” She leans forward. “The question is whether you’re ready to show them what you’re really capable of.”
After she leaves, I stare at the empty reading circle where Milo should be sitting. My snakes sense my agitation, moving restlessly as I process the implications. How many children would lose their safe space if the board cuts programming? How many families like Aspen and Milo, who depend on the libraryas their sanctuary, will be lacking important community support and resources?
My phone buzzes with a text from Aspen: How did storytime go?Milo keeps asking when he can come back.
I stare at the message, remembering her fierce protection of her son, her willingness to enter a fake relationship just to restore his access to something that brings him joy. The board wants innovation? Community engagement?
Maybe it’s time to stop hiding what makes our programming truly special.
Maybe it’s time to show them exactly what kind of magic happens when people believe in possibilities.
I text back:Tell him I’m working on something special. And… thank you. For Sunday. The date was fake, but the fun was real.
Her response comes quickly:Looking forward to our next “business meeting.”
This gives me the courage to forge ahead.Speaking of … Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night? Somewhere nice for our first official public appearance?
The three dots last only a few moments before her response comes through.Only if you promise not to knock over any water glasses.
I make no such promises. See you at The Lucky Goat at seven?
That small emoji does something strange to my chest, makes me wonder if this arrangement might become something more than just mutual assistance. But I push the thought aside.
Some dreams are too dangerous to consider.
Some possibilities are too precious to risk.
For now, it’s enough to focus on the fight ahead—proving to the board that magic has a place in our community, that wonder is worth funding, that some programs are too important to lose.
Even if it means revealing exactly what kind of magic I’m capable of.
Chapter Ten
Aspen
Wednesday evening, and I’m standing in front of my closetlike it holds the secrets of the universe. This is ridiculous. It’s a fake date with Sebastian to establish our “relationship” for the library board. I shouldn’t be this nervous about what to wear.
The black dress mocks me from its hanger, along with the other four outfit options spread across my bed. Who knew agreeing to a fake date could cause such a real crisis?
“You look worried, Mama,” Milo observes from his dinosaur sheets, watching me hold up dress after dress in the mirror propped against his wall—the only full-length one in our apartment. “Are you nervous about your date with Mr. Sebastian?”
“It’s not exactly a date, Bug. More like… helping each other out.”
“But you’re wearing your pretty dress,” he points out with four-year-old logic. “And you put on the lipstick that smells like flowers.”
