Page 30 of An Overdue Match
Chomping. Chittering. Scratching.
Scratching? Snakes can’t scratch. At least I no longer have to worry about figuring out if red touches black or yellow before I die, but—
Purrr.
I stop in my tracks. Purring? How in the world did a cat get itself stuck in the return receptacle? I imagine a tiny little furball helpless in the metal box.
All my anxiety leaches out of my tight muscles. “It’s okay, little guy,” I coo. “You poor thing. You must be so scared in there. Don’t worry. I’m going to get you out.” I continue my calming monologue as I slip the key in the lock and turn the mechanism. “There you are, you—”
Beady eyes stare at me, sharp teeth bared as the not-tiny-little-fluffy-kitten hisses menacingly. I stumble backward, my breath catching. “Well, this is a first.”
There, sitting on a pile of books, is a bandit-faced racoon with ... I squint at what he has clutched between his little paws. “Just had to read a John Grisham novel, did you?” Although the titleA Time to Killis a little ominous.
“If you would kindly leave the book and be on your way, Mr. Raccoon, I’d be forever grateful.” I make a shooing motion with my hand.
The raccoon doesn’t budge. He stares me down as if taunting me to make him. Then he does something even worse. He lifts the book toward his open mouth.
“Don’t eat it!” I screech at him.
He hisses, then takes a bite.
We’ve had to replace books that dogs have chewed on, but this will be the first time I’ll be puttingeaten by a raccoonin the description area in the library’s software while ordering a new copy.
I slowly take a step closer. I need to get the animal out of the box and away from the other books, lest he destroy them all. Maybe if I bang on the side the noise will scare him into running away. I keep my eye on him in case he decides on any other funny business.
Wait. My eyes narrow. The raccoon isn’t gnawing on the pages ofA Time to Kill. He’s eating ... Is that ... bacon? “Seriously, people? Food is not an appropriate bookmark!”
I take out my phone and snap a picture of Mr. Raccoon eating his bacon brunch served on a platter of John Grisham. I’ve read some pretty ridiculous signs before because of the general public’s lack of common sense—a tag on one of my shirts saysDo not iron while wearing shirt—but I never thought I’d have to create one about what is and is not suitable bookmark material. Food, no. Always no.
I bang on the side of the metal receptacle, but the racoon doesn’t seem to care about the racket I’m making.
“This is not what I expected to see when I came out here.” Hayley laughs as she shoves a Cheeto in her mouth, watching me as if I’m the main attraction in a traveling vaudeville show.
I march over to her and snatch the bag of junk food out of her hand.
“Hey!” she protests.
I fish out a Cheeto and wave it in front of Mr. Raccoon. “Yum. See this? You want this.”
He perks up, his nose twitching as he smells the processed goodness in my hand.
“That’s right. Come and get it.” I set the Cheeto on the ground about three feet away. Mr. Raccoon inches forward. I set another one farther away. I am luring a wild animal outof a library book return box with a trail of Cheetos. Not sure if this should make it into my résumé or not.
Led by his stomach, Mr. Raccoon takes the bait. By the time he scampers off library property, the fur around his mouth is coated bright orange. Maybe I should contact the people at Frito-Lay. Fodder for their next Super Bowl commercial right here in Little Creek.
“You owe me a bag of Cheetos,” Hayley says when I press the empty snack bag back into her hands.
“Add it to my bill.”
She mimes writing something on an invisible piece of paper, and I roll my eyes with a chuckle. I go to walk past her toward the entrance, but she stops me with a hand to my arm.
“Hold on a sec. I came out here because I wanted to talk to you real quick.”
“About what?”
“About Tai asking you out and you turning him down.”
My head whips back in surprise. “He told you?”
