It all started because of a goldfish.
I was minding my own business at the public library — my favorite place in the whole town. It smelled like old paper and coffee, and I always sat in the corner next to the “Philosophy & Self-Help” section because nobody ever went there. That’s where I did my best thinking.
Anyway, my little sister had just won a goldfish at the town fair. She named him “Professor Swim.” I was babysitting her and, by extension, Professor Swim, when I decided to drop by the library. I figured it would be fine if I kept him in a sealed jar. Fish don’t make noise. What could go wrong?
Turns out, everything.
The moment I set him on the table, a beam of sunlight hit the jar, magnifying the light right onto the wall behind me. Suddenly, the “Philosophy & Self-Help” section was on fire — well, smoking, technically, but that was enough to send the head librarian, into full emergency mode. She screamed something about “combustible wisdom” and smacked the wall with a copy of War and Peace until the smoke disappeared.
In the chaos, Professor Swim’s jar tipped over.
Water everywhere. Books soaked. A librarian’s worst nightmare.
The next day, I was summoned. The head librarian adjusted her glasses and said, in the kind of voice people use at funerals, “For the safety of our collection, you are hereby banned from here until further notice.”
So now, I do my reading at the park. The sunlight’s still there, but at least if something catches fire, it’s just grass.
Sometimes I walk by the library and see the head librarian through the window, polishing the “No Pets Allowed” sign that she installed right after the “incident.” I swear I can see a tiny fish symbol drawn in Sharpie at the bottom.
And you know what? I can’t even be mad. I kind of earned it.
