I rip out my earbuds and toss them on the table. “I cannot believe this.”

“What?” Brett asks as he puts on his sneakers for a walk.

“Grammar Guru just explained the backstory of the word bully. Allegedly in the 1500s it meant sweetheart. I mean why do that? It kinda undermines the gravity of what the word means today.”

“Hon, really? Grammar Guru has no idea what you’re dealing with. And understanding how things change over time is important.” He kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be back in forty.”

I don’t brush his peck away, even though I’m super annoyed. He’s never taken Dirt Bag seriously.

My quads scream at me. Leg day. I drop into the chair and type in my password. I wonder where Dirt Bag has found me today.

It doesn’t take long. This time my personal email. I gotta hand it to this guy, he’s resourceful.

Dear Ms Librarian,

You don’t care about your patrons. You waltz in on your kitten heels and prance around the library like you own the place. All of you are nothing but indoctrination princesses pushing porn and CRT onto our kids. You will be stopped.

Dirt Bike Dude

My heart races. Up until this point, the messages have come over social media. I thought just some troll. A lot of librarians recently have been getting this rhetoric. But coming through on my personal email feels more like a real threat than good old-fashioned trolling.

I scroll through my phone for Tammy’s contact info and tap the phone icon.

“Hey Girl!” She says in her usual I just drank two cups of coffee perky voice.

“Dirt Bag Bully has found me again.” Even though he signs Dirt Bike Dude, he’s un-affectionally known to me as Dirt Bag Bully.

Her voice drops. “I’m sorry. I know it’s upsetting. I get it. Just keep blocking.”

“I’ve blocked him on all social and now he’s found my personal email. What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Listen, he’s just some MAGA redneck. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about. Every MAGA redneck has like ten guns who’ll gladly die for the cause.”

“Are you staying for the signing tonight?” Tammy changes the subject.

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m so proud of you for sharing your story.”

“You aren’t the only one on the receiving end of bullying.”

I stop at her comment. Tammy’s right. I feel selfish. I’ve gone through nothing like she has. “I know. I’m sorry. You’ve dealt with much worse. You know what? Tonight’s your night. Bullies be damned. I’ll see you at 6:00. I’ll be the one wearing pink!”

“Thanks. So will I! Finally.”

I quickly shower and put on the Barbie pink dress I bought especially for Tammy’s memoir release.

The day at the North Lake Public Library runs as expected. Toddler story hour in the morning. Lake Square nursing home midday. The afternoon hosts a few loitering teens avoiding homework.

By 5:00 pm, it’s time to set up for Tammy’s signing. My assistant Rebecca and I drape pink tulle through the spindles of the rocking chair where earlier I’d read Goodnight Moon to snotty toddlers.

We stack a nearby table with copies of Tammy’s book TOMMY TO TAMMY: MY STORY OF TRANSITION AND TRANSFORMATION.

“Such a great story.” Rebecca puts some new pink pens in a cup next to Tammy’s books.

“It really is.” I’m about to put Tammy’s poster on an easel when I hear the ding of the door being opened. A guy in camo and boots struts in. Not the type of guy I expect to be here for the book launch of a femtrans memoir, but I go with it. “Hi, the event doesn’t start for another half hour, but you’re welcome to browse the stacks if you’d like.”

A vein bulges in his neck. “I’m not here for the event. I’m here to cancel it—Ms. Librarian.”

My heart stops, then races. Dirt Bag Dude. I glance at the check-out desk where just last week local law enforcement installed a panic button. But before I can dart towards it, Dirt Bag grabs my wrists.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He pulls a pistol from a holster and puts it up to my temple. “You.” Then he orders Rebecca to lock the front door and put all of Tammy’s books back in the box.

She starts crying. I want to cry. But fear and adrenaline won’t let tears come.

I kick off my heels and plant my feet into the commercial carpeting.

Dirt Bag drags me to a table and plunges me into a wooden chair. No wonder the kids complain. The chair bites into my spine.

He flails his pistol around the library. “This crap is why I’m here. I know what you librarians are up to. Turning our kids gay. Pushing your leftist agenda.”

Rebecca’s crawled to the checkout desk. I need to distract Dirt Bag to give her half a chance at hitting the panic button.

“I wanna understand,” I say to him. “I’m listening. Tell me what we’re getting wrong.”

He gets in my face. “You know what you’re doing. Stop acting like you don’t. He kicks the table with his military-style boots and almost knocks it over.

I glance around the thousands of books in the library. There’s a story in here for everyone. Even him.

I swallow my panic and lock his eyes. “Did you ever read as a kid?”

He hunches over the table and puts both thick hands down, one still holds the pistol. “What?” he asks, I assume bewildered by my question.

I point to the children’s section. “I bet there’s a book over there you read as a kid.”

“Stop trying to distract me.” He huffs.

“Did your parents ever read to you?”

His shoulders drop. “My parents were too busy shooting up Heroin to read to me.” He air quotes the word read.

I keep on, looking for a soft spot. “Did anyone ever read to you? A teacher? A librarian?”

He holsters the gun and shoots a glance toward the children’s section. It’s working.

Rebecca’s made it to the circulation desk. I’m sure authorities are on the way.

“I had a few teachers that didn’t suck. Yeah. But the only book I remember I’m sure isn’t over there.”

“What book was it? Do you remember the title?”

“It was stupid. Some book where a bullied kid with a deadbeat dad writes letters to some shitty author.”

I widen my eyes. “Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary. It’s a wonderful book. I have multiple copies. Can I get one?” I rise.

He pushes me back down.

“I’m not an idiot. I know what you’re up to?” Then he sits across from me.

“Okay, then. Tell me what I’m up to?” I ask fully aware I’m pressing my luck.

“Books give people a false sense of reality. False hope. And spread lies.”

I nod. “What about Dear Mr. Henshaw gave false hope and spread lies?”

He runs a hand through curly, thick hair. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Dear Mr. Henshaw, gives kids real hope, not false. You can follow your dreams if you don’t give up.”

His nostrils flare.“Oh yeah. Well, how come when I was a kid and wrote to Ms. Cleary or whatever her name is she never wrote me back like her fake Mr. Henshaw did?”

I lay my hands in front of me on the table to show I’m no longer scared. “I don’t know why? Could’ve gotten lost in the mail. Or maybe you had the wrong address. But that book, it meant something personal to you. That’s the point. It’s personal. Tammy’s book may not resonate with you, but I can guarantee there’s someone out there feeling hopeless, and her book gives them hope back.”

Before he has a chance to respond, authorities enter. He raises his hands in surrender. He knows it’s over.

I dart to the children’s section and grab a copy of Dear Mr. Henshaw. “Can I?” I ask the police officers flanking a now handcuffed Birt Bike Dude.

“Here. Don’t worry about getting it back to me. Good luck.”

An officer slips the book into a pocket of Dirt Bike’s pants.

A crowd of pink has formed in front of the library. Police escort Dirt Bike through it. I doubt I’ll ever hear from him again. But I secretly hope I do. And I hope re-reading Dear Mr. Henshaw while he’s sitting in jail, helps him remember the power of literature.

Dear Mr. Henshaw, My teacher read us your book about the dog to our class. It was funny. We licked it.

Your Friend, Leigh Botts