The Meadow 67 Within hours, my sister was out again on my parents’ dime. The holds shelf is an entire wall of books. You have to lay each book on its spine so that the slip with the customer’s name on it sticks out from the top. When I started shelving today, as I was setting a book between two others, a strange feeling of reverence came over me. It’s hard to explain but the act felt very much like a prayer: creating a space, placing the book with care and deliberation. I don’t know if I consider each book its own prayer or the same prayer repeated over and over: Save my sister. Dostoyevsky as prayer. Suze Orman as prayer. Amanda Knox as prayer. Roxane Gay, Jhumpa Lahiri, Clive Cussler, Anne Frank—all prayers. I wonder if God finds certain prayers more acceptable. Is there a hierarchy like in the literary world? Does she value Isabel Allende over Sue Gratfton? Or is nonfiction a worthier offering? I don’t tell anyone about the things that go on in my head. Even Lupita doesn’t know about my shelving games, most especially this new one. Unlike me, she’s still a practicing Catholic. She also knows nothing of my sister’s perpetual drama. Lupita is almost a full foot shorter than me, even in her high-heeled boots. Her eyes are charcoal with tiny flecks of gold in them. Everyone at work calls her Pita. Not me. I always found her too pretty, too intimidating to pal around with. But then we started doing whatever it is we’re doing. She lives with her boyfriend, and as far as anyone knows, she’s straight, so the only time she lets me kiss her or put my hands on her is when we sneak into our boss, Katherine’s office on days we open the library alone. I see her boyfriend, Danny, sometimes when he comes to pick her up at closing. He’s small and rugged, one of those well-mus-
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