Barnes and Nobles was crowded with children. Ricky Ricotta was missing. Captain Underpants was there. I don’t like underpants. Carle was alluring. Kids were waiting for a story teller. Where do these guys come from? They are so dreadful. Surely they are not paid to read.
My son is hopped up on Starbuck’s bitter hot chocolate. He is very good tonight. He struggles to sit still. He whispers in my ear. He tries his best to be courteous.
The moment is peculiar. The stories are apt: Jews at Valley Forge and the Night Before Christmas coaxed from memory while the words glare from the pages. Mothers are present. Story time is either not cool enough or beneath fathers. Tonight it is decidedly just bizarre.
Holiday spirit is missing. There is cocoa, cookies, and tired adults. There is a cacophony of voices: none from reading books, or perusing the stacks. There are mysteries here.
Who are these people? What are they saying? Is this place real? Where is the holiday?
My son’s mind has disappeared with a sugar rush. His actions and thoughts are seemingly random. The mystery is unsolved.
There are ten days left.