I glance at the clock, my stomach already constricting around the absence of breakfast. I couldn't eat this morning; I could still taste the cake from the day before. Fifteen more minutes until the high school seniors arrive for the career presentation. I've been prepping for this all week, but after what happened with Derek, I can't shake the feeling that this going to be a disaster too, that my life is just a row of dominoes, destined to topple entirely now that one has fallen.
Teenagers. Why did I agree to this again? Oh, yeah, because Martha didn't give me a choice. I'm standing in the main conference room, surrounded by shelves of reference books no one touches, a projector buzzing quietly in the background. I've got a PowerPoint ready, a few handouts about what it's like to work in a library—basically the least exciting career pitch anyone could ever give. But I'm trying. I even wore my more "professional" cardigan, the one that doesn't have any holes in the sleeves. Of which I have maybe two.
Right on time, the sound of sneakers and shuffling backpacks drifts into the room, followed by a stream of students who look like they'd rather be anywhere else. I can already see a few of them with their eyes glued to their phones, their faces flat with boredom before I've even said a word. This is a mandatory thing, I get it, but shouldn't they at least be happy they're not actually in school right now? In my time, I was ecstatic whenever we got to leave the building. These teens look like nothing could elicit a genuine reaction from them.
And then, behind them, come the teachers.The first one through the door is a woman, probably in her early thirties. She's beautiful in that effortless way some people just are, with sharp, delicate, symmetrical features and a sleek pixie cut that makes her look both approachable and impossibly cool. She's wearing a tailored blazer and jeans, carrying herself with a casual confidence that makes me feel immediately frumpy. I catch her eye, and she smiles warmly, mouthing a quick "thank you" as she ushers the students into their seats.
Behind her is an older man, probably in his fifties, with graying hair and wire-framed glasses. He's wearing a button-down shirt that looks like it's seen a lot of coffee and mustard spills and a tie that's slightly askew, as if he's already been through some minor emergencies before ending up here. He gives me a polite nod, his expression neutral, maybe a little tired, like he's done this a hundred times before and is planning to nod off in the back of the room as soon as he figures it's safe to do so. I can't really blame him.
The students file into the chairs, most of them slouching immediately, some looking half asleep, others already whispering to each other. A few are wearing those oversized hoodies that basically swallow them whole. One girl has a pair of earbuds in and doesn't even bother pretending to take them out or even cover them with her hair which is pinned up, so I get a great view of them plugging up her ear holes. Fantastic. I opt not to call her out, even though it makes me feel spineless. The beautiful teacher—Miss Pixie Cut—claps her hands together lightly to get their attention.
"All right, everyone, phones away for now. We're here to learn about careers," she says, emphasizing the last word like she knows it's a joke to them but is trying to stay enthusiastic.
One of the boys at the back rolls his eyes but slips his phone into his pocket. Another girl, who looks like she hasn't slept in days, her hair mussed and large dark circles under her eyes, just groans and slumps further into her seat. I wonder why they're all so terrible. Is there something in the water in this city that makes our teens worse than anywhere else? It sure seems that way right now or maybe it's just my own doom and gloom attitude, the way my thoughts keep wanting to go back to Derek.
I clear my throat, feeling suddenly exposed in front of them. I've done presentations before, sure, but it's different with a room full of bored teenagers. They're a tough crowd, and they know it. Plus, my confidence is in the toilet right now. After all, I have just been brutally dumped.
"Hi, everyone," I start, giving what I hope is a sincere-looking smile despite my trepidation. "My name's Skye, and I'm a librarian here. Today, I'll be talking a bit about what it's like to work in a library—what the job involves, the skills you need, and maybe answer some questions about working in public service."
Total silence. A few of them are already looking at their phones again, despite Miss Pixie Cut's efforts. I force myself to keep going."I know 'librarian' might not be the first job you think of when you hear 'career,' but it's actually a lot more interesting than it sounds."
A girl with a nose ring snorts under her breath, exchanging a glance with her friend. Great. This is going well.
The older male teacher clears his throat loudly from the back of the room. "Let's give Miss—sorry, Skye—a little respect here, okay?" His voice is deep but kind, though it's clear he's tired of wrangling teenagers.
I nod a quick thanks at him, but I'm already losing them. I can see the glaze of boredom creeping over their smooth young faces.
Desperate to win at least a few of them over, I fumble through the next part, my voice going a little higher in pitch as I speed up. "I, uh, know libraries might seem like a thing of the past, but the truth is, libraries are evolving. We're not just about books anymore. We help people with job searches, research projects, community events, even technology. We're here to serve the community in more ways than people realize.
"Some of them look mildly interested now, but it's fleeting. Miss Pixie Cut gives me an encouraging nod, but even she seems aware that I'm struggling.
I push on. "It's also a really stable job. Not the most glamorous, but there's something about working with books and helping people that's... fulfilling." I cringe a little as the word "fulfilling" comes out, realizing how out of touch that must sound to them. I'm definitely not fun, not laid back, just like Derek said. No. I push that insidious thought away.
A boy in the back with messy brown hair and an oversized hoodie with some neon-colored slogan crammed into illegible graffiti on it raises his hand, though he doesn't wait for me to call on him. "Um... isn't your job like just going to be made redundant by AI in like three years?"
I blanch because I have no idea how the hell I'm supposed to answer that. This kid just straight up put one of my greatest fears into words and lobbed them right into my face.
"I mean... uh, there are obviously a number of changes taking place in many if not all research-based fields due to AI, but... uh..." But what, I wonder. I know how much people love a cheaper alternative to pretty much anything in life. The pause grows while the teens stare at me, suddenly interested. "AI is still a tool," I say firmly. "It's supposed to be implemented by people. We may use it to complete certain tasks more quickly, but human empathy and critical thinking can't be matched by a computer." There. For a second, I allow myself to feel proud of my reply.
That is, until the boy snickers. "Except that it's definitely going to be used to reduce staff. I mean, it already is, right? There are self-checkout desks in libraries all over the world and AI itself is only going to evolve to be able to complete more complicated task. It's in its infancy right now."
Maybe I should commend him for ostensibly knowing so much about libraries all across the world, or tell him that self-checkout is just removing the most tedious and simple aspect of the job and doesn't require AI, instead I blink, caught a little off guard by his insistence, and see Miss Pixie Cut shooting him a warning look. Meanwhile, the older teacher is shaking his head, clearly used to this kid's attitude, but not showing any signs of planning to come to my rescue.
I straighten my shoulders and meet the boy's light blue eyes. Whatever Derek or anyone else might think, I'm not yet redundant; I'm not just going to lay down and give up.
I clear my throat. "Look, obviously we can't see into the future. You have a point about AI, I can't deny that, but my point also still stands. AI requires human input, and I don't think relying on computers alone is going to get you very far in life. I have knowledge, experience and skills that I can apply to any given task and I also have creativity and originality, a sense of humor, empathy, the list goes on."
I find myself trailing off, running out of steam and it occurs to me that I have lost the room. The boy I was addressing shrugs awkwardly, the constellation of acne on his face shifting as he grimaces and drawls, "Okay, whatever."
I keep myself from deflating by sheer force of will and finish my presentation with a few general closing remarks that don't leave any impact whatsoever. But I smile through the whole thing and that's a win, right?
A few minutes later, I watch the group of students shuffle out with mixed feelings. I'm relieved it's over, but irked that I let their morning fizzle out on such a lackluster note. Miss Pixie Cut who brings up the rear, waiting for the last stragglers to pass by her on the way out, bestows a small, consoling smile on me. "Thanks again for doing this," she tells me, "and sorry about Jayden." She rolls her eyes theatrically which briefly makes her look much younger, almost like a teen herself.
"Don't worry about it." I try to act nonchalant, completely unfazed. "He posed a fair question, plus he seems really engaged in what's going on in the world. Those are good things."
"Yeah... he's still going to be an insufferable tech-bro, though. Probably." She gives me a little wave before she leaves and I watch her go, glad that at least I don't have to deal with Jayden anymore. After the door has fallen shut, I sink into one of the chairs, exhaling, letting the silence fill me up. Surrounded by the detritus of my presentation - the writing on the whiteboard behind me, my scattered notes on the desk, the assortment of pens that always seems to spawn around me - I try not to reflect on my life.
The urge to check my phone is strong. I bite my lip, holding myself back. Deep down, I know Derek won't have tried to contact me. In times of conflict, he tends to withdraw, leaving the ball in my court. Only this time it feels like there is nothing I can do, like he has completely left the playing field.
I get up and glance around the conference room to distract myself, half-expecting to find some forgotten jacket or phone. Teenagers always leave things behind. And then, I spot it: a notebook. It's lying on one of the desks, tucked under a crumpled flyer from the library. I walk closer, listening for the noises of the class, but they have faded. Seems like no one is missing this yet.
It looks ordinary enough—spiral-bound, worn edges, a few stickers slapped on the cover, but something about it makes me pause. I don't know why, but I reach for it, flipping it open without really thinking. Inside, the pages are filled with scribbled handwriting, drawings, and strange symbols that look almost like... glyphs?
At first, I assume it's a bunch of doodles or maybe notes from some weirdly esoteric art class. Either way, it's not unusual for students to sketch or write poetry in the margins of their notebooks. But this? This somehow feels different. It triggers a vague flutter in my stomach. Some of the words stand out immediately:
*"Summoning a Familiar"*
*"Spell of Protection"*
*"Binding Charm for Broken Hearts"*
I stare at the phrases, eyebrows raised, convinced for a second that I'm misreading them. Spells? Seriously? That's... so nineties, right? I had no clue teen-aged girls were still into this kind of thing, so long past Sabrina, the Teenaged Witch.
I flip through a few more pages, expecting to find something that gives it away as a joke or part of a game. But there's no punchline, no winking sarcasm or cartoon witches. The handwriting is neat, focused, as if whoever wrote this took it seriously. Which doesn't mean much, because if Gen Z is anything, it's very *very* deadpan.
I let out a small, incredulous laugh. It's probably just some kid playing around, I tell myself. Maybe it's part of a D&D campaign. Magic spells? In a high school notebook? It's not that weird, right? I'd be the first person to admit that I'm out of touch with trends and kids in general, though I'd wanted them. Pain descends on me at the thought, like a bird of prey swooping down from the sky. Yeah, in my vision of the future with Derek kids had featured. More than anything I'd wanted that clichéd picture-book family.
My fingers hover over one of the spells titled, *"Your Wish Is My Command"* I skim the ingredients list, which includes things like lavender, salt, pig's blood, a candle and a mirror. It sounds ridiculous, not to mention super gross with the pig's blood. That would have earned me a visit with the school counselor in my day for sure. But there's something about the way it's phrased that pulls me in, a strange mix of curiosity and disbelief gnawing at me.
Who is the mysterious recipient of the command supposed to be? Some higher power? Or a *lower* power? I chuckle at the thought, even as a light shiver travels up my spine and my toes curl into the insoles of my chucks. I shake my head, snapping the notebook shut.
It's just a notebook. A kid's silly attempt at mystery or fantasy, nothing more. Empowerment and wish-fulfillment, who doesn't dream of that sort of stuff? I sure did when I was a teen. Wanting to be special, wanting to be chosen, I still remember yearning for that feeling of being elevated from the drudgery of daily life, getting lost in books and waiting, waiting for that magical event that would turn my life around.
For the past five years, I have held up my run in with Derek in the rain as that event. I'm not going to lie to myself. The breakup with Derek is still raw, and the temptation to do something—anything—about it, even something as absurd as casting a spell, stirs somewhere deep inside me. What would it be like to actually get what I want?
I snort. No. This is ridiculous. Magic isn't real.
I tuck the notebook under my arm, ready to drop it in the lost and found box we keep under the front desk. But as I leave the room, I can't help but glance at the cover again and wonder if it would be so awful to pretend for just a moment.