Page 16 of The Book Swap

I’m still holding the book open on the page it was placed in and, wiping my eyes, I catch sight of some red pen scribbled beneath the black. The line about never killing a mockingbird is underlined and to the side in black ink I’ve written, Protect the vulnerable—this is why Atticus takes Tom’s case.

Underneath it someone has written in neat, separate letters, so different than my own scrawls, Is writing in the margins of a book a crime as bad as killing a mockingbird?

I freeze, running my eyes back and forth across the two sentences. It’s almost like they’re teasing me or telling me off, but they’ve written in the book too, so it ends up making me laugh instead.

I swallow, flicking back and forward through the pages. The notes are everywhere. Red words among my black ones, breaking up comments which were only ever intended for me. I’m too grateful that they’ve returned the book with the postcard still intact to be embarrassed or cross, but I definitely feel exposed. At one point I’ve written, Such a dreamboat by a line about Atticus to remind myself of the moment I totally fell for him, and the other reader has obviously seen it, because written beneath it is:

We’re agreed Atticus is the best parent in any fiction book ever. Right? If I’m ever a dad, he’s my role model.

So the person writing back is a man. Mystery Man.

He’s questioned things I’ve written. Laughed at observations I’ve made with a LOL—so true! or a Ha! Love it. Toward the end he’s written:

I never realized how powerful this line about courage was until I saw your comment. Got me right in the gut. Thank you.

Heat rushes to my cheeks at that one. It feels like my biggest achievement in days, to have taught someone something about a book I love so much. He’s done the same though. The words Is this sad or is it kind of beautiful? written in the last few pages, make me see that moment from a whole new—arguably more positive—perspective.

Shaking my head, I flick to the back page to return Bonnie’s postcard. Written at the bottom, beneath the words “The End,” it says, Meet me in Great Expectations?

Somewhere behind me a child shrieks, flinging themselves through the tunnel on a scooter, and I reread the words, a smile spreading across my face. Does that mean what I think it does? I start scanning the shelves, searching for the words. Can I be right? Has he put a book back? I don’t know who this “me” is, but I want to find out. He’s made me happy for the first time all week, and in a long time, and maybe reading Great Expectations again through his eyes will be like reading it for the first time.

Inside the cabinet I land on the spine. A thick cream one with the word “DICKENS” in capitals. There’s the book, waiting for me, and the feeling is similar to receiving a wrapped present on my birthday. I pull it out and open it on a random page. The red pen has circled a line about life being made of many partings welded together and it feels like a sign somehow. Like whoever this man is, he understands the exact place I’m at in my life. Mourning the partings, and terrified of the future. It’s like the space beside it is waiting for my response.

“Thanks, Eileen,” I whisper to the community library, taking the book. “I promise to change into something colorful for you.”

I have a fleeting thought of going out to buy the cabinet a new roof. Giving it a lick of paint. Repaying it for what it’s just given back to me.

Standing up, I walk away, and it’s as though I’m carrying an opinionated but insightful new friend with me. A parting, welded together by the book in my hands.

6

JAMES

An estate agent meets me outside a house on the edge of Ruskin Park, which is a short walk from Brixton. It’s the eighth one I’m viewing and I haven’t even seen a photo. Apparently “Demand is so high, we don’t have to bother.”

This guy, who looks like he should still be in school with his baby face and fast-talking enthusiasm, leads me up the stairs to a third-floor flat and opens the door to reveal a space that is, for once, freshly painted and a decent size. The kitchen and living room are one open-plan area and beside them is the bathroom, but it’s the bedroom that decides it for me.

There’s a desk under the window, which looks out over the park. My chest rises at the sight of it. It’s so full of hope, if you ignore the Gary Lineker book sitting on top of it.

The appliances look newish, it doesn’t stink of damp and it’s got a view. The whole place feels hopeful. It feels like a new start.

“How can I get it?” I ask, and the agent’s face lights up.

“Transfer me the deposit, right now, and it’s yours.”

He’s baby-faced, but sharp. He reminds me of Joel, who stepped so effortlessly from his last day in college to a job in the city, as though he’d always been there.

Shaking the agent’s hand, I follow my map back to Brixton, unable to believe that within a week this will be my new commute. It leads me down a street on the opposite side of the park, where I step over boxes of toys left on the pavement Free to a Good Home and pass a cat which eyes me suspiciously as I walk too close to the wall it’s sitting on. I approach a bridge, slowing as a little community library sitting to the left of it catches my eye. It’s the only piece of color in an otherwise dark corner of London, sitting beside discarded rubbish and in front of a flower bed that’s home to every empty crisp packet consumed within a ten-mile radius. I’ve seen these libraries before but never stopped at one. Makes sense I should try the one in my new neighborhood.

There’s a decent selection. Loads I’d buy if I were at a bookshop, but I would feel bad taking too many. I’m reading the back of that one everyone raved about last year, where the world’s ending, when someone approaches behind me.

“Just popping this back,” says a woman in her fifties, and she pushes the book onto the shelf directly in front of me, before walking away.

To Kill a Mockingbird. I pull it out, turning it over in my hands as I take in how totally destroyed it is. If I were still in touch with the ex-girlfriend who always commented on how badly I treated books, I’d send her a photo. There are pages taped in. Markers on different pages. Sentences highlighted or underlined. My heart starts racing just looking at it. This is what I used to do. I lived for English lessons. They were one of the main reasons I kept going to school, even when I knew the bullies were waiting. Our teacher, Mr. Carter, was so good you couldn’t help but fall in love with whatever you were reading in his classes. He created a fascination in me for words and their meaning. Within moments of stepping into his classroom, I was transported to another world. When Mr. Carter left, just before our GCSEs, it totally shook me. Would I be able to continue loving the subject as much without him? That’s why, the next year, I came up with the book idea Joel mentioned in order to keep that love alive. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the idea since I found some of my old notes about it—and while holding Harper Lee’s masterpiece in my hands, all of it rushes through me again. How intensely I wanted to create through my teenage heartbreak. Even back then, I knew it was going to change the course of my life, to have hurt and been hurt like that. I wanted to remember it all, so I could share my story.

I open up the book, scanning the notes. They are insightful, and in some places touching. It’s almost as though the woman behind me has gifted me an education in what makes good writing.

“Excuse me,” I shout after her, and she turns to look at me. “Are you sure it’s okay if I take this?”

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