Jules and the Runaway Twins: Chapter One

The town library was a quaint brick building next to the church and across from the

fire station. It had an American flag out front and, in spring and summer, rows of

white, pink, and blue geraniums that perfumed the stone path to the front doors.

Inside, the children’s section shone with primary colors and cardboard displays of

literary greats like Stuart Little, Paddington Bear, and Dr. Seuss. Just behind that

was the teen lounge—a few high tables and a giant blue bean bag near the window.

Beyond that was the periodical room, where Jules Carter was sneezing his way through a big box of dusty archives.

“Bless you, dear,” Ms. Jensen said, as she opened an embossed letter from that day’s mail. “And bless us! I can’t believe my eyes, but it looks like a donor has given a very generous contribution to the Mill-Heights County Fair!”

Ms. Jensen was Jules friend Mickey’s mom, as well as the town librarian and “official Mill-Heights historian”—though Jules couldn’t for the life of him think of anything worth remembering about his hometown. And yet here he was, on summer break, stuck sifting through the town’s archives. A few months earlier, Jules had failed his school’s practice exam. In exchange for helping out around the library, Ms. Jensen had agreed to tutor Jules in all of the subjects he’d flunked last spring.

“Oh yeah?” Jules said, hoping the donor might distract Ms. Jensen from their impending trigonometry session. “Who sent the donation?” Jules asked, rising up on his tiptoes to peek over Ms. Jensen’s shoulder. From the desk of Silas Manderley, was written in curly letterhead at the top. “Nobody you’d know,” Ms. Jensen answered curtly, looking up. “Are you already done with that box? Because we have a date with our good friends sine, cosine, and tangent coming up momentarily.”

Jules sighed and shook his head; it was going to be another long day. Ms. Jensen was curating an “Mill-Heights Retrospective” exhibit at the county fair this summer, and Jules had been tasked with reading through ancient newspapers to find stories that might be “of general interest.” Which was funny, Jules thought, considering there was absolutely nothing interesting about Mill-Heights—then or now. Five days a week, Jules sat at the same round table, facing the back courtyard, bent over a huge stack of yellowing papers. Today he wore a rose-colored shirt and shorts and white slip-on sneakers.

Doe-eyed and sincere, Jules was often described by adults as “the boy next door.” Maybe it was intended as a compliment, but what Jules heard was young, quiet, unassuming. He had never craved the spotlight, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be overlooked. And speaking of overlooked, Jules forced himself to focus on the task at hand. In the past few weeks, he had learned more about Mill-Heights than he’d ever cared to know. Fallout shelters. Scandalous “miniskirts”, which didn’t seem all that mini. Someone from Mill-Heights who came in tenth at an international yo-yo contest. A new fondue restaurant that opened in 1974.

The basketball game versus Ridgeview where the marching band was suspended for performing a Beatles’ song instead of the national anthem. “Look at those beehives,” said a voice behind Jules. It was Matilda, an older girl from school. Until last year, Matilda had been the editor-in-chief of the school paper. She was in her usual black overalls, with a gray Mill-Heights High T-shirt under-neath. She wore her hair loose and un-styled, constantly tucking it behind her ears as she whizzed through the Dewey decimal system. Miraculously, Matilda actually seemed to enjoy their surroundings.

“Sorry?” Jules asked.

“That hairstyle,” Matilda said, pointing out a blond pouf from a photograph of the 1967 “Groovy” Fall Ball.

“Oh, right,” Jules said, he’d never heard of a “beehive” before.

“And that’s my section,” Matilda said, reaching over and gathering up all of the clippings spread out on the desk.

“I guess you’re welcome then,” Jules said with a weak grin. “More work for me and less for you.”

“Actually, you’re wrong,” said Matilda, bringing the papers over to the other side of the table. “Now it’s even more work for me.” He scrambled around in her bag for a pen. “You totally messed up the order.” “That might be a little bit of an exaggeration,” Jules said, holding his thumb and pointer finger just a tiny bit apart. But Matilda was no longer looking at him. “Do you spend a lot of time with archival materials while you’re practicing your handstands?” Matilda said under her breath, jotting something down in her notebook.

“I’m a dancer,” said Jules, trying to make his voice as pleasant as possible. “Not a gymnast.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” Matilda rearranged a bunch of red leather yearbooks. Jules sighed. This was officially going to be the most boring summer of his life.