Alcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians

from below, acknowledging Joan. “I came as soon as I heard about the accident.” It was a woman’s voice, familiar to me. Businesslike, curt, and more than a little condescending. I figured those were all good reasons why Ms. Fletcher wasn’t married.
    “Ms. Fletcher,” Joan said, faltering now that the time had come. They usually did. “I’m… sorry to –“
    “No,” Ms. Fletcher said. “You did well to last this long. I can arrange for the boy to be taken tomorrow.”
    I closed my eyes, sighing quietly. Joan and Roy had lasted quite long – longer, certainly, than any of my other recent sets of foster parents. Eight months was a valiant effort when taking care of me was concerned. I felt a little twist in my stomach.
    “Where is he now?” Ms. Fletcher asked.
    “He’s upstairs.”
    I waited quietly. Ms. Fletcher knocked but didn’t wait for my reply before pushing open the door.
    “Ms. Fletcher,” I said. “You look lovely.”
    It was a stretch. Ms. Fletcher – my personal caseworker – might have been a pretty woman, had she not been wearing a pair of hideous horn-rimmed glasses. She perpetually kept her hair up in a bun that was only slightly less tight than the dissatisfied line of her lips. She wore a simple white blouse and a black ankle-length skirt. For her, it was a daring outfit – the shoes, after all, were maroon.
    “The kitchen, Alcatraz?” Ms. Fletcher asked. “Why the kitchen?”
    “It was an accident,” I mumbled. “I was trying to do something nice for my foster parents.”
    “You decided that you would be kind to Joan Sheldon – one of the city’s finest and most well-renowned chefs – by burning down her kitchen?”
    I shrugged. “Just wanted to fix dinner. I figured even I couldn’t mess up ramen noodles.”
    Ms. Fletcher snorted. Finally, she walked into the room, shaking her head as she strolled past my dresser. She poked my inheritance package with her index finger, harrumphing quietly as she eyed the crumpled paper and worn strings. Ms. Fletcher had a thing about messiness. Finally, she turned back to me. “We’re running out of families, Smedry. The other couples are hearing rumors. Soon there won’t be any place left to send you.”
    I remained quiet, still lying down.
    Ms. Fletcher sighed, folding her arms and tapping index finger against one arm. “You realize, of course, that you are worthless.”
    Here we go, I thought, feeling sick. This was my least favorite part of the process. I stared up at my ceiling.
    “You are fatherless and motherless,” Ms. Fletcher said, “a parasite upon the system. You are a child who has been given a second, third, and now twenty-seventh chance. And how have you received this generosity? With indifference, disrespect, and destructiveness !”
    “I don’t destroy,” I said quietly. “I break. There’s a difference.”
    Ms. Fletcher sniffed in disgust. She left me then, walking out and pulling the door closed with a snap. I heard her say good-bye to the Sheldons, promising them that her assistant would arrive in the morning to deal with me.
    It’s too bad, I thought with a sigh. Roy and Joan really are good people. They would have made great parents.

Chapter 2
    Now, you’re probably wondering about the beginning of the previous chapter, with its reference to evil Librarians, altars made from encyclopedias, and its general feeling of “Oh, no! Alcatraz is going to be sacrificed!”
    Before we get to this, let me explain something about myself. I’ve been many things in my life. Student. Spy. Sacrifice. Potted plant. However, at this point, I’m something completely different from all of those – something more frightening than any of them.
    I’m a writer.
    You may have noticed that I began my story with a quick, snappy scene of danger and tension – but then quickly moved on to a more boring discussion of my childhood. Well, that’s because I wanted to prove something to you: that I am not a nice person.
    Would a nice person begin with such an exciting scene, then make you wait almost the entire book to read about it? Would a nice person write a book that exposes the true nature of the world to all of you ignorant Hushlanders, thereby forcing your lives into chaos? Would a nice person write a book that proves that Alcatraz Smedry, the Free Kingdoms’ greatest hero, was just a mean-spirited adolescent?
    Of course not.
    I awoke grumpily that next morning, annoyed by the sound of some banging on my