"Mom, I'm home," I called as I pushed through the dark, heavy mahogany door.

A little nerdy stuff I knew: the etymology of home was heem or heim, Dutch or German origin. It meant the same thing, just home. Not so fascinating.

It wasn't like the word record, originating from cord, which meant heart. Before technology was known to humankind, people recorded things by memory. And the most important thoughts were taken to heart. That was how record came from the Latin word cor or cord, meaning heart. Now, that was interesting.

But home was next to poetry despite not having an intriguing beginning.

The warmth in its definition was comforting. It could mean different things to different people.

For me, it was home-cooked meals, comfy PJs, and my favorite reading nook. It was a safe place where I needed to be at the end of the day.

That was why people announced it when they arrived, like a celebration.

"Mom? I'm home," I called again.

I entered through the front of the house. It was a modern farmhouse design—clean white walls, family photos on shelves, and a traditional brown rug under a warm gray sofa.

"In here," my mother's voice echoed through the hallway leading to the kitchen.

Before heading there, I removed my shoes, chucked them in the coat closet, and put on my house slippers. I found my parents talking, sitting on stools by the kitchen island. Glasses of wine in their hands.

They were like a photograph of copper and champagne—east meets west.

"Are we celebrating something?" I asked, dropping my bag on the granite counter.

I thought we had an emergency, but it seemed more like an urgent matter that needed classy drinks.

My mother turned first, dark brown eyes welcoming me. "Depends on what you tink about your dad's news." She tucked her black hair behind her ear and turned to her husband.

My father waved for me. "Come here and sit down," he said, gesturing at the open stool beside him. His smile deepened the crow's feet beside his gray eyes.

I felt a little nervous about the news.

It reminded me of the time I was still in middle school. After the first semester of my first year, my parents told me we were leaving New York and coming to Littleton, New Hampshire—the small town where my father grew up.

I had been devastated to leave the big city.

The comfort of the public library helped me a lot. And after meeting Lotty, I supposed it wasn't so bad.

I sat beside my father and readied myself. "Please, don't tell me we're moving," I begged.

My father chuckled. He shook his head, catching warm light over his pale cheeks dotted with age spots. "We're not moving. If anything, I think we're staying here permanently."

I blinked at him, confused.

"The company hasn't been doing great. It'll survive, but we're going through a downturn right now. And the management is cutting people," my father explained. His hair had turned all silver in the last couple of years. His work was stressful. And I understood he was doing his best.

"Are you getting cut, Dad?" I asked.

"Not exactly. I'm one of the lucky ones getting an early retirement package." My father grinned and raised his wine glass. "I looked at it, and it's not so bad. It's a good option rather than wait another year before I retire."

"What about college?" I asked, wondering how big the retirement package was. Sure, I was turning eighteen in less than two years. By then, my parents would have the option to kick me out of the house, but I hoped they didn't expect me to find a job, sustain myself, and pay for school.

"Don't worry about that, Elsy. Your mother is a smart woman. She forced me to start saving up for your college fund even before we knew she was pregnant." He raised his glass to my mother.

"Dat's how Pilipinos are. Laging handa." My mother smiled and clinked her glass to my father's. Both of them sipped in celebration.

I dug in my brain for what laging handa meant and recalled my mother telling me stories about being a Girl Scout in the Philippines when she was younger. They always said those words, which meant always prepared.

"As long as you choose a college we can afford," my father added. "Or get a scholarship."

"We can also benture into a business since you'll hab more time now." My mother took another sip of her wine.

"Or—" My father raised a finger. "—I could complete the home improvement projects I've planned."

"Hay nako! Dere you go again. Don't start a project because you neber pinish it," my mother ordered.

I couldn't find a direct translation of hay nako in my brain. It was an expression of frustration. My mother used it every day, and sometimes, my father said it too.

When I was a freshman, I started saying hay nako in school. The other kids raised their eyebrows at me as if I was saying some sort of enchantment, hexing them. So, I stopped.

"Okay. Well, at least this year I can join the Gathering of the Jack O'Lanterns. I'll make the best-carved pumpkin anyone in this town has ever seen," my father said, gray eyes twinkling. "What do you say, kiddo?" He turned to me. "Do you want to join me in creating a masterpiece?"

"I think it's good you're retiring, Dad." I didn't answer his question because I had no interest in carving a pumpkin. "I have plans to apply for college scholarships next year."

I noted the smile that my parents shared. This was a celebratory moment.

"Do you think I can get a glass of wine?" I teased, hoping I could at least get a sip.

"Sorry, kiddo. You know you're too young." My father shook his head.

"You'll get your pirst beer next time we bisit da Pinas." Pinas was the shortened version of the Philippines. "Der's some spaghetti in da pridge. Do you want me to heat it in da microwabe por you?"

"No, I got it." I stood up and walked to the fridge, finding the container of pasta and popping it in the microwave.

Listening to my parents discuss their plans warmed my heart. Some of it included traveling, but not until after I had gone to college. Most of it covered investments—bonds, stocks, and a mention of cryptocurrency.

I sighed in relief, glad the news hadn't been bad, not adding to the library's permanent closure.

The microwave beeped. I took the container out and sat beside my father again. "Dad, what about Finn's dad?" I asked, twirling some spaghetti using a fork. I hadn't forgotten about him.

"Johnson?" my father asked. "I can't say for sure, but he's likely too young and talented to get cut."

"Finn said his dad texted him to come home because of some news at work."

My father took a deep breath. "I think the management is making a mistake to let him go if that's the case. But I hope not. He's one of the best in his department."

"I hope so too. We don't want any more bad news to pile up," I said before munching on my dinner.

"I tot dis was good news," my mother said.

I swallowed. "No, I mean the library. Did you know it's closing permanently?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, anak. It's closing at da end op October," my mother answered.

"The end of October?" I exclaimed. Suddenly, too devastated to eat, I dropped the fork in the container.

My mother called me anak, a term of endearment, meaning child. And in her context, my child. She only called me that to comfort me, indicating the grave situation.

"No!" I cried. "I thought it wouldn't be for another year or two. But a month?"

"I know, anak. I know how much you lob da library. But der's notting we can do about it." My mother leaned over my father to touch my shoulder.

"But it's not fair!" My eyes stung with tears, overwhelmed by emotions.

"Sweetheart, things are bound to change with technological advancements going so fast. Nothing is forever. Some things end at some point. We have to learn to accept it," my father said, trying to convince me to move on.

I sniffed and shook my head. "There has to be something we can do. It's not the right time for the library to go."

I admitted I needed the library more than the townsfolk of Littleton did. My fondest memories were inside the library.

It was my escape from this angst-filled teenage life. I couldn't accept its closure.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." My father patted me on the head like I was still a child.

I sniffed again. The tears threatened to fall, and I couldn't handle it. Jumping off the stool, I left my dinner and rushed up the stairs to my bedroom.

"Anak!" My mother called, but I ignored her.

Inside my room, I leaned back on my closed door, slid down to the floor, and began to cry. "No, no, no," I whispered.

It's funny how I was only thinking about the origin of words—beginnings—when my parents were telling me about endings.

The library was more to me than just another building in Littleton. It's where I learned to love reading books.

I remembered the first time I entered its arched entryway, taking in the musty smell of old printed paper. It had been a few weeks after we moved to Littleton.

I found Bunnicula by Debora and James Howe in the fiction section. I started reading it, becoming compelled.

Ms. Clark had been kind enough to create a library card for me. I brought my mother in the next day to sign for its release. As soon as the card was placed in my hands, I rushed to the shelves and borrowed Bunnicula and other middle-grade novels that intrigued me.

The library was the first friend I made in town.

Now, I was about to lose it.

I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my purple sweater and stood, determined to do something about it. I walked to my small desk at the corner of the room and opened my laptop, typing and searching for how to save the library from closing.

Opening several tabs from the search results, I found the most common answer—the library needed patrons.

It was precisely what Ms. Clark had said. The library was closing because people weren't going there anymore.

So, that was it. But how?

How could I get more people to come to the library?

How could I encourage them to read books?

There weren't many answers to my question on the internet, and I ended up closing the tabs one by one. I opened too many that some hadn't even loaded properly with images that were still buffering. I didn't wait, closing them until I got to an Amazon page.

I wasn't sure how a shopping website turned up in my search results. The content was about borrowing Kindle books from public libraries. We had that option in Littleton, but I never tried it, preferring physical copies over digital ones.

When I hovered the mouse cursor on the exit button, turning it red, something else came to my mind.

"Finn." His name was like a break to my frantic searching. His smile flashed in my head.

Amazon equals shopping. Shopping equals gifts.

I hadn't forgotten about him yet. What was I going to give him for his birthday?

Taking a deep breath, I realigned the cursor on the Amazon search bar and clicked.

"What are you going to like, Mr. Huckleberry Finn?" I asked, staring at the laptop screen and wondering if he was named after the beloved character.

If only he were a book nerd like me, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain would be a great gift idea.

But what if—

Before I became a book nerd, I was not. I became passionate about reading because I started reading. So, if people could do the same, they could fall in love with books like I did.

I could nudge our community, starting with Finn.

I searched for the book on Amazon. Several options came up. One of the top results was a green paperback illustrated edition for only ten dollars. I added it to the cart and proceeded to check out using my mother's credit card number, which I saved on my account as a payment method about a year ago.

My mother told me I could use it for reasonable purchases.

Well, this was a reasonable purchase, right?

I was simultaneously hitting two problematic birds with one stone, solving the gift and library crisis.

But who was I kidding?

Coming up with one book nerd would not save the library. Finn was even a long shot. And buying books for everyone in Littleton was ridiculous.

I had to think of something else.

I typed in more keywords relating to the library's closure and continued all night, searching for solutions. If the internet was so powerful, it would have the answers for me to save the library.

I only needed to find it.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hey! Thanks for continuously reading A Book Nerd's Guide to Falling in Love. ❤️ Elsy's crisis is getting worse. She needs to find a solution fast.

Happy Reading!

Hi_D

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