Notes in the Margins

Vivian loved used bookshops. She liked the smell of old paper. She liked to read the names on the first page.

One rainy Saturday, she went into a small shop. It was near the station. The shelves were tall and crooked. A grey cat slept on a pile of maps.

Vivian found a thin book of poems. The cover was soft and green. It cost two dollars. She bought it and went home.

That night, she sat in bed and opened the book. On page nine, she saw a pencil mark. Next to a sea poem, someone wrote a note. It said, "I read this on a train. It made me cry."

Vivian smiled. She read the poem twice. Then she took her own pencil. Under the note, she wrote, "I read it in bed. It made me sleepy, but I like it."

She felt silly. Nobody could read it, she thought. She closed the book and put out the light.

Two weeks later, she went back to the shop. She wanted a map. The shopkeeper was an old woman with big glasses.

"Do you sell this kind of book often?" Vivian asked. She showed the green book.

"I buy it back," said the woman. "A young man brought it in again last week. He bought it, then sold it again."

"Sold it again?"

"Yes. He says he never keeps books. He leaves them for the next person."

Vivian did not say why she asked. She bought the green book again for one dollar. At home, she opened it to page nine.

There was a new note under hers. It said, "Sleepy is a good review. Who are you?"

Her heart jumped. She read the words three times. Then she wrote, "I am Vivian. I like the sea and old cats. Who are you?"

The next day, she took the book to the shop. The old woman put it near the door.

For a month, they wrote in the margins. Sometimes the book stayed in the shop for days. Sometimes Vivian found it in one hour. The writer wrote a new note on every visit. He said his name was Cedric. He said he worked in a school. He said he did not like crowds or loud music. He said he loved tea.

Vivian told him about her sister. She told him about her job at the library. She told him about her fear of birds. The little book got full. They wrote in tiny letters. The poem about the sea was almost black with pencil.

One Friday, Vivian found a note on the last page. It said, "I am out of space. I want to say this to your face. Come to the shop on Saturday at three. I will hold the book."

Vivian looked at the page for a long time. Then she wrote one line below it. It said, "I will bring the tea."

On Saturday, she came to the shop at three. The rain fell again. The grey cat was on the maps. By the window stood a tall man. He held a green book.

He turned around. He looked shy. He held the book up like a small gift.

"I think," he said, "that you are Vivian."

"And you never keep books," she said.

"I kept this one," Cedric said. "I kept it all week."