The Boy Who Asked the Library Everything

Every Tuesday afternoon at the Maplewood Public Library, the staff braced for what they affectionately called the arrival of Theo.

Theo was eight years old, small for his age, with hair that stuck up as if charged by static and a backpack bulging with library books, granola bars, and half-finished science experiments. He didn't come to the library to be quiet. He came to learn loudly.

He didn't mean to cause a stir — he just had questions. So many questions that the librarians began keeping a "Theo Log," a communal notebook where they recorded his best ones for posterity.

The first time he came in, he marched up to the reference desk and asked,
"If the Dewey Decimal System ever met the Library of Congress system, would they argue or cooperate?"

Librarian Mrs. Avery blinked, then smiled. "That," she said, "depends on how you define 'argue.'"

A week later, he came back.
"How do you know if an old book smells old because it's wise or because it's decaying?"

Mr. Patel from circulation inhaled deeply from a century-old volume of The Odyssey and declared, "Maybe both."

During storytime, he interrupted a reading of Charlotte's Web to ask,
"If a spider can write words in her web, could she also check out books if she had a tiny library card?"

The toddlers clapped in approval. Miss Dani from children's services promised to look into spider-sized scanning equipment.

At the computer lab, Theo approached the IT librarian.
"When people say the internet has all the answers, does that make you feel relieved or suspicious?"

That one earned him a long conversation and, eventually, a guided tour of the library's databases.

By autumn, he'd discovered the 900s — history — and asked,
"When historians write about the future, do they have to wait a long time to see if they were right?"

He followed that up a few minutes later with,
"If history repeats itself, does that mean it also needs citations the second time around?"

Mrs. Avery laughed so hard she had to take off her glasses.

In December, the library hosted a "Make Your Own Bookmark" craft day. Theo's bookmark featured a hand-drawn astronaut surrounded by open books. He titled it Library Orbit.

Then he asked,
"If a library existed in space, would books float off the shelves, or would curiosity hold them down?"

Later that winter, he asked the teen librarian,
"If words can change people's minds, do librarians have to get superhero training?"

That question made it onto the whiteboard in the staff lounge under "Quote of the Week."

By spring, Theo was a local legend. Parents whispered about "the boy who interviewed the library." Teachers said he'd grow up to be a philosopher, a scientist, or perhaps a very polite troublemaker.

On his birthday, the librarians surprised him with a blank journal titled Questions for the Universe. Inside the front cover, they wrote:

"For Theo, who reminds us that curiosity is not a phase — it's a calling."

Theo grinned. Then he looked up and said,"If curiosity is a calling, does that mean libraries are its voicemail?"

And with that, he trotted off to the nonfiction section — the librarians smiling after him, already wondering what he'd ask next Tuesday.

(This story is donated to the public domain.)