THE SECRET LIBRARY

Kekla Magoon is the renowned author of numerous fiction and nonfiction titles for young readers, including X: A Novel, cowritten with Ilyasah Shabazz, Revolution in Our Time: The Black Panther Party’s Promise to the People, and The Season of Styx Malone. She has received the Margaret A. Edwards Award, an NAACP Image Award, a Boston Globe-Horn Book Award, and four Coretta Scott King Honors, among others. Kekla Magoon lives in Montpelier, Vermont, and teaches at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

“An engaging adventure, brimming with mysteries, chock-full of history, and full of twists you’ll never see coming. Once you step into The Secret Library, you’ll never want to leave.” —Christina Soontornvat, three-time Newbery Honoree

“Whimsical worldbuilding, swashbuckling action, and buoyant third-person narration complement Magoon’s vibrant character portraits and twisty, nuanced plot.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Multiple award-winner Magoon has crafted an engrossing story that skillfully combines a coming-of-age story with fantasy and historical fiction. A deeply satisfying, page-turning, genre-defying read.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“A spellbinding tale of self-determination and family history. . . . The book handles substantial concepts in an effortless manner. The Secret Library is a gratifying, adventure-filled novel that’s sure to stand out in middle grade collections.” —Foreword Reviews (starred review)

“Magoon’s novel is like the very best of children’s fantasy literature, in that for all its whimsy and magic, it also carries something almost ineffably, crucially human: what it is to be alive, what it is to grow up. In that way, Magoon has more than earned her place on the shelf of life-changing, classic children’s fantasy novels.” —The Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books (starred review)

Dally paused with her hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. In all her eleven and a half years, nothing had ever felt so important. Clutching the large folder that could make or break her fate, she turned the knob and pushed her way through the door, into the outer office. A bright blue-and-gold block-printed rug led like a runway toward the

receptionist’s desk, but a few steps in, Dally forced her gaze up from the carpet. She pulled her shoulders back, held her head high. Con dent. Assertive. Determined to get what she wanted.

“Hi,” she said to the curly-haired woman behind the L-shaped desk. “I have a three-thirty appointment.”

“Hello, Miss Peteharrington,” the receptionist said. “You can go right in, of course.”

Dally glanced at the digital clock on the desk. It read 3:28. “I’m a bit early,” she said, hugging her folder. “Should I wait?”

The receptionist smiled gently, a mix of kindness and sad-ness in her expression. “I suppose so. Let me just ring her.” She picked up the desk phone and pressed a single button. “Your three-thirty is here.”

Dally nodded. She rather liked the formal sound of that.

“Will do,” the receptionist said into the phone. To Dally, she said, “She’s ready for you. Go ahead.”

“­Thank you,” Dally said. She opened her folder and glanced inside one last time.

“Good luck,” whispered the receptionist.

Dally hoped she wouldn’t need luck. She had prepared a very convincing presentation, if she did say so herself. But out loud, she said a polite “Thank you.”

Dally followed another blue-and-gold carpet toward the main office door, head high, folder in hand. ­The folder contained a tablet with her slideshow already cued up, plus a full backup printout of her presentation, complete with seventeen graphs, two pie charts, three research articles, and a flip chart of bulleted notes printed in her neatest handwriting.

If all that didn’t convince her mother, nothing would.

Dally was prepared. She had made the appointment on Friday for this Monday afternoon. She didn’t always have to make an appointment to see her mother, of course, but during business hours it was generally a good idea. Dally badly needed a yes today, and interrupting her mother’s work without warning was sure to put her in a bad mood.

For the last three school days, Dally had spent her free time—the unscheduled hour after school ended and before her business lessons began—doing research and organizing her thoughts. Then, over the weekend, she’d practiced her presentation several times in front of the mirror. Her mother needed a good reason to do anything different, so Dally had a whole folder full of reasons.

“Hello, Delilah,” said Dally’s mother. She rounded the desk and held out her hand to her daughter. “It’s nice to see you.”

“It’s nice to see you, too,” Dally responded. She gripped her mother’s hand and shook warmly, the way she had been taught.

“Please,” her mother said, gesturing toward the chairs on the visitor side of the desk. It was a boss’s way of saying, Have a seat, but remember who’s in charge here.

­The chairs were wingbacks and quite large. Dally perched on the very edge of one so that her feet still touched the floor. She usually enjoyed climbing into them and watching her feet stick straight out, but it wouldn’t do to be kicking and flailing while she was trying to seem responsible and businesslike.

Dally’s mother was always perfectly businesslike. Her wavy brown hair was tucked into a neat chignon at the base of her neck, resting on a crisply ironed blouse collar. The delicate features on her smooth, pale face appeared calm. Dally had not inherited the always-put-together gene. Her school uniform top was hopelessly wrinkled. She had restrained her generous black curls somewhat before this meeting, but her full, brown cheeks felt blotchy with heat that certainly was visible.

Appearance was only one of the many, many ways that she and her mother were different. Her mother settled back into her own chair behind the desk. “Interesting that you’ve made an appointment. I assume you have some business to discuss with me?”

Dally sat quietly for a moment. She had rehearsed this part many times. She knew exactly where to begin, and yet it was all different now that she was in the stately office, with the huge brown desk and the glare of afternoon light through the windows and the pressure of her mother’s gaze on her performance.

“­This is your meeting,” her mother prompted. “What’s on your mind?”

Dally swallowed hard. “Yes, I have a presentation,” she said, placing her tablet on the desk facing her mother and starting the slideshow. Lead with the information, land on the ask, she reminded herself. She opened her folder and pulled out page one.

“Did you know that ninety percent of students who get accepted to Ivy League colleges have a significant track record of participating in extracurricular activities?” She laid the research study on the desk and clicked to her next slide.

“And did you know that the life skills kids can learn from outdoor programs, like scouting and camping, enhance socialization, increase creativity, and actually improve their brains?” She laid the second research study on the desk.

“And did you know” —this was the tough one— “that children who are grieving benefit from finding a way to honor the memory of their loved one?”

Dally’s mother glanced toward the framed photo beside her monitor: one quick, there-and-back tug of the eyeballs. If you blinked, you’d miss it. But Dally didn’t blink, so her gaze followed automatically.

Dally did a double take. The photo was turned away from her mother. So instead of glancing at the back of the frame, as she had the last time she’d been in her mother’s office, Dally found herself looking directly at the best photo ever taken of her and Grandpa.  They were sitting at the kitchen table, contemplating

a chocolate cake. Forks in hand, he was smiling down at her and she was smiling up at him. Dally had this photo herself, in her room. She liked to look at it every day.

Why did her mother have it turned away?

Text copyright © by Kekla Magoon