Escape from Mr. Lemoncello's Library by Chris Grabenstein Page A

exit. And, ladies and gentlemen, I assure you, such an alternate exit does indeed exist.”
    The parents around the table started buzzing with excitement.
    “Participation, of course, will be purely optional and voluntary,” said Mr. Lemoncello, clasping his hands behind his back and stalking around the room.
    Several parents pulled out cell phones.
    “And please—do
not
attempt to phone, email, text, fax, or send smoke signals to your children, encouraging them to enter the competition. We have blocked all communication into and out of the library. Only those who truly wish to stay and play shall stay and play. Anyone who chooses to leave the library will go home with lovely parting gifts and a souvenir pirate hat very similar to mine. They’ll also be invited to my birthday party tomorrow afternoon.” He held up his crumb-filled plate. “I’ve been sampling potential cake candidates for breakfast.”
    Mrs. Keegan crossed her arms over her chest. “Will this game be dangerous?”
    “No,” said Mr. Lemoncello. “Your children will be under constant video surveillance by security personnel in the library’s control center. Dr. Zinchenko and I will also be monitoring their progress here in my private video-viewing suite. Should anything go wrong, we have paramedics, firefighters, and a team of former Navy SEALs—each withthe heart of a samurai—standing by to swoop in and rescue your children. It’ll be like
The Hunger Games
but with lots of food and no bows or arrows.”
    “Why not just have the kids play one of your other games?” a parent suggested. “Why all this fuss?”
    “Because, my dear friends, these twelve children have lived their entire lives without a public library. As a result, they have no idea how extraordinarily useful, helpful, and funful—a word I recently invented—a library can be. This is their chance to discover that a library is more than a collection of dusty old books. It is a place to learn, explore, and grow!”
    “Mr. Lemoncello, I think what you’re doing is fantastic,” said one of the mothers.
    “Thank you,” said Mr. Lemoncello, bowing and clicking his heels (which made them
bruck
like a chicken).
    “If any of you would like to check up on your children,” announced Dr. Zinchenko, “please join us in the adjoining room.”
    “Oh, they’re a lot of fun to watch,” said Mr. Lemoncello. “However, Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, I’m afraid your son Kyle does not enjoy the theme song from
Rocky
quite as much as I do!”

Rocky
had done its job.
    Kyle—and everybody else locked inside the library—was definitely awake.
    Even Charles Chiltington had come down to the Rotunda Reading Room from Mr. Lemoncello’s private suite. The only essay writer not with the group was Sierra Russell, who, Kyle figured, was off looking for another book to read.
    “We’re still locked in?” squealed Haley Daley.
    “This is so lame,” added Sean Keegan. “It’s like eleven-thirty. I’ve got things to do. Places to be.”
    “Look, you guys,” said Kyle, “they’ll probably open the front door right after we eat or something.”
    “Well, where’s that ridiculous librarian?” said Charles Chiltington, who was never very nice when there weren’t any adults in the room.
    “Yeah,” said Rose Vermette. “I can’t stay in here all day. I have a soccer game at two.”
    “And, dudes,” said Sean Keegan, “
I
have a life.”
    “Do you children require assistance?” said a soft, motherly voice.
    It was the semi-transparent holographic image of Mrs. Tobin, the librarian from the 1960s. She was hovering a few inches off the ground in front of the center desk.
    “Yes,” said Kayla Corson. “How do we get out of here?”
    The librarian blinked, the way a secondhand calculator (the one your oldest brother dropped on the floor a billion times) does when it’s figuring out a square root.
    “I’m sorry,” said the robotic librarian. “I have not been provided with the answer to