Timothy Wardrobe, every day, dragged a fresh garbage bag of post-it notes to the wastebasket at the end of his home’s long, steep driveway.
He hoped one day they would stop coming, that one day, maybe all of the sudden or gradually, he would lose his mind for good.
But now, it turned up at every moment and corner, at every hour and underside, at every second and ceiling, in one inch by one inch yellow post-it notes, in unfamiliar handwriting. He, as typical of children who wish to be normal, told no one about his “shoebox,” as he termed his secrets. His parents had little concern, because they were never home to notice his odd behavior. Only the Hungarian nanny, who lived in the basement with the winter clothes in summer and summer clothes in winter, seemed suspicious. Only the Hungarian nanny, because she took the garbage out on Thursdays, despite the overzealous protests of the young boy.
“But Aunnie, I want to, I’ve been looking forward to it since morning. You work too hard.”
School was even more difficult for Timothy. The other boys called him “Mothy Wardrobe” every time he got up from his seat to cough into a post-it by the teacher’s desk. His own desk was littered with these crumpled bits of paper by the end of each class. Hence, Mothy Wardrobe.
But he wasn’t coughing.
Once, Gregory Mantle was the last boy to leave Geometry. He found a tattered post-it note stuck to the edge of Mothy’s desk, and opened it. He gave it to Miss Thornton, the teacher, profoundly disturbed.
Of course, classrooms are notorious for note taking and note-passing alike.
That night, Miss Thornton sat at her desk with her magnifying glass and examined the note so as to discover its author. She removed from the highest shelf in her wardrobe an old pickle jar filled to the top with all the scrawled notes of her students she found and collected throughout the year. She compared penmanship to find a match.
Timothy was neglectful of his notes that day because during Geometry he came to a horrifying discovery. Upon staring at the back of its loose pigtails, he realized that the head of Molly Wire was supported only by the curved top of a clothes hanger. Then he noticed all the other children –even Mrs. Thornton, had the same peculiarity. He felt his own collarbone, shoulders, and neck, and shrunk in horror. From that day on, he thought, he would fold all his attire, and he knew why children feared closets.
Timothy wished he had no head, so he could hang in the quiet closet with the clothes and not have to worry about walking or his notes.
