A line of twenty equally-sized first graders scuffle quietly into 826. They are strangely intimidated. We give them nametags and ask their names, receiving only timid responses. But once they are seated, once they have found their places among plump pillows and wooden chairs, their eyes grow wider and look straight forward. They are ready to create a story. I’m in charge of the publishing productions in the back room. It’s up to me and two other volunteers to create the books, page by page as the students produce them, piling papers, shrinking drawings, carefully putting the many pages in the right order — a daunting task, really, performed under extreme time pressure. We are overwhelmed, but we are effortlessly quick and smooth in our efforts.

In the front room the students are captivated. Dave and Gideon are explaining to them that they need to write a story, a story so good that it will be approved by the grouchy Mr. Blue, who we hear yelling from above. It’s a funny thing with kids at this age because they don’t like sarcasm. Dave writes on the board that a good story a) must be boring, b) must be 10,000 pages long, and c) must be about vampires named Ron. “Is this correct?” Dave asks.

“Yes!” they emphatically respond.

“Really? Every story must be really boring and really long and about vampires?” Dave asks.

“Yes!!” they yell again in eager voices. But Dave refuses to let them get away with this answer; at 826 they must start thinking about the unordinary and unusual, they must find their own creative answers.

The rest of their story-writing adventure continues. Dave and Gideon help them along as they come up with natural, endearing characters (not always the case with groups of first graders on a storytelling field trip): an ant named Lanty and a squirrel named Santy who are, despite all laws of nature, the best of friends. Dave illustrates the story in between pages of writing. Periodically he asks a student to read, but only on the condition, he adds, that the student reads in the high-pitched voice of a squirrel.

In the back room we craft twenty piles of stories on one big long table, sandwiching them with cardboard pieces of yellow that read, ‘made by Washington Elementary.’ As we finish up our daunting task, the students scatter about the room with mismatched pens in every color to each write their separate endings. Some opt for peaceful endings, others opt for tragedy, many supply magical objects that gallantly save the day. The tutors circulate and taunt the students to be creative — Well how large is the mouse and isn’t he purple? What kind of super hero? Does the squirrel go to school? What does his house look like? We want to think of something that we’ve never heard before.

I stand by the bookmaking machine awaiting the nearly-finished publications. Slowly a line of eager faces and stacks of paper curls around the machine. As each book is bound, I talk to the students.

“So how are you?”

Invariably the response is, “Good.”

“Just good? Seriously? Not great, or excellent, or tired, angry, wonderful, spectacular?” At 826 details and specificity are always essential.

Once the books are done, the students scurry off with wide eyes to illustrate their front and back covers. Mr. Blue, despite fierce competition, approves all the stories — a “truly awesome” collection he tells us, “and very cool.” The students smile as all of their names are read and given the stamp of approval.

The field trip culminates in investigating the ever-fascinating and enthralling pirate store in the front. The students squeal as they find trap doors, feed the blowfish, Karl, explore every cupboard, examine the vat, and unfold the telescope while holding glass eyes. We stage mock moppings; one adult pretends not to notice as a student pulls a string that drops a bunch soft mop heads on the adult’s unsuspecting head.

It’s time to go and the students are smiling. They have written new books, created together, but each with a distinctive ending, that they will be able to bring home. They are free, we remind them, to finish writing their stories later, and, of course, to make new books once they’re finished with these.

— Rosemary Kendrick, 826 intern