Vivian Bellacourt-Delacourt was A Reader. Amongst her gaggle of flouncy, bougainvillea-like girlfriends, Vivian was The Intellectual. Reading, to her, was what Hot Yoga was to Stacey or spinning was to Tracey. Where her two besties would post quotidian selfies from their respective studios of escapism, Vivian’s Instagram showed her book in hand, primly seated in a carrel at the library. Occasionally, she’d include a coffee in her selfies to drive home the point that being awed by Proust required a certain threshold amount of caffeine. That’s how it’s done, sluts.

One happy Sunday, Vivian, after brunch with Tracey and Stacey, went to the library to pose with a copy of “McTeague” to assure her Instagram followers that she was, indeed, alive. Vivian, her dark hair in a sensible ponytail, horn-rimmed glasses on fleek and an appropriately distinguished-looking volume of the book in hand went to find a charming sunlit corner of the library to take her picture. She wanted the darkness of the novel to play in counterpoint with what a beautiful day it was. Perhaps, one of those mini cup-and-saucer deals of espresso would add gravitas to the image: dark novel, bright day; bitter coffee, sweet girl. Such layers had Vivian envisioned!

The key to a successful Instagram update like this was as old as time and real estate: location! Location! Location! Normally, the search didn’t take Vivian very long at all, but today! Today was a chore! A cauchemar! Her travels around the library took her to a section she had never known existed: “Holds,” said the sign above the room. Vivian wondered if this might be it. The room, with its large windows, austere walls and handsome chestnut bookcases, had potential. As she wandered around the room, Vivian quickly realized that “Holds” referred to books that people had had reserved or ordered in from a different library.

“What fun!” thought Vivian. “Perhaps there’s a Bellacourt-Delacourt” or a “Bellacourt” or a “Delacourt” here, too! I wonder what my name twin could’ve requested!” And so, Instagram plans on hold, Vivian decided to peruse the shelves. As it turned out, a Delacourt had, indeed, reserved a book. Vivian sucked in a sharp breath when she saw that it was a copy of “Insignificant Raptures,” the sequel to Veruca Hammersmith’s post-apocalyptic sexy vampire morality tale. Vivian felt a hunger,that Lucien the lead vampire, had often described in metaphors applicable to both food and sex.

“What if I took it?” Vivian thought. “Who would know? I am a Delacourt, too! It would be easy.”

Oh, but the slimy ethics of it all! Shit and corruption! But, Lucien and Zara! Their love! The opposition of The Republic! Oh, alas and alack!

Vivian picked up the book and sniffed the pages. The romance, bloodlust and politics! She could smell them. “Well, it’s already in my hand…” thought Vivian. “McTeague” set aside, espresso imbibed, “Insignificant Raptures” in hand, Vivian made her way to the library exit.