Spirit Legacy (6 page)

Paige laughed as she poured a massive box of maple syrup into a stainless steel vat. “So I assume you won’t be hosting another one?”

“You assume correctly. I don’t think Tia will ever let me pick the movie again.”

“Sounds like it’ll be Disney movies and science documentaries for you from now on.”

I grimaced and tucked my long braids into the obligatory hairnet. Then I donned my plastic gloves and started filling the plastic serving trays with Cheerios.

The dining hall stayed even emptier than usual for a Saturday morning, which made sense considering how many kids had been out partying incognito the night before. Gabby had invited us to a party she was attending, but we’d declined. Halloween had probably been fun at one point in history, but now it just seemed like an opportunity for girls to prance around in the trashiest outfits they could legally get away with in public. After several years in a row of being unable to purchase a costume that covered my ass, I’d gone on strike.

I was getting bored at the buffet line, and was amusing myself by separating the Froot Loops by color, when I looked up and saw him staring at me from across the room. It was the same boy from the carnival, sitting by himself at one of the tables under the window. Catching my eye, he raised a hand in greeting. Automatically I waved back, and then realized I was waving a spoon covered in blueberry yogurt. Turning bright red, I dropped the spoon and retreated to the bowels of the kitchen, begging Paige to switch assignments with me. Stuck on dish duty, she happily agreed. I spent the rest of my shift volunteering for the least visible tasks.

The next time I saw him was almost a week later; he was heading up the crowded stairs of Wiltshire Hall while Tia and I were trotting down them. He grinned at me and winked. Momentarily dazed, I turned my head and followed his progress up the stairs until he disappeared around the banister.

Tia stopped a few steps down from me. “Did you forget something?”

“No,” I said, ripping my eyes away from the empty hallway above me. “I just saw someone I knew.”

“Was it T-shirt Boy?” Tia asked, smirking. She had taken to calling him that since I made the mistake of telling her about him.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, but his real friends call him ‘Campus Apparel Man’.”

“Oooh, can we go back up and find him? I want to see what he looks like!”

“No, I don’t have time to be a psycho-stalker just now, thanks,” I said as I passed her on the staircase. I ignored the little part of me that was willing to risk psycho-stalker status just to talk to him.

To tell the truth, I was a little annoyed with myself. It wasn’t like me to obsess over some boy, especially one whose name I didn’t even know. It was thoroughly Gabby-like behavior, and I hoped it wasn’t becoming a pattern. I seemed to be able to interact with the rest of the male population without devolving into an idiot.

November brought gusty winds, the chill of oncoming winter, and the due date for my first major paper for Marshall’s class. Of the required twelve-page length I had completed exactly zero. I had no excuse, really; I’d done it to myself just like always. Somehow, without a deadline looming directly over my head like some invisible guillotine, I was incapable of motivating myself to work. It was one of the few traits I’d inherited from my mom; I always knew that one day, as much as I hated to admit it, I would be tracing her frantic patterns around the kitchen in the morning, gathering up the bits of work that I’d scattered around the house and swearing frantically under my breath as I tried to put on my shoes and eat a Pop-Tart at the same time. It seemed to be, alas, my fate. But I also knew that I worked best under pressure, and somehow, I never left things so late that I didn’t miraculously finish on time. So it was with only a mild fluttering of panic that I set out for Culver Library at 8pm on Thursday night. I had a whopping twelve hours before my paper was due. No problem.

At least I wasn’t alone. As I walked through the main reading room with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, heads were protruding from almost every cubicle, and the faint, rhythmic hum of typing pervaded the otherwise silent room. As I turned the corner to find a more private spot in the stacks, I spotted Anthony, his face inches from his laptop screen. I smirked to myself. He was hammering the delete button and muttering to himself, a pencil clamped between his teeth. I fought the urge to make some snide comment about his obvious writer’s block and contented myself with the knowledge that he, too, was suffering.

I settled myself into a well-lit, forgotten little cubicle nestled among large dusty volumes of Russian history. I carefully unpacked and laid out my paper-writing survival kit, which consisted of my laptop, my binder full of notes, my copy of Hamlet, a two liter bottle of Diet Coke, and a family size bag of peanut M&Ms. And so, taking a deep breath and popping a red M&M into my mouth, I got to work.

It was slow going. My brain didn’t seem to want to conform itself to the task at hand and kept wandering to stupid things like a compulsion to line up all the blue M&Ms or count how many times the word “to” appeared in the “To be or not to be” speech (fifteen, as it turns out). Eventually though, I was able to discipline myself, and after a few hours I had written seven pages. By midnight I only had the conclusion left to write.

It was around that time that I started experiencing the distinct feeling that someone was watching me. I kept looking over my shoulder as though someone had called my name, but I was completely alone. I didn’t consider myself easily spooked, so I didn’t think I could blame it on the solitude.

After about the twentieth glance over my shoulder, my eyes lighted on a biography of Rasputin, the subject staring down at me from the cover with a mystical and piercing expression. I laughed out loud, and my laugh echoed softly back to me. I decided that it was the book causing my edginess and turned it backwards, allowing Rasputin’s voodoo magic to work on someone else. I returned to my work but instead of refocusing, I started thinking that I would rather be stabbed, poisoned, shot, and drowned than finish this damn paper.

By one o’clock I had to run to the bathroom, having drained my entire supply of Diet Coke. The library was completely deserted, the table lamps casting a dull orange glow over the room. A work-study student had replaced the librarian at the main circulation desk. His head was drooping in a comical nod, his mouth hanging open, his ears deafened to my presence by enormous headphones. I wouldn’t have minded a job like
that
, I thought, as a vision of the dining hall popped into my head. Hairnets to headphones would have been a definite upgrade.

Feeling much better, I returned to my lonely spot in the stacks. I turned the last corner that would reveal my cubicle and promptly shrieked.

There was a boy standing at my carrel, leaning over the partition and reading my computer screen. At the sound of my scream he jumped away from the desk; clearly I had frightened him as much as he had frightened me.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” he gasped.

I recovered myself. “No, please don’t apologize. I’m sure I frightened you more, screaming in your face like that. I just didn’t realize anyone else was left in here.”

“Neither did I. And here I thought I was the worst of the slackers tonight.”

As I calmed down, I got a good look at him, and realized with a start that it was the boy from the carnival and the gift shop. I actually had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting, “T-shirt boy!” Note to self: kill Tia for coming up with that nickname. Even in the dim light of the stacks his looks made my breath stutter. My heart continued to pound, but no longer out of fear. I found that I couldn’t help smiling back, and hoped that I wasn’t grinning like an idiot.

“You’re talking to a world-class slacker,” I said.

“You’re writing that paper for Marshall’s class, huh?” He pointed over his shoulder toward the glow of my laptop.

“Yeah.”

“Looks like you’re nearly done. How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess. Just trying to finish up.”

“Well, I wish I was as far along as you. I’ve still got at least three pages to go.” He smiled again. Wow, was it infectious.

“You’re in Marshall’s class, too?” I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed him there before. The more I looked at him the more difficult I found it to look away.

“Yeah. I think I’ve seen you there, haven’t I? The section with the eight o’clock seminar block, right?” he asked, leaning casually against a shelf. My heart seemed to skip a beat. He’d noticed me.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I don’t remember seeing you,” I admitted. My face felt hot. I was blushing.
Why
was I blushing?

“Well, what are there, about two hundred freshmen in that class? And my attendance hasn’t exactly been exemplary- a side effect of an eight o’clock start time.” He winked at me. It was the sort of thing I usually found obnoxious, but somehow I didn’t mind. “My name’s Evan, by the way. Evan Corbett.”

He held his hand out. I reached over the partition to shake it, but before I could even grip it properly, I released it with a gasp.

“Your hand is freezing!” I cried.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” he laughed, shoving his hand into his pocket. “Poor circulation. I picked a really drafty carrel near the windows. Can’t get too comfortable or I’ll fall asleep and that’ll be it for my paper!”

I just smiled, rubbing my fingers. The cold was lingering, and my blood was rushing oddly in the veins of my hand.

“So, do you only tell your name to warm-handed boys, or ….”

“Oh, sorry! I’m Jess Ballard.”

Evan’s grin widened “Oh, excellent!”

That didn’t seem like the appropriate response. “Sorry?”

“Oh, it’s just that my sister’s name is Jessica, so I know I’ll be able to remember your name. I’m not always great with names. Somehow I think I would have remembered yours, though.”

“So uh, how is your paper going?” I wanted to keep talking to him, but I felt awkward; conversation with boys who took my breath away was not an activity I engaged in frequently. Or ever.

“It’s not original or earth-shattering, but I think I’ll manage a decent enough grade, if I can just get it done.” He sat on the desktop and crossed his arms. “Don’t you ever feel like it’s futile to try to write something original about a play that’s been around for four hundred years?”

“I know what you mean. I’m definitely not breaking any new ground here. If generations of doctoral students haven’t come up with it, I’m sure I won’t.”

“Exactly. So, are you an English major, Jess?”

“I haven’t decided yet, actually.”

“Good for you! I’ve never understood why people declare majors before they even get here,” Evan said.

“Really? I feel like everyone I know has already declared.” I said.

“Please! Half of them will change their majors three times before they graduate. There are so many classes to take here. Why would you want to limit yourself so early? Take a little of everything—explore a bit, you know?” Evan gestured around the library to make his point. There were more books there than anyone could ever hope to read in three lifetimes.

I felt a lump rise in my throat. I tried to fight it down, but it caught me off guard. It must have shown in my face because Evan suddenly looked concerned.

“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, standing up and taking a step toward me.

I took a step backward and nodded. “I’m fine. It just that … my mother used to say stuff like that to me all the time.”

As soon as I said it, I was shocked at myself. It was tough enough to talk about my mom at all, let alone with a complete stranger. But something about Evan put me at ease. His expression was so open and honest; I found myself confiding in him.

“She died over the summer. She kept telling me how jealous she was that I was going away to school, that I should take every kind of class I could so that I wouldn’t miss anything.”

“I’m sorry. Sounds like she was a smart lady,” Evan said gently.

I found I could smile. “She had her moments.”

“Well, then there’s my mom. There’s not a good idea on earth that she hasn’t come up with herself; just ask her.” He rolled his eyes. I knew he was lightening the tone for my benefit and I appreciated it. He went on, “She was really unhappy when I started playing lacrosse—wanted me to continue on the piano instead.”

“That’s a good skill to have, playing the piano. I wish I could,” I said.

“Yeah, well, my mom used to make me practice two hours a day when I was younger.” He grinned as my eyebrows floated up in spite of myself. “I know, huh? Some hobby. I think she’s still in a bit of denial that I’m not going to be a hotshot concert pianist.”

“Um, is there such a thing as a hotshot concert pianist?”

He chuckled. “No, actually, I guess there’s not. Anyway she got over it pretty quickly when I got a lacrosse scholarship—turns out it was worth my time after all!” His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked.

“Yeah, we have, actually. A couple of times, I think.”

“The carnival, right? Outside the fortune teller’s tent? And the gift shop.”

“I think so,” I said.

“And somewhere else, I think.”

“Oh, just around, I guess,” I said. In reality I could have told him every single place on campus I’d ever seen him, every time he’d smiled at me. But at the risk of sounding like an obsessive stalker, I refrained.

“Here.” He picked up my copy of Hamlet and one of my ballpoint pens (not, to my relief, one of the ones I had been gnawing on). He opened up the play and started writing in it.

“Hey! Stop defacing the Bard!”

“There,” he said, closing the book and tossing it back down on the desk. “I wrote my number in there.”

“Your number?” I asked blankly.

“Yeah. My phone number.”

“Your phone number?” I repeated. My brain had officially stopped working.

“Um, yeah. You know … telephone?” He raised his hand to his ear in the universally recognized gesture for a telephone.