Spirit Legacy Page 7

  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.

  “You could have used my notepaper instead of my book!” I said, pulling myself together and feigning annoyance, lest he think me mentally incapable of understanding the word “telephone.”

  “Yes, but this way, it’s in your favorite book, so you won’t lose it. And you have to look for it. It’s on my favorite page. Think of it as a little scavenger hunt. When you find it, give me a call. Maybe we could hang out sometime. Good luck finishing your paper.” He flashed that knee-weakening smile again. He started to walk away through the stacks.

  He was just about to disappear around the corner when I called after him.

  “Evan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How did you know it was one of my favorite books?”

  He just grinned again and slipped away between the stacks.

  I stood in the semi-darkness, clutching my well-loved book, thinking how much more I liked it now that he’d written in it.

  §

  I forced myself not to open the book to look for his number. I told myself it would be a sort of reward when I had finished the paper. An hour later I stumbled exhausted through the main reading room, my final product in my hand. Yawning, I let my eyes scan the carrels. I was disappointed not to see Evan there; maybe he’d beaten me to the punch and finished his paper first. I ignored the impulse to look for him in the smaller reading rooms and headed back to my room for a few hours of sleep before class.

  Tia was curled up in a ball under her comforter, snoring peacefully. She had finished her paper early, of course. It had been sitting neatly on top of her printer for three days, mocking me. I wanted to wake her up to tell her about Evan. She’d definitely think my meeting a dating prospect was well worth being woken out of a dead sleep. But my bed was calling to me. I decided my gossip could wait and I fell on top of my blankets fully clothed, sneakers still on my feet, and was asleep in minutes.

  “Rise and shine, you overachiever.”

  Tia woke me fifteen minutes before class, a pitying look on her face and two cups of coffee in her hands. She was so obnoxiously perky in the morning.

  “I didn’t even hear you come in! What time did you finish?” she asked as I rolled out of bed and raced around the room to get ready.

  “Around three. Hours to spare,” I replied, grinning at her horrified expression.

  She bit back whatever scolding comment she had for me and contented herself with shaking her head at me in disbelief as she handed me my coffee.

  “Hey, if you don’t like my study habits, you shouldn’t be such an enabler.”

  “What do you mean, an enabler? I don’t help you procrastinate!”

  I waved my coffee cup at her. “Sure you do. You caffeinate me.”

  “Fine, I’ll take it back then.” She reached for my cup, but I danced out of her reach as I pulled on my sweatshirt.

  “You wouldn’t want to do such a thing, would you, Ti? I might fall asleep in class and miss something important. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

  Tia stuck her tongue out at me and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Besides,” I continued, keeping my voice purposely nonchalant as I grabbed my bag and paper off my desk, “if I were asleep, how could I tell you about the guy I met last night?”

  Tia’s mouth fell open as I bounced past her out the door.

  “Excuse me! Hello? You met a guy in the library in the middle of the night?”

  “Yup,”

  “I don’t believe this! I could dance naked on the fifty yard line in the middle of a football game and not meet a guy! Who is he? How did you meet him?”

  “Have you actually tried dancing naked on the—”

  “—J
essica! Focus! What’s his name?”

  “His name is Evan Corbett. He’s a freshman, and he’s in Marshall’s class with us.”

  Tia almost choked on her gulp of coffee. “He’s in this class! You mean we’re gonna see him right now?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “So how did you meet him?”

  “He was there finishing his paper, too. I was in the bathroom, and I guess he walked by my computer and stopped to see if I was working on the same assignment. And I came back and he was still there and—well, we just started talking. Oh, and he’s T-shirt Boy.”

  “You’re kidding!?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh my goodness, Jess, you have to point him out to me! Does he sit near us? Would I have seen him before?”

  “I don’t know. Actually, I don’t remember seeing him in that class. But there are so many people. Besides, he says he doesn’t, um … always make it to class.” I tried to say this last bit quickly. I didn’t want Tia prejudiced against Evan before she even met him, and skipping class was a surefire way to incur Tia’s disapproval.

  Happily, if Tia did disapprove, she didn’t mention it. As we entered the lecture hall and took our usual seats in the third row, Tia stayed standing, craning her neck eagerly toward the entrance as though someone had just announced the imminent arrival of a celebrity.

  “Is that him? What about him? No, he’s blonde; you said he had dark hair. What about him in the red sweater?”

  “Ti, will you shut up? When he shows up, I’ll tell you!”

  The hall filled quickly. By two minutes of eight nearly every seat was taken, but there was still no sign of Evan. Professor Marshall arrived at eight o’clock on the dot, closing the door behind her.

  “Where is he?” Tia whispered as she pulled her notebook out of her bag.

  “I don’t know. He’s not here,” I hissed back, scanning the room again, though I was sure I hadn’t missed him.

  “He wouldn’t skip class today, would he? Not with a paper due!”

  “Maybe he’s just late.”

  But an hour into Professor Marshall’s lecture, it looked like Evan wasn’t just late. I hadn’t listened to a single word as Professor Marshall explained the dramatic function of the character of Polonius. I was too busy worrying about why Evan wasn’t there. He’d told me himself he was hoping to do well on this paper—why would he stay up half the night writing it if he wasn’t going to bother to show up and turn it in? It didn’t make any sense. I doodled aimlessly on my otherwise blank page, occasionally writing Evan’s name without consciously meaning to do it.