by James, Clare
After my first class, I’m not so sure.
I float in my own little bubble through the crowded buildings, isolated from the other students. I struggle to maneuver around them as I move from class to class. There is no connection to them. I am alone. Not just alone, but invisible. I’m in a new place with new people, but the isolation is the same. Just the way it had become by the time I left Illinois.
After poly sci, I feel a full panic attack coming on. I want my bed, my room, my nest of safety. I have to settle for the restroom instead.
Disgusting? Yes, but I don’t have a lot of choices.
When I first came to stay with Dad and Amy, they were so scared. You could see it in their eyes. A normal person would’ve felt bad for them, but I really didn’t feel anything. It barely registered. But now, I see their faces whenever I go to that dark place—whenever I think about doing bad things to myself. I know I have to get better. At least for them. I’ve even started doing some breathing and meditation coping exercises.
Dad noticed the change right away and you’ve never seen a happier parent. I liked being the cause of something good for once. Getting Dad and Amy off my back wasn’t the only benefit to partaking in therapy, it actually helped. The only problem is, like everything, it doesn’t last.
My head is cloudy, but I keep my eyes on the restroom sign. Around the corner, I open the first door I see. A mop comes falling out, hitting me on the head. Nice. I opened the door to a janitor’s closet. I slide the mop back in and slowly close the door, trying to play cool. Like I didn’t just walk into a closet.
When I finally find the right place, I pick a stall, lock the door, and lean up against it. The bathroom here is nothing like one that graced the university in Illinois. There’s no sitting area with a sofa. No marble floors or granite countertops. It’s strictly functional décor here, with a bit of an institutional flare. Something I should be accustomed to, considering I spent most of the summer in lockdown.
I close my eyes and imagine getting through this day intact. I imagine sitting through my classroom with no whispers or giggles or looks. I imagine walking home in peace. I hold that scene in my mind—I’m outside with the wind in my hair as I breathe in … until the door next to me opens.
Under the partition, I see a pair of Coach boots tapping on the dirty tiled floor. How stupid to be noticing such details now, but I can’t help it. That’s what happens when you’ve been groomed by a superficial mother.
From what I’ve seen so far, there’s not much fashion sense—or nonsense—to deal with here. The Land of 10,000 Lakes is not over the top with girls looking like they just stepped off the runway or guys who use more hair products than I…well, than I used to. The people here seem more real. Almost normal.
The pain in my chest grows, throbbing with each heartbeat. I feel the tears coming, the unshakable kind. I hold my breath to keep them at bay. I hold it until my eyes feel like they’re ready to pop out of my skull. When I can’t hold it a minute longer, I open my mouth and a loud sob escapes my throat. Followed by three more.
My stall mate hears me. “Are you okay?” she asks.
My face burns and the walls close in, but I find a way to deal. Slowly, I open the door and slip out of the stall without saying a word.
Being invisible has its perks.
Chapter 8
Out of sheer willpower, I pull myself together and get through the next two classes. When I make it to my final class of the day, Miss Cute Boots is standing outside the door. My heart races and I wipe my clammy hands on my pants. I’m hoping she doesn’t remember my black ballet flats next to her in the bathroom stall or recognize my voice. I just have to get through the next sixty minutes.
My nerves calm when I realize she won’t notice me or my shoes. As I get closer, I can see she’s huddled in with a guy, yet it’s anything but cozy. She keeps her distance with a hand planted into a nonexistent waist while her hip juts out in a sharp angle. You can feel the chill in the air. The guy moves in and rests his hand gently on her arm like he’s afraid she’ll break.
Christ, it’s Noah.
Again.
He says something to her, but she interrupts and tells him to back off.
His response is no more than a whisper, but I can feel the vibration of his low, deep voice. It cuts to the bone—in the best way, comforting and warm.
I look down and shuffle past them to get into the classroom, wondering why they chose such a high-traffic area to have an obviously private convo.
“I just want to help, Jenna,” Noah says.
“You’ve done quite enough,” Cute Boots snaps.
I find a spot in the classroom, near the back, and quickly pull out my phone, pretending to be engaged in an important message.
The bell rings and Noah and friend rush into class.
“Jenna,” the girl next to me chirps and claps like a seal, except silently.
Jenna, aka Cute Boots, is taking care of her paperwork with the professor. She looks over her shoulder, smiles back, and waves.
“How was Europe?” the girl mouths as the professor tells everyone to take their seats.
“So great,” Jenna whispers as she takes the seat in front of me.
“Guys?” Seal Clapper whispers back.
Jenna replies with a dramatic hand to her heart.
Looks like someone else had an extended summer break—Europe. Must be nice. Funny, I am both amused and disgusted by this interaction. Back in Chicago, I would’ve fit in with these girls. Meticulous clothes, stylish hair—the radiating cool aura. I had the right kind of hair, right kind of make-up, right kind of life.
Here? No so much.
If my old friends could see me now, they’d die. Nah, probably not. Anything would be believable after last year’s scandal.
Noah falls into the chair behind me. Great, I’m sandwiched between them. This is going to be a long hour, a longer semester.
“So, everyone, I’m Professor Sands,” the man at the front of the class begins. “Welcome to English Composition and Literature. These first few weeks of class, we’ll be reading.” He smiles and then just stands there, leaning back against his desk. His thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows rise, exposing deep roads of wrinkles across his forehead.
The vibe is very casual in the small room with less than thirty students. Sands sits on his desk and just talks to us—like we’re in a book club or something. In Illinois, this class would be in an auditorium with hundreds of students and a professor broadcasting a lecture over speakers.
“Okaaaay.” Jenna takes his bait. “Reading what Professor Sands?”
Our prof stands up quickly and wades through the maze of desks. “Anything,” he answers. “Everything,” he says as he picks books off the desks and holds them up to the heavens like they’re the Bible or something. Maybe they are to him. He moves to the bookshelf at the front of the room.
“Old books,” he says, holding a battered copy of David Copperfield to his chest.
“New books,” he answers, pretending to struggle under the weight of the latest Stephen King.
“Steamy books.” He shakes the heat off his hand after pointing to a paperback bodice ripper.
“Books that take us to different worlds.” He nods to the pile of science fiction novels: Brave New World, Ender’s Game, and Fahrenheit 451.
“Celebrated literature,” he adds and flashes Their Eyes Were Watching God, Ulysses, and Hemingway’s collection of short stories, In Our Time—all which happened to be mainstays of Dad and Amy’s library.
I may just stand a chance in this class.
“That’s it guys. We’re reading all semester, but you decide the curriculum. Then we talk. What makes a good book? A bad one? How can a book change you? Help you? Teach you?”
I get goose bumps as Professor Sands talks about books. He’s electric.
“This afternoon, I’d like you to talk about your favorite books,” he continues. “What appeals to you? How often do you read for
pleasure? What do you get from books? You get the idea.
“Let’s pair up front-to-back people. I’d like to continue with these pairs for the next few weeks. We’ll have a few group papers and oral assignments, but if you prefer to keep your reading material to yourself, you can do the projects on your own. It’s your choice.”
A tap on my shoulder has me glancing back and I smell it again. Winter.
“Hi, Tabby,” Noah says with a smile that reveals one deep dimple in his right cheek.
“So we meet again,” I say.
“Mmmhmm. I think the universe is trying to tell us something.”
“Yeah, don’t have odd sexual encounters with strangers.” I exhale with so much force it almost comes out as a groan.
I hate to admit I spent much of the weekend thinking about him. His smile. Blue eyes. His incredibly sweet personality. His amazing body. But now, when I look at him, all I notice are his full lips.
“So, we already have a jump-start on this discussion. I recall talking about books on Friday. Don’t you, Scout?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“I don’t recall too much from that night,” I say, pretending to be bored. “I was drunk, remember?”
“Oh, yes. I remember everything about that night.”
My body burns as his eyes travel over me.
“Please, Noah. This situation is awkward enough. Can we just forget about it?”
“I’m sorry, Tabby, but I don’t think I can.”
My stomach flips at his words, but I know I can’t get involved. For one, Noah obviously has something going with Jenna and her cute boots. Two, I don’t do relationships.
“Please say you’re up for being partners,” Noah says. “I promise I won’t mention Friday night again. Plus, I really don’t want to write a bunch of essays by myself.” He flashes an easy smile and I’m all toasty again.
I play along, knowing I’ll choose the solo essay option instead of working on a project with him. I inhale a deep breath and try to steady myself. This is hard. I haven’t talked to anyone like this for so long. Months and months. Even at home with Dad and Amy, it’s mostly nonverbal on my end.
“Okay, tell me what you’re reading,” I say.
Noah jumps right in and we spend the rest of the hour talking books. Time goes by surprisingly fast as I listen to him talk about the classics, mysteries, and suspense. He tries to engage me, but I let him do most of the talking.
It is interesting.
He is interesting.
By the end of class, Noah talks me into doing our first project together.
Oh, he’s good.
Chapter 9
A few weeks go by and my life is a series of classes, studies, and the occasional conversation with Noah. It seems whatever was going on between him and Jenna is over, although she gives me the death glare in class from time to time. Still, Noah’s made no move to take things any further than friendship. I’m thankful for that because I don’t think I’d have the strength to fight him off.
All in all, I’m having a pretty typical college experience, and I couldn’t be happier.
An alert goes off on my phone, reminding me of the meeting. Tonight is the kickoff for the university newspaper staff. Dad got me in at the last minute, claiming an independent study with the paper would secure my full-time status without a lot of extra stress. He also said he’d help out if I needed him, and frankly I could use a backup.
The newspaper is housed on the second floor in the mass communications building, where Dad’s office is. Thank God, Dad won’t be there tonight. The last thing I need is for everyone to know I’m Professor Kelly’s daughter. Anonymity is the key for me here, and after having it these past few weeks at school, I will do anything to protect it. Good news is the students basically run the press on their own, Dad is really just a glorified resource to help with funding and problems. He assured me that he’s hands off and it’s the editor who runs the show—which would be perfect if the editor hadn’t seen me in my underwear.
Inside the paper’s headquarters, the staff gathers in the commons area. It’s comfortable and bright with a lounge area filled with TVs, computers, and stacks of magazines and newspapers. In the back are a few offices and photo lab. I recognize a girl from my poly sci class and take a seat next to her on the couch.
Time to play normal.
“Hi,” I say, pulling a notebook and pen from my bag. “Aren’t we in poly sci together with Professor Cass?”
“Yeah.” She smiles, tucking her long dark hair behind her ear. “We are. I’m Jules.”
“Tabby.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says as she struggles with her bag, looking for something.
“You too.”
“So, where did you transfer from?”
Crap. So much for anonymity.
“Is it that obvious I’m new?”
“No,” she laughs. “But on the first day, I was behind you on the way out—Aha!” Jules interrupts herself, obviously finding what she was looking for: a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. She slips off her tall black boot and secures the bandage onto a blistered heal. “Damn new boots.” She blows her bangs off her forehead. “Anyway…I saw you walk into the closet instead of the bathroom after class.”
Christ.
“You saw that?” I ask.
“I only laugh because I did the same thing freshman year.”
I smile. There’s something that makes me feel at ease with Jules. She’s so different from the girls I hung out with in Illinois with her complete ensemble of black clothes, red glasses, and colorful streaks woven into her long locks.
Then again, I’m different than I used to be. Especially without the shield of my little dance clique. Still, Jules is so tiny she could be the ballerina. A point made perfectly as a very tall (and very hot) guy picks her up, takes her seat, and plops her on his lap. I’m thankful for the disruption.
“Hey, beautiful.” The guy kisses Jules on the cheek.
“Stop manhandling me, you Neanderthal.” Jules punches him in the arm.
“Come on, baby. You know you like to be manhandled.”
“That may be.” Jules slides off to the other side, leaving the Neanderthal sitting in the middle of us. “But not by the likes of you.” She leans over his lap now and makes introductions. “Tabby, Foster. Foster, Tabby.” Then she pinches Foster’s arm. “Behave,” she warns.
“Hey, Tabby.” Foster turns to me, deliberately shutting out Jules. “You a friend of little Wednesday Addams, here?”
“Watch it, Fester,” Jules yells over his shoulder and I can’t help but laugh.
“Charming, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say, honestly. “She really is.”
Foster is on the thin side, but he looks like he’s in shape, a runner maybe. His black hair is short, showing off huge brown eyes. They twinkle as he leans back and puts his arm around Jules.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why we love her. So how do you guys know each other?”
“Just met tonight,” I answer. “But we’re in the same poly sci class.”
I lean into Foster so I can also talk to Jules. The two of them tell me how they’ve been friends since high school and how they have a love/hate relationship with the paper. Jules loves it. She’s a photographer and has won all kinds of awards. Foster hates it because he’s a reporter and Noah only gives him fluff assignments.
“Seriously, Tabby.” Foster lowers his voice. “Last year he made me write a piece on college fashion. Fashion, Tabby.” He stands up to illustrate his point, showing off his black jeans, beat-up sneakers, and orange hoodie. “Does that sound like something I’d even be remotely interested in? That is Jerk-him-off Jenna’s domain if there ever was one.”
“Wait.” My stomach clenches. “Jenna Peterson?”
“Yep,” Foster says. “The one and slutty.”
“Why?” Jules asks. “Friend of yours?” She looks worried.
“No,” I say a little too fast. “It’s jus
t—”
She had something going on with Noah and I don’t like it.
Jules reaches for my arm. “Don’t worry, Tabby. She rarely shows. She just comes in when she absolutely has to. Our kind editor-in-chief pretty much gives her a free pass.”
“I don’t really know her, but have two classes with her and she gives me a bad vibe,” I finish.
Not to mention she scares the living crap out of me.
“She gives everyone a bad vibe,” Foster says. “Unless you have a big dick, or bigger bank account.”
Jules pats Foster’s shoulder. “It’s okay, hon. You can’t have it all and you, my friend, have a big…personality.”
“Watch it, fun-size.” He growls.
Engaged in their banter, I don’t notice Noah walk in. But suddenly I feel his eyes on me. The group quiets down and Noah leans against one of the computer tables. His expression is strained. His eyes are narrowed on Foster until he reluctantly glances in my direction.
Gauging by the reaction of everyone in the room, there is no doubt Noah’s in charge of the entire operation. He sits on the edge of the table in my favorite pair of jeans—I can’t believe I have a favorite—and navy V-neck sweater, welcoming all the newbies. The staff started working before the semester began, so now it’s Noah’s decision where to put the new crop of interns and those working for credits—like me.
He exudes confidence as he describes our roles, gives a rundown of upcoming stories and schedules, and hands out assignments.
It works for him. In so many ways.
“Tabby,” Noah calls on me. “I’d like you to post the stories for the daily online edition. The reporters will have their articles in by five each evening, so that means you’ll have to work on layout once they’re in. It’s not a lot, but it will take a few hours each night. With that and maybe a photo op here and there, you’ll get the credits you need for your independent study. Will that work for you?”
“Yeah, of course,” I tell him. It’s not like I have a booked social calendar or anything, and I need the credits.
“Good,” he says, moving on to the next person with hardly a look my way.