Recruited

by Lynn Mason

  It was becoming less and less clear whether her goal of becoming a teacher was the right choice. In fact, all her carefully laid plans were crumbling around her. She was earning perfect grades, but her classes weren't exactly filling her with a wild sense of purpose. The few people she had met only seemed interested in besting everyone else—and those who didn't were more interested in hooking up with each other than actually learning anything. Even she had to admit that the high point of her days was meeting Francie for lunch. Only now that Baxter was in the picture, she didn't feel like doing that, either. She was beginning to feel as if she didn't belong anywhere.

  So here she was. Hiding in a dark corner of the library, burying herself in books.

  It probably isn't a real offer anyway, she thought for the umpteenth time. Most likely if she called the number, she'd hear a group of jokester frat boys on the other end. She didn't need that kind of disappointment. And even if it was for real, she'd only be setting herself up for another probable failure.

  Sydney closed her hand around the card and glanced over at a nearby trash bin. She sat for a moment, wondering what to do. Then she rose slightly and quickly tucked the card into her back pocket.

  For some reason, she couldn't let go of it. At least, not yet.

  4

  “THOUSANDS OF ENGINEERING students on this campus are trying to figure out how to defy gravity, and my hair is doing it on its own!” Francie grumbled. She slid her freshly manicured fingers down the length of her thick black hair and frowned at her reflection. “You think one of them could come do research on me for their graduate thesis?”

  Sydney sat watching from her bed, her long legs straight out in front of her, feet dangling over the edge. “Relax, Francie,” she said, pursing her lips in an amused half-smile. “You look amazing.”

  Francie flashed her a grateful grin and then turned back toward the mirror over the built-in dresser. “I just don't want Baxter to think I've joined a punk rock group or something. A lot of his friends are going to this party and I don't want to embarrass him.” She pulled her hair back, clasped it with a shiny metal clip, and then quickly yanked it out with a frustrated grunt.

  “Here, let me,” Sydney said, rising to her knees and beckoning to her friend.

  “Thanks.” Francie crossed the room and backed up against Sydney's bed, her grass hula skirt making soft swishing noises as she walked. “You know,” she said, handing Sydney her hairbrush, “I really wish you'd go with us. It's Friday night, Syd.” She hesitated. “I know that thing with Dean was a major blow, but you shouldn't let that stop you from having fun. He probably won't even be there. And if he is, we can get the guys to beat him up.”

  Hearing Dean's name, Sydney felt a lurch in her chest, as if all her vital organs were swimming upward to shield her heart. “It's not that,” she lied, forcing her hands not to shake as she carefully tugged the brush through Francie's long dark locks. “I'm just not up for a party tonight. I'm really worn out.”

  Francie sighed loudly. “Is that really it? Honestly? Because I just don't think I could enjoy myself tonight if I knew you were upset.”

  Sydney bit her lip. She always prided herself on being able to shield her emotions, but for some reason, she always needed a little extra effort with Francie. “Scout's honor,” she said, holding up two fingers. “You were right about my course load being too heavy. This week was a killer.”

  “Promise me next semester you'll cut back to something normal. Like fifteen hours tops?”

  “I promise,” Sydney said, glad to hear that Francie sounded convinced at last.

  She knew her friend meant well, but there was absolutely no way she could go to the party tonight. For one thing, she'd never been good at these social-event schmooze-a-thons. She just couldn't shake the feeling of being sized up by tons of strangers long enough to relax and have fun. Hanging out in pairs or small groups was more her thing. Besides, tagging along on Francie's big date with Baxter would make her feel like an even bigger dork. And Francie would probably play the part of personal coach, urging her to do this, say that, flirt here, flirt there. Sydney would end up sabotaging their special evening and humiliating herself yet again.

  And what if Dean is there with his coterie of admirers? Sydney cringed just thinking about it. No way.

  “Okay, hold still for just a few more seconds,” she said, keeping a firm grip on the strands of hair she'd twisted into place. With her free hand, she reached over and grabbed a couple of her own brass clips off her dresser. Then she fastened the hair in place and fluffed out the ends. “There,” she said, patting Francie's shoulders. “You're gorgeous.”

  Francie turned toward the mirror and smiled. “Perfect! Thanks, Syd. You seriously rescued me.”

  Just then, a sharp rap sounded on the door. Francie wheeled toward Sydney, her eyes the size of compact discs. “He's here,” she mouthed, bouncing on the toes of her sandals.

  “I'll get it,” Sydney said, stepping off the bed. “You sit and look casual.”

  “Okay,” Francie said, settling into a chair and smoothing the straps of her flowered halter.

  Sydney made a move toward the door.

  “No! Wait a second,” Francie called out in a loud whisper, making frantic waving motions with her hands. “I don't want to seem too eager.” She circled her right hand slowly a few times, as if marking beats to a song, then said, “Okay. Go ahead.”

  Sydney opened the door to find Baxter clad in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian-print shirt, leaning against the doorframe in a semi-seductive pose.

  “Oh, hey,” he said, quickly straightening up. “Is Francie here?”

  “I think so,” Sydney replied, trying not to laugh. “Come in.”

  As they walked back into the room, Francie broke into a wide grin and leaped up from her chair as if a small explosive device had been detonated beneath it. Then she suddenly paused and leaned casually against Sydney's dresser. “Hey, Baxter,” she said coyly.

  “Hey, Francie. Whoa. You look . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

  Francie's smile gained extra wattage. “Thanks,” she replied.

  Sydney sighed softly, taking a step backward to fade into the surroundings. It was great to see Francie so excited and happy. But she couldn't help feeling a small pang of self-pity, too. Would something this cool ever happen to her?

  “Well, uh, we should probably go,” Baxter said, nodding toward the door.

  “Right,” Francie said, shouldering her purse. She turned to look at Sydney. “You sure you'll be all right here?” she asked worriedly.

  “I'll be fine,” Sydney said emphatically. “Besides,” she said with a wink, “it'll be nice to have the room to myself for a while.”

  “Okay, then. Bye, Syd,” Francie called as she and Baxter stepped into the hall.

  “Bye, guys,” Sydney said with a wave. “Have fun.”

  The door shut and Sydney sank down on the edge of her bed with a sigh.

  Suddenly everything was quiet—almost too quiet. Any noise she could discern seemed amplified a thousand times. Each tick of Francie's Looney Tunes wall clock was like a tiny explosion. And for the very first time, Sydney could hear the high-pitched whine of their mini refrigerator.

  For some reason, the usual dormitory racket was absent. There were no footsteps in the corridor or competing muffled melodies from distant stereos. Was there no one else in the entire building?

  Probably not, she thought. She stood and took long, dragging steps to her desk, dropping into the wooden chair. It's Friday night in L.A., for Pete's sake. Everyone else is probably out having fun or away visiting family for the weekend. Everyone else had a life.

  She had books.

  Once again, a wave of self-pity washed over her, but she took a deep, steadying breath and forced it back down. Then she reached for her Spanish textbook, opened it, and tried to lose herself in a historia about a niña named Carmen. She had just gotten to the part where Carmen's perro ran away when she shut
the book with a thunderous slam.

  Forget it. She was not going to study tonight. So what if she didn't have a big date or a family waiting to greet her with hugs and a home-cooked meal? She deserved some fun, right?

  Sydney jumped up and walked to her dresser, deciding to throw on some comfortable sweats and watch a video on the tiny TV/VCR combo she and Francie had splurged on at the start of the semester. As she pulled off her jeans, something small and gray fluttered out of the back pocket. Mr. Wilson's business card lay at her feet.

  Sydney picked it up and studied it. The stiff paper stock was already soft and frayed from being handled so much. For the rest of that day after she left the library, she'd been almost hyperaware of its being in her pocket, as if it were somehow calling to her or giving off heat. She had pulled it out dozens of times during her afternoon classes, turning it over and over in her hands and restarting the debate in her head.

  She stood frozen for a moment, wondering what to do. She could stick the business card in a drawer. Or maybe even her scrapbook? Remember this? she'd laugh to herself as she turned the pages. The sunny September day the CIA tried to recruit me.

  No, she thought, crumpling it in her fist. It had been enough of a distraction already. Things were mixed-up enough without all these silly daydreams about working for an intelligence agency. If she didn't get rid of the thing, she'd drive herself crazy.

  Sydney lifted her hand and launched the card into the air. It arced gracefully, landing in the wastebasket.

  “There,” she said, exhaling. “Now I never have to see it again.”

  Four hours later she was clad in her favorite blue sweats, leaning against the side of her bed with a bag of microwave popcorn balanced on her lap. On the tiny fifteen-inch TV screen, a stoic, gray-bearded Obi-Wan Kenobi was surrendering to Darth Vader, allowing Luke, Leia, Han Solo, and the droids time to blast their way to the Millennium Falcon and escape.

  She could hear the faint scratching noises of a key in the lock behind her. A second later, the door opened and Francie stepped into the room. Her face was flushed and the clips in her hair had slipped slightly. Otherwise, she sported the same blissed-out expression she had had on her face when she left.

  “Hey,” Sydney greeted her, turning down the volume with the remote. “How was it?”

  “Oh, you know parties,” Francie said casually, trying to erase the grin from her face and failing miserably. “It was okay. The band sucked and I think some of the guests were in a contest to see who could be most obnoxious.”

  “But you had a good time with Baxter, right?”

  Francie paused. “Yeah,” she said softly, smiling off into the distance. “I did.”

  “Good,” Sydney said, beaming back at her.

  Francie threw her purse onto her bed and walked up next to Sydney, staring at the TV screen. “Oh, my god. I haven't seen this in like ten years. Why did you pull this out?”

  Sydney shrugged. “Because, like you said, I hadn't seen it in a while.”

  She didn't want to tell her that almost every other movie in their paltry video collection was just way too depressing to watch during the pity binge she was currently on. She hadn't realized their assortment of films was such a downer until that evening. Scorsese's Taxi Driver, Coppola's first two Godfather films, Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs, and the few Hitchcock classics they owned were just too gory or angst-ridden. And after the Dean incident, she didn't think she could handle the Julia Roberts romantic comedies. So she opted for pure sci-fi action.

  “Did you watch this first?” Francie asked, holding up the copy of Raiders of the Lost Ark Sydney had tossed onto her bed.

  “Yeah.”

  “You always did have a thing for Harrison Ford, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Francie hiked up her hula skirt and sat down cross-legged next to Sydney, who passed her the popcorn. For a while, they sat watching the film silently.

  “You know what I don't get,” Francie said through a mouthful of popcorn.

  “What?”

  “At the end here, Princess Leia gives these huge medals of valor to Luke and Han and even Chewie, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, how come that other fighter pilot doesn't get one? What's his name? Wedge? I mean, he totally saves Luke's butt a couple of times but then has to pull out when his ship gets too damaged. But flyboy Han swoops in at the last second to help after being a total putz and he gets an award. What gives?”

  “I don't know, Francie,” Sydney said with a chuckle.

  “It just bugs me. That's all.”

  “Maybe they can make another movie where he gets back at them for that,” Sydney suggested, bumping her shoulder against Francie's.

  “Yeah. Star Wars Twelve: Wedge's Revenge.” Francie held up her hand, gesturing to an invisible theater marquee. “He's back! He's mad! He wants his medal!”

  Sydney slumped forward, laughing. “Stop! You're going to make me choke!”

  Slowly, their giggles subsided and they lapsed back into their silent viewing. Sydney glanced at Francie's profile and smiled. She remembered all the hundreds of times she'd imagined what college would be like, hoping she'd have a nice roommate to share things with. Now here she was, in college with a terrific roommate. One who already had romance and excitement. Sydney had . . . videos.

  Without warning, hot tears suddenly surged into Sydney's eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to will them back into their ducts. She knew if she blinked, they'd start running down her face, growing into a steady trickle. Stupid, she scolded herself. Watching Star Wars and crying for no reason. But she couldn't help it. It was as if something had pounded a crack into the invisible protective coating surrounding her. Swift as rushing water, the crack spread and divided, destroying the armor and leaving her raw feelings exposed.

  She blinked. A current of tears ran down her cheeks. She clapped her hand onto her mouth, trying to hold back a sob, but that only made it worse. A muffled cry died in her throat, but the force caused her to lurch forward.

  Francie looked over. “Syd?” she said in alarm. “Honey, what's wrong?”

  Sydney could only shake her head, blinking rapidly, trying desperately to stop the waterfall of tears.

  Francie hit the mute button and scooted up beside her. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “I'm just . . . I'm just tired,” she croaked, wiping her face with her hands. “I shouldn't have stayed up this late.”

  “Come on. Tell me the truth.” Francie leaned closer and wrapped her left arm around Sydney, trying to stare up into her face. “What's really going on?” she asked softly.

  The concern in her friend's voice seemed to dissolve whatever strength Sydney had left. She gave up fighting the emotions storming inside her and crumpled against Francie's shoulder, sobbing loudly.

  For a few minutes Francie simply patted her left arm and rocked her softly, murmuring, “Shhh. It's okay,” over and over. Finally, when Sydney's crying subsided, she pulled back and peered into her eyes. “Please, tell me what this is about,” she said, her forehead creased with worry. “I really want to help.”

  Sydney took a long, shuddering breath, feeling simultaneously ashamed, pathetic, and completely worn out. “I'm just so . . . lost,” she began, staring down at her hands. “I've been a total failure at everything lately.”

  “Hey,” Francie whispered, squeezing Sydney's wrist. “That is so not true. I know you've had a bad couple of days with the whole Dean thing and the jerk at the restaurant, but—”

  “No. It's not just that.” Sydney sighed slowly. She leaned back and shut her eyes, wading through her cluttered thoughts and emotions. “I really thought college would be this huge open door to a new life. But it's not. The professors aren't these superwise mentors; they're just people. Most of the students I've met are just as phony as the ones in high school. I thought I'd feel so free and powerful. Instead I just feel really . . . disconnected.” She opened her eyes and stared wearily a
t Francie. “If it weren't for you, there'd be nothing for me here.”

  Francie grabbed Sydney's hand in both of hers, clasping it tightly. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice simultaneously firm and soothing. “You are not a failure. You are beautiful and athletic and supersmart. So what if you haven't found your thing yet. You will. You just need to believe that.”

  Sydney lowered her eyes from Francie's ultraresolute gaze. “I don't know. I hope so,” she mumbled, staring down at her lap.

  “I swear to god, girl, if you don't start believing how special you are, I'm going to start a petition. You know I would!”

  Sydney laughed softly.

  “I mean it!” Francie went on, waving her hands dramatically. “You know me. You know how picky I am, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I don't see a movie unless some respectable reviewer gives it at least four stars. I don't eat most fast food, and I try not to wear clothes more than one season. Let's face it. I'm a snob.” She nudged Sydney's ribs. “Come on, say it.”

  “You're a snob.”

  “So I ask you,” she went on, her eyes round and watery, “would I choose just anyone to be my roommate?”

  “Oh, Fran,” Sydney said almost inaudibly, leaning sideways until her head was resting on Francie's shoulder. “Thanks for putting up with me.”

  Sydney awoke the next morning feeling achy and groggy. All night long she'd been plagued with strange, murky dreams of running away from something. What it was, though, she'd never found out. A few times she had opened her eyes, sat up to stare at the clock on her dresser, and immediately begun thinking about the card lying in the wastepaper basket. She was beginning to feel haunted by the thing.

  A beam of sunlight shone through the window, cutting a bright stripe across the room's industrial-carpeted floor. Sydney pulled back the covers, slid out of bed, and padded over to the basket. The small metallic trash can seemed to glow. Leaning forward, she could still see one of the card's gray corners poking out from under a few Post-It notes. She reached automatically, hovering over the basket. Maybe she should at least call? The work of a government agent could be really interesting. Exciting even.