Shattered Highways

by Tara N Hathcock

  He frowned. “Which one what?”

  “Which one is the best?”

  He laughed. He really did have a nice laugh. “Definitely the southwest chili.” He gave a little fake cough. “It has just a bit of a kick.”

  She shook her head, said, “Tried it. Not that impressed,” and shoved the rest of her girly American taco, minus the beans, lettuce, and sour cream, into her mouth before she got up. “Good talk. See you around.”

  She turned away, ready to make for home. This whole day had been surreal. First, a professor in a class she was only auditing asks for a private meeting. Then she sees this guy in the quad and, what’s more, actually notices him, no small thing for her. Then Brandon, who never talks to anyone, asks her out. And now, quad guy is sitting on a bench, eating tacos, and wanting to chat? Just...surreal.

  “Now hold on.” Quad guy didn’t get up, but had turned to watch her leave. “You still have a whole other taco to eat. No sense running off before you’re done. What’s the rush?”

  “The rush is, it’s after dark and some guy I don’t know wants to sit and chat. It’s a page straight out of Smart Girl 101. Just, no.” Quincy should have felt empowered by her bold exit. She’d meant to impress upon him her street savvy and powers of self-preservation. If only she hadn’t flipped her hair over her shoulder as she said it. Which was weird because when was the last time she’d flipped her hair for anyone? Had she ever? Did that negate the power of the last word, she wondered?

  Behind her, she heard him laugh and realized yes, it apparently did. She sighed. So much for one-upmanship.

  “Hey, some guy’s name is Logan. And we’re surrounded by food truck dudes who would put me down if I made an ungentlemanly move. I think you’re safe.”

  She kept walking.

  “Aren’t you even going to tell me your name?” he called after her.

  Quincy lifted her hand in a dismissive wave without turning back, hoping it was enough to salvage what small amount of dignity she could.

  Chapter 6

  The Colonel

  The phone rang at 6:37, interrupting his dinner. He was at his favorite restaurant, the same one he visited every Monday. A small mom and pop place, it boasted a narrow menu of homemade recipes and the best desserts in the Northeast. Mondays were the meatloaf special and he never missed it. He glanced and the caller i.d., annoyed at having been disturbed.

  “What?” he growled.

  He was a man of habit and everyone who worked for him knew it. They also knew how he felt about having his dinner interrupted for nothing. So this had better not be nothing. Although, this particular caller had not set the bar high in the past so his expectation was low.

  The man on the other end got right to the point. “I think I found her.”

  He clearly thought this was important enough to break protocol but it was nothing new to the Colonel. Every few weeks, someone on the hunt thought they caught a scent. It usually amounted to nothing more than a woman, right age, right build, wrong place and time. After months of false starts, he most definitely wasn’t in the mood for more leads that led nowhere.

  “You either found her or you didn’t. Which is it?”

  He forked another slice of his meatloaf and sopped up some of the juice and breadcrumbs before putting it in his mouth, savoring it as it went down. He had never met anyone who could make meatloaf that tasted just like his mother’s, but this was close. The owner came over to refill his glass but the Colonel suddenly motioned him away. He sat up straighter, fully tuning in to what the man was saying.

  “Have you established a pattern?”

  Apparently, he had. The Colonel sat and listened as the man outlined several characteristics that he had linked to the girl over the last few years. Why bother tracking physical characteristics when those are easy enough to change? An interesting approach, the Colonel admitted to himself as the man continued. She didn’t seem to gravitate toward similar surroundings twice. Towns, cities - she’d been linked to both. But what the towns she had been seen in previously did have in common were colleges that accepted audit students on a class-by-class basis. And those weren’t as common as, say, hair color and height.

  “And you think you’ve got a hit?” the Colonel asked when the man finished.

  It was obvious the man thought he’d found her but the Colonel still had his doubts. “No,” he interrupted, shutting him down. “I want hard proof. We need to limit collateral damage. If you act rashly and create a mess, the company will not be pleased.”

  He thought for a moment. Did he trust the man to pursue this lead on his own? Hardly. But it was only reconnaissance. As long as he didn’t try to make contact or get too close, the girl should never know he was there.

  “Observe. Watch what she does, see if she displays any symptoms that might give her away. But do not engage.”

  When the man didn’t answer, the Colonel persisted. “Do you understand your orders soldier?”

  His voice was quiet, mild even. But there was no mistaking the steel that ran through it. This order was not to be disregarded. Yes, the man finally answered. He understood.

  The Colonel smiled, picking his fork back up. “Well then, keep me informed. We’ll move as soon as we have a positive i.d. Losing her again isn’t an option.”

  Before he hung up the phone, he paused. He did believe in credit where credit was due, after all.

  “Auberdeen? Well done.”

  Chapter 7

  “We’re all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding.” Rudyard Kipling

  The girl exists in isolation, as much as one can. Her world is limited to that which will help her survive.

  People will not help her with this. Friends will not help her. People will hurt her. Friends will be hurt. And so she lies.

  In this, we are agreed.

  * * *

  Quincy

  Quincy lay awake again, staring up at her ceiling and thinking. She had decided to go to Professor Michaels’s open office hours before work but that slightly risky decision wasn’t what was on her mind. Not at all. After she had collapsed into bed, she had spent a few minutes determining the best course of action, for now, was to approach him first thing in the morning when there would be, hopefully, fewer people around, making it easier to spot anyone out-of-place. Well, maybe not the best course of action, but that’s what she was going to do. He had asked her to come within a few days but he hadn’t nailed down a specific time, which didn’t make sense if he was looking to lay a trap. And if she went first thing tomorrow, she wouldn’t have to sit and worry for the next three days. So yes, she would go and see how things played out. Option three was the riskiest, and the stupidest, but she was tired of running all the time. The professor seemed on the level and she was willing to chance it, within reason.

  Once she had decided, it was amazing how fast her mind switched gears. Amazing, yes, but also incredibly irritating that some random guy could completely take over her thoughts. Granted, it wasn’t unusual for something random and unimportant to take over the tornado that was her brain. The great state of Texas, the mystifying phenomena that was the hot dog, and the complete dichotomy of the phrase Baker’s Dozen were all topics she had agonized over at some point or another. She supposed, since she had literally spent hours over-analyzing these most minuscule of details, spending her insomnia on a boy might actually be considered normal. But seriously, why use the term dozen if you don’t mean twelve? But despite these more pressing concerns, she had spent the night replaying her run ins with Logan over and over, looking at the few facts she knew and trying to piece them together to make sense. It was so not like her to notice a boy. Or to overreact when he noticed her. She had never seen him before. Worst case scenario, he was a plant sent to get close to her. She was invisible to most people, having perfected the technique after so many years. She was older than most of her classmates and frankly, next to the perky, size 0 coeds roaming campus, flaunting what God and dadd
y’s credit card gave them, she didn’t merit a second glance. But maybe that’s why he’d noticed her. She was, admittedly, closer to his age. And he hadn’t just noticed her; he’d seen her. Well enough to recognize her hours later, in the dark. Quincy sighed and closed her eyes. This guy, Logan, he’d said his name was, had nice eyes. And a nice smile. He seemed friendly enough and he was right, it wouldn’t have made sense if he was planning to mess with her to stake her out at the food truck pavilion. Those grizzled old cooks would have had him by the throat in a heartbeat if he’d tried something. She pictured it in her mind, a bunch of middle aged, grease-stained, hard living trucker types dog piling the giant blonde surfer for stepping out of line. The thought made her smile. They were like her boss back in Boise, at the truck stop. Grumpy but protective, and loath to admit it. She had to admit, it was kind of nice to be noticed by a guy who looked like Logan. He must get attention everywhere he goes. It was kind of odd, she thought suddenly, to have 2 different men show interest in the same day. Three, if she counted Professor Michaels. A snap in her intentionally wrought dry spell? Or something more serious? She frowned. She should probably give that a little more thought. Of all her random wonderings tonight, that was probably the only one with actual merit. But the thread of her thoughts was becoming inexplicably frayed, weaving together and splitting apart amongst the sheer improbability of those wretched hot dogs. She decided not to fight it. She had already decided on a course of action for Professor Michaels. The question of whether Logan and Brandon’s attention was sincere or manufactured would hold for another day. Instead, she let the thread drift; floating her harried thoughts out to sea, she slid off into a shallow sleep, grateful for whatever she could get.

  Quincy’s class started at 8:00 so she was used to being on campus early. She preferred it that way. Everything was quiet. The few people who were there at that time of day were there for a reason and went about it without a fuss. Maybe because it was too early for 20-years olds to make a fuss, she didn’t know. But the campus had a slow, sleepy feel to it in the morning that Quincy loved. It was kind of eye-opening to see what it looked like even earlier. College kids weren’t a big fan of 8:00 a.m. classes sure, but 7:00? The place was like a ghost town. There were a couple of people scattered here and there, haphazardly dressed and barely awake. Even the guy manning the coffee kiosk was moving slow, something Quincy found mildly ironic. He had taken a painfully long time handing her cup over. Something about grinders that needed to wake up. Or warming up his steamer. She wasn’t positive and she didn’t think he was either. As he was struggling with her order, Quincy noticed a girl rushing towards Bennett Hall. She was a mess, hair tugged into a messy knot, shoes untied. Obviously running late, the girl shot a quick look toward the coffee kiosk before yanking the door to the lecture hall open and darting through. A painful sacrifice for a few scant minutes of extra sleep. Quincy couldn’t understand it. Of course, Quincy couldn’t sleep either, so maybe her judgement wasn’t the one to trust.

  Edgar Hall was a magnificent old building that housed all of the classes in the engineering programs. It was also home to faculty offices, and Professor Michaels, as the young kid on the block, had been pushed as far south as he could get, sandwiched between two larger corner offices that hogged all the window space. Quincy settled onto a bench near the middle of the building so she could see both entrances. Since there were two, she could only guess which one he would come in but the spot was about equidistant to both doors and enough out of the way that, hopefully, he wouldn’t spot her right off. She had grabbed the only cap she had, an old, ratty thing that had been with her longer than she could remember, and hoped that, since he’d only put the name to her face once, it, combined with all the others coming and going, would be enough camouflage to hide her in plain sight.

  She had brought a book of course. Staking out a possible threat’s office seemed like a suitable moment to continue working through Interrogation Techniques. But she kept one eye on the cluster of offices, looking closely at each person that wandered down the hall. Quincy truly expected to spot someone lurking about who appeared to be up to no good, but after an hour, she was almost disappointed to acknowledge that it seemed like a perfectly legitimate meeting with a college professor. Professor Michaels had shown up at 8:15, his sweater-over-untucked t-shirt and Converse sneakers combo boldly screaming young idealistic do-gooder. Several students had come and gone during the hour since he’d opened his office, and each meeting had been an open-door, agreeable affair. One thing she had noticed during their classes was that his students all seemed to like him. They paid attention in class, asked questions, and responded when he did the asking. It was possible the kids in Mechanical Engineering all had a legitimate, unquenchable interest in the subject but it seemed more likely that Professor Michaels was just that compelling of a teacher. Which was why Quincy found herself, albeit reluctantly, tapping on Michaels’s open door.

  He looked up at the sound and broke into a smile when he saw her.

  “I honestly didn’t know if you’d stop by,” he said by way of explanation. “Since you’re not on the official roster, you aren’t obligated to participate in any class activities, including office hours. But I’m really glad you did.”

  He gestured to the chair situated to the left of his desk and she took it without a word, relieved her back wouldn’t be to the open doorway. As she sank into the chair and dropped her backpack to the floor at her feet, Michaels sat back in his own chair and turned so he was facing her. He seemed to be sizing her up so she took the opportunity to do the same, although by this point she knew she would come to the same conclusion. This was just a teacher, a young one, who loved his subject and was on the lookout for others who might share his passion. She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.

  “So,” he finally said, “You’re wondering why I asked you to drop in?”

  He was obviously looking to make this a conversation and, though he seemed safe, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to get that friendly with him. So she just shrugged, leaving his verbal invitation open. But the awkward silence didn’t seem to phase him because he picked that ball up and rolled with it.

  “To be honest, I don’t get that many auditors in my classes. Mechanical engineering is a pretty dedicated sphere and most people who audit are looking for entertainment or experience in subjects they already dabble in.” He shrugged good-naturedly. “And most of the auditors I do get don’t pull the grades you do.”

  He dropped the easy-going smile, leaning forward so that his forearms rested on the desk in front of him, and looked her square in the eye.

  “Would it surprise you to know that you carry the top grade in the class? In all my classes, actually. By a significant margin?”

  For someone who got caught off-guard so rarely, it seemed to be happening with alarming frequency lately. But Quincy honestly didn’t know what to say. No, she didn’t know she had the top grade in class. Did it surprise her? Not really. She usually got good grades and mechanical engineering wasn’t any different than any other subject. But what did surprise her was Professor Michaels’s attention. In her experience, professors didn’t really care who made what grade. As long as there weren’t too many failing, it wasn’t worth thinking about. But this young, enthusiastic teacher did, apparently, care, and she was terribly afraid that was going to be a problem for her.

  He was still focused on her, waiting for an answer. She shrugged again, using self-deprecation as a shield.

  “I have a head for numbers so this class seemed like a good fit. It’s really not a big deal.” Michaels shook his head.

  “No, it really is.” He leaned back in his chair and watched her for a few seconds, not saying anything. Which was not what she wanted. She didn’t need him interested in her or her situation.

  “I add so many extra credit assignments to my classes every semester because this is a very difficult subject and even my most dedicated students need help keeping their
grades up. No one has ever passed this class with 100%.” He grinned and swiveled his chair side to side, clearly burning off a little spare energy. “And you’re passing it with 110%.”

  He glanced down, adjusted his notes. “Strike that. 111%. You haven’t missed a single point, extra or otherwise, all semester.”

  His eyes were still boring into her, giving her the distinct impression that he knew she was uncomfortable but wasn’t willing to let her off the hook. “So you tell me, just how far would you like a ‘head for numbers’ to take you?”

  Quincy was confused by the question. It was more likely for a student to cheat than to have a perfect semester but that thought didn’t seem to have entered his mind. Of course, as an auditor, she had nothing to gain by cheating. Her grades weren’t being recorded. She wasn’t benefiting from a scholarship or competing for an internship. But still, most other teachers would have at least considered it. And most students would have been defensive, denying the accusation before it could be made. But Michaels was still idealistically wide-eyed and optimistic. And coming from this earnest young professor, with his puppy dog eyes and can-do attitude, she took it for what it was - kindness. He was simply interested in helping her. Which would be a refreshing change if it weren’t so dangerous. And the next words out of Professor Michaels’s mouth only confirmed what she already knew. He wanted more for her.

  “I think you should enroll officially in the class. You’ve already paid the auditing fee. It wouldn’t take much more to backdate your enrollment and make your grades official. With your scores, I can talk to the Dean and see about getting you scholarship money so you can continue with an actual course of study. You can pursue an education, formally.”