Dr. Welch clears his throat and looks pointedly at the two of us, which means, You’re supposed to be grateful right now. Not talking.
The guy grins and turns his notebook slightly so I can see what he’s writing. I’m Thomas. I’m grateful that this class is pass/fail.
I smile and nod again. I already knew his name. I’ve been privately referring to him as Doubting Thomas, since he’s always the first one to question everything Dr. Welch says. Like last week, for instance, Dr. Welch said that we have to stop chasing after material things and work to be content with ourselves, and Thomas’s hand shot up, and he said something like, “But if we all sat around content with exactly where we were in life, nobody would strive for excellence. I want to be happy, sure, but I didn’t come to Stanford because I wanted to find happiness. I came because I want to be the best.”
Humble, this guy.
My phone vibrates, and Dr. Welch looks over again. I wait a few minutes before I sneak it out of my pocket. There’s a text from Angela asking me to meet her at Memorial Church.
After class I book it down the main stairs of Meyer Library, where happiness is held, and Thomas calls after me. “Hey, Clara, wait!” I don’t have a lot of time for this, but I stop. I scan the skies nervously for the mysterious crow, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Um, do you—” Thomas pauses, like he’s forgotten what he was going to say now that he’s got my attention. “Do you want to get something to eat? There’s this place behind Tresidder that makes these amazing chicken burritos. They put in rice and beans and pico de gallo—”
“I can’t. I’m meeting somebody,” I interrupt before he can really get going on the burritos. Which are incredibly tasty—it’s true. But I am meeting someone, and besides that, I really do not want to go out with Doubting Thomas. That much I know.
His face falls. “Some other time, then,” he says, and shrugs one shoulder like it’s no big deal, but I feel a prickle of wounded pride coming off him, a “who does she think she is” kind of vibe, which makes me feel immediately less guilty for turning him down.
Angela’s text—C, meet me at MemChu. 5:30 p.m. Important—has me jogging through the archways of the arcade, my footsteps echoing on the checkered stones. Her vision is going to take place here at Stanford, after all—it’s the entire reason we all ended up here—so important could be pretty darn monumental. I check my watch—five thirty-five—and canter across the quad, not slowing as I often do to take in the sight of the church, its gleaming golden mosaics at the front, the Celtic cross perched at the apex on the roof. I shove my shoulder against the heavy wooden door and step inside, pause for a minute in the vestibule to let my eyes adjust to the dimness within.
I don’t immediately see Angela among the scattering of students who are gathered here, most of them walking slowly in an indiscernible pattern at the front of the sanctuary. I wander down the red-carpeted aisle toward them, past the rows of mahogany pews, my skin prickling at the depictions of angels everywhere, in the stained-glass windows, in the mosaics on both sides of me, in the space between the arches on the ceiling: angels everywhere, gazing down, always with their wings unfurled behind them. One of them is probably Michael, I think. All I have to do to find my dad is go to church.