The history lecture hall is wonderfully dim and this prof is big into PowerPoint, so the potential for dozing off is great. Haley does her best to concentrate, but the low lights and the images only further lull her cloudy thoughts. Her head jerks up at the herdlike sound of shuffling feet moving toward the door. Class over.
Once outside, Haley blinks in the sun. A slight ache in her neck foretells pain to come. She has one more class, then she’s done for the day. She pulls out her water bottle and unscrews the cap. She’s about to take a long swig when she hears her name.
“Haley, right?” The blonde from earlier stands at the foot of the wide staircase. She takes a few steps up toward Haley. “I’m Carrie,” she says. “Sorry about before. Back at your room. You must have thought we were totally rude.”
“A little,” Haley admits.
“Do you have a minute?”
Haley gestures around them with her hand. The sea of migrating students. “I’ve got class.”
“Which way? I’ll walk with you.”
Haley hesitates. “I’m sorry, this is totally weird. What’s up?”
Carrie looks around. The entrance to the lecture hall is crowded with students. She steps closer to Haley. “I’d like to speak to you privately. About Jenny. She asked me to talk to you.”
Haley’s eyes narrow. “Jenny can’t tell me whatever it is herself?”
Carrie purses her lips.
That’s when Haley sees him. Over Carrie’s shoulder, at the foot of the stairs: Cute Guy, from math tutoring. Her class doesn’t have an assigned teaching assistant, so if you have questions you can go to the math lounge where some upperclassman genius is usually on duty. She went once for help with a tough problem and spotted Cute Guy across the room. This sandy--haired sophomore who seemed to know everyone taking multivariable calculus. Cute Guy wasn’t asking questions; he was answering them.
Haley had started going to the lounge on a regular basis after that. It turned out to be a great study spot, whether you were doing math or not.
But now Cute Guy is staring at them. Actually, not “them.” He seems rooted to a spot on the sidewalk, aiming his X--ray vision at Carrie. Like he’s waiting for her. Willing her to turn.
“It’s complicated,” Carrie says, turning to see what Haley is looking at. A flicker of impatience crosses her face. “Let’s just walk, okay?” Carrie says abruptly. “I can explain everything.”
. . .
They don’t hear him over the percussive, insistent thump. He steps into the room, turns down the volume.
“A little help?”
They follow him down the stairs, their feet thunderous on old wood. Outside to the small paved area behind the house. A station wagon is parked near the door, its back end low. He raises the hatch to reveal cases of beer. A brand--new plastic green garbage can. Cartons filled with bottles of clear liquid.
“Let the games begin, gentlemen,” Exley says.
. . .
4
Richard
He’s been following her.
This doesn’t make him proud. But Richard can’t help it. He wants to see who she’s with. Where she goes. The tilt of her head as she speaks to people he doesn’t know.
He wants to see if she exhibits signs of the ache that’s been twisting his gut. So he trails, at a distance, while she saunters to class. Lingers over chai at the library café. Marches purposefully downtown with her string bag to the food co--op, where she’ll load up on organic produce, farro, local cheese. He used to remark, amazed, at the prices she was willing to pay for these items.
Her face is smooth as she moves through her days. She looks more beautiful and self--contained than ever.
When he can’t stand the silence anymore (she responds to none of his texts or phone messages), he decides to make sure she sees him. He will force a response, something, a glance even, that acknowledges his existence on the same campus, the same planet.
Normally, he’d be nowhere near the history building at this time of day. Neither would she, so it strikes him as odd. Her whole morning has been out of joint. She and Gail had breakfast at the dining hall (which they almost never did), then set off across campus to one of the freshman dorms. He didn’t have class, so he waited on a bench, a comfortable viewing distance from the entrance.
I’ve become a stalker. This is bad. He’s got it bad.
“Have a little pride, man,” Jordan said when he confessed that he’d been following Carrie. They were drinking beers in the Taylor common room. Jordan had been unsympathetic. “It shouldn’t be that much work,” he said. “Constantly watching every word you say? Putting up with her ridiculous friends? There are more fish in the sea, and they are way easier to hook.”
Richard regretted telling him. Not that Jordan was wrong. It had been too much work. But Jordan didn’t get that he felt bad anyway. It was like some little piece of him had been surgically removed, and he was looking around for it. In a dark tunnel without a flashlight. Making an idiot of himself in the process.
Richard knew it wasn’t good.