Page 68 of Kingmakers, Year One

“It doesn’t matter what myfatheris,” he spits back at me. “I’ll bePakhanbecause I’ll earn it myself.”

Ha. Nice to know I can get under Dean’s skin when I want to.

It’s a long walk to the library, located in the tallest tower on the northwest corner of campus. The bookshelves form a vast upward spiral, like in the lighthouse of Alexandria. The books are mostly organized by topic, but when you can’t find something, you can always ask Ms. Robin.

The librarian is shy and quiet, but quite beautiful behind her thick glasses. She’s got auburn hair and hazel eyes, and she’s probably in her forties, though she dresses like an old cat lady.

I’m curious how she came to work at Kingmakers. Virtually all the professors were mafiosos themselves, but she obviously wasn’t—she’s so timid that she almost jumps out of her skin if you close a book too hard. She must be somebody’s daughter or niece.

She probably likes working here, because Kingmakers is so isolated, and the library is quiet and peaceful. Besides, it’s a dream for anyone who likes reading, which Ms. Robin clearly does. Every time I come here she has her nose buried in a book, or a bunch of papers and charts spread out at her desk.

I don’t have to ask her where the banking section is, since I’ve come looking for materials for this class plenty of times before. Dean and I scour the shelves, finding a half-dozen books that should help us.

Dean hauls them down—a mix of modern publications and a few old tomes thicker than a phone book.

He gets distracted when he spots an old copy ofBlood Meridianalready laying butterflied on our reading table.

He picks up the book, turning through the first few pages, his eyes betraying his interest as they flick back and forth.

“Have you read that one before?”

Dean startles, like he forgot I was standing there. He drops the novel back down on the table like I caught him looking at porn.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I’ve read it.”

Interesting.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—after all, Dean is one of the top students in our year. He obviously isn’t stupid. I just didn’t picture him as someone who read novels for fun.

“Was it for school?”

He frowns at me. “No. It wasn’t for school.”

“Just curious,” I say. “Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite authors.”

His lips tighten, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something rude. Or, at the very least, tell me we should focus on our project. Instead, he says, “I likedNo Country for Old Menbetter.”

“Have you seen the movie? It’s one of the best adaptations I’ve seen—maybe even better than the book.”

“The movie’s never better than the book,” Dean scoffs.

“It can be,” I counter, listing off the best examples on my fingers. “Fight Club,Gone Girl,The Silence of the Lambs,Jaws. . .”

Dean stares at me. It’s odd looking at his face this close. His eyes are the exact same color as Aunt Yelena’s. It’s a shade of blue I’ve never seen on anyone else, like the irises that grow in the walled garden at my parents’ house.

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean says unexpectedly.

My mouth falls open. Of course I thought I was right all along. But I didn’t expect him to admit it.

We sit down next to each other at the ancient, heavily-scarred library table. It might be strange for some of the students to live in a place where every stone, every sconce, every piece of furniture is centuries older than they are. For me, it just reminds me of home.

I like objects with history. I like to think who sat at this table before me, and who might sit here in ten or twenty or a hundred years. This library is full of the discoveries of thousands of people. That’s the strength of humans. We can collaborate. We can share. A thousand of us together are infinitely stronger than any one person can be.

Assuming we can get along.

Dean opens up his notebook and starts telling me what we’re going to do for the assignment.

“Hey,” I interrupt. “You’re not in charge.”

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