Page 40 of Switching Graves

21

Sonny

The Psychology Department sits in a room down the hall from the counseling office, though it’s much smaller. Even with its size, it feels far less suffocating, as it only appears to house one or two people.

There’s a desk in the center of the main floor with a large conference table shoved beneath a loft. A spiral staircase sits over half the room, lined with glass and wrought iron windows to provide privacy. The opposite wall is made up of windows that stretch from the floor and all the way to the ceiling. They look out to what I assume is a courtyard, though I don’t recall seeing one on the building map that I studied before coming here. The wall beside it is made up solely of bookshelves that wrap around the lofted area, and a lit fireplace. A rolling ladder sits off in the corner with a set of leather chairs next to it, facing out the window.

The teacher’s assistant, Hayes, sits at the desk on the bottom floor, rifling through a stack of papers with his head down. When I clear my throat and ask him where Dr. Whitlock’s office is, hishead jerks up in surprise, like he had no clue I’ve been standing here, watching him. With wide eyes, he points his finger toward the loft, where the blinds are all drawn, offering no indication whether someone may be in there or not.

He checks his watch, then winces. “His office hours have just started, so you may find him in a tolerable mood,” he tells me in a low voice, offering a teasing smirk that reveals a dimple in his left cheek. “But no promises.”

“Thanks.”

I’ve had to wait all week for Dr. Whitlock to open his office hours, so I can ask him about his open work study position. Miss Mercer sent me a follow up email yesterday evening to remind me, and since Poppy and I haven’t decided to drop this charade altogether, I figured it was worth trying. Our Wednesday lecture was just as boring as the first, though I noticed there were significantly fewer students taking up space in the auditorium. I wonder how many get a taste of his teaching style and drop immediately.

It worked out for me. I was able to get a seat further away from his intense stare.

Steeling myself, I slowly climb up the steps and stop right in front of the door, then knock before I can convince myself this is a huge mistake.

“Come in,” a deep, irritated-sounding voice commands.

So much for him being tolerable.

“Hi,” I chirp a little too loudly, resisting the urge to wring my hands. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me so nervous.

His brows raise. “Yes? What is it?”

Clearing my throat, I begin reciting the speech I’ve worked on for the past three hours as I waited for his office hours to open up. It all seemed so regal when I said it in my head, but standing before him like this makes me feel silly.

“My name is Penelope Ellery. I’m in your Psycholgy 231 class . . . ” He shakes his head impatiently, urging me to get on with it. “Anyway, Miss Gracer said you had a work study position available and?—”

“Miss Gracer is misinformed. I no longer have a need for that position,” he interrupts, his tone sharp.

Glancing down at the sheet of paper in my hand that confirms it is, in fact, still open, I frown. “Oh. I guess she thought since it’s open and I’m a psychology major, it might be a good fit.”

“I have no desire to figure out what she may or may not have been thinking. The point is that there is no position.” His eyes drop back to the laptop sitting before him in clear dismissal. “Perhaps there’s something available in the cafeteria or the library.”

“Oo-kay,” I drawl, my fear twisting into something ugly and irritated. Would it be so hard for him to show a sliver of kindness or patience?

Before turning away, I offer a small shrug, raising one sly brow. “I just thought since she mentioned you two were close, she might have been privy to information that no one else had. But I’ll look into those, thanks.”

His attention snaps back up to me. “You are mistaken.”

Lifting my chin, I shrug and twist on my heel to head back for the door. “Thank you for your time.”

Asshole.

22

Raze

“Two more people have gone missing over the weekend,” Abigail announces from across the booth, her eyes gliding back and forth as she reads the Nocturne Gazette article on her phone.

The same article I was sure to hunt down this morning in my kitchen, repeatedly refreshing the website until it popped up on the home page.

“The Viper Strikes Nocturne Valley Once Again”is the best title they could conjure up.

We’ve got some of the future’s best and brightest creative writers living among us, and they waste their time employing these unoriginal hack jobs to report their news. I suppose when you’re trying to control your constituents as tightly as our honorable mayor does, your options for participants are limited.

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