Page 11 of Between the Stacks

A quick glance at my phone showed I only had twenty minutes to get across campus. Thankfully, it wasn’t as late as I thought it was. Kinda lost track of everything while in the hospital. I followed the school map, cutting a swath between buildings and dorms, and came to an abrupt halt at the gate to the professors’ housing area.Should’ve done more reading up on the place. Obviously.

When I opened the email again, I saw the passcode on the interview email and punched it in. The small gate to my right buzzed, and I gripped the knob to push in. One second, I stood on the student side, gawking at the homes, and the next it waslike I’d been transported to an upscale city where people who had money lived. No, that wasn’t right. It was like watching The Wizard of Oz from the beginning. The black and white was the campus. Sepia was the gate and beyond the gate—Technicolor. I didn’t belong there anymore than Dorothy and Toto belonged in Oz.

The gate buzzed again, and another student stepped through. They gave a small smile before continuing down the curved sidewalk. I probably looked like a fool just staring at the homes. Each of them was uniform in looks. Colonial Revival, I think. Each house had matching façades, brick with white columns, and wrought-iron balconies and porches. Hanging lanterns illuminated the front porches, while brass lion-head knockers beckoned weary travelers. I read each address as I walked by until I stopped in front of the professor’s home. The place looked like it could house at least five or six students, especially if there wasn’t a family inside. That, however, was a greedy thought. Professors deserved their privacy too.

Before I could step up onto the porch, the front door opened, and a man stood at the threshold. He was tall, but not a giant. Just the right height. He had curly mopish hair with the sides short and wore a pair of black square-frame glasses. My heart fluttered, and I worried I was having another attack or worse, I used too much of the go-go juice. However, when my stomach did that funny little turn, I wanted to slap the silliness out of me. No way I’d crush on this professor. Who cared if he had chiseled cheeks or full lips. Who cared if the muscle in his jaw twitched as he assessed me.

“Hi,” I squeaked, not realizing how rough I sounded. God that was awful. I cleared my throat when he gave me a concerned look. “Hi. I’m Lyra. I applied for the room.” I took a moment to gather my breath before sticking my hand out in greeting. “Sorry I look such a mess.”

He gave me a considering once over before shaking my hand. “Professor August Barlowe. Welcome to my home, Ms. Jenkins. I made some tea.”

Tea sounded wonderful. “Do you have honey?”

He smirked. “Always. While the tea steeps, why don’t you tell me a little about you.”

I glanced around the home in awe of the sheer size of the dwelling. Every wall had some kind of painting on it, if not multiple. Wallpaper and paint mixed depending on the space along with wainscoting varnished in dark cherry or walnut. Old drawings of the college gave way to blueprints of the actual library. The photos went back to 1885 along with a photo of the first Dean of Students, Ebenezer Collins. The kitchen—where we stopped so Dr. Barlowe could make the tea was modernized, but also retained the original layout which meant the stove was in the butler’s pantry as was the refrigerator. The butcher block island took up a good seven or eight feet, and I wondered if it too was original to the house.

“This place is amazing.” Every place my gaze landed, little trinkets and items added to the atmosphere. If I was ever lucky enough to own a home like this one, I wanted my kitchen the same way as Dr. Barlowe’s.

“The kitchen is my favorite room by far,” Dr. Barlowe said, grasping the handles on the silver tray. “There’s a peace in here.”

I understood. The heart of the house was right where I stood. “Do you like to cook?” Stupid question after he said he loved the kitchen, but I was nervous and hyper from the steroids. I was also dead on my feet.

Thankfully, he chuckled as he led me to a breakfast nook. The window beside us overlooked an amazing backyard and pool. Fairy lights hung on invisible lines creating a canopy of sorts over a small pergola. “I do as a matter of fact. How about you, Ms. Jenkins?”

I nodded. “Back home I’m always helping my mom in the kitchen. I can make just about anything.” I couldn’t stop my gaze from wandering. Not only did his gorgeous face make it near impossible to keep eye contact, but the awkwardness was also getting to me.

“Why my house, Ms. Jenkins? You could have picked any one of us and each professor would have welcomed you with open arms.”

Good question. I don’t know why I answered the ad or hadn’t applied for others. “I don’t know. I saw your post, and I took a chance.”

He took a sip of his tea, staring at me over the rim. Merriment danced in his gaze along with something else. I’d say assessment, but that seemed too tame. “I read over your transcript before I sent the email. You’re top in your classes. Your professors like you and you’re driven. Yet, you don’t have a major. Why not?”

If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t be undecided. “Guess I haven’t found my niche yet.”

August “Lowe”

Sitting across from Ms. Jenkins,I’d been surprised by her application. Surely, none of the students wanted to spend their semester with a churlish librarian, but like Moira said, every professor participated. What it would mean if a faculty member didn’t get chosen, I guess didn’t matter. Because here Lyra sat, staring at me a little too wide-eyed and pale for my liking. The gray tinge of her skin had me questioning the hospital’s discharge policies. How could they send a student who looked run over and spat out of a truck’s exhaust back to school?

If I’d had any say in the matter, I’d have requested she be admitted for at least a week. Even now her breath came in soft pants and every so often she took a deep breath. The pulse at her throat throbbed, probably from the medication they gave her before releasing her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Jenkins, I have to ask, are you okay? I know you were one of the students hospitalized.”

“How did you—” She glanced at her wrist where the hospital band dangled from her wrist and frowned. “Right. I feel like shit, to be honest.” The scratchy rasp of her throat hurt just to listen to her. The raw edge as if someone scraped her vocal cords with shards of glass then used salt to cure them.

“As you should, I suspect,” I replied. “Is there anything specific you need to take or limitations?”

She shook her head. “No. I have my inhalers and aftercare meds. The doctor was confident once they got the attack under control, I’d be fine. Doesn’t mean I’m not exhausted or my lungs aren’t hurting.”

“How about this then,” I said, “I’ll speak with your professors and have your midterms delayed until you’re feeling better.”

“The information I have said we’d have a week while investigators interviewed everyone and students found housing,” she replied. “Thankfully, I have everything I need with the exception of the physical textbooks and well... my stuff from home.”

I frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry for,” she said, pouring herself more tea, then offering some to me, which I accepted. “Unless you told him to start the fire.”

“No, I didn’t,” I replied. “Sentiments are still extended.”

“I appreciate the gesture then,” she said. “What else would you like to know, Dr. Barlowe?”

---