Page 59 of Ten Years and Then…
“Are you one of those glass half full people?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I guess the world needs you guys, too.” He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not, but he smiled anyway. She smiled back, and it was as pretty as Daniel had thought it would be. “I’m Valerie, by the way. Valerie Vance. In case you didn’t read it off the screen.”
“Daniel. It’s nice to meet you.” He extended a hand, and she shook it. And held it for a second or two longer than he expected her to. But maybe that was just how she was. “Let’s see if we can’t get your resume looking better than Carrie’s, okay?”
Nora, September 28
“Get your stuff together, Nora. You’re coming with me.”
Nora looked up from the article she was editing—a funny piece Marcia Bennett had written about how commuter students occupied themselves while riding the bus to or from campus—to see Ben standing over her.
“What?”
“The mayor’s press conference. I got a second press pass. Come on, it’s a fifteen minute drive, and then we have to find parking and get a good seat once we get there.”
She didn’t know there was one press pass. How had Ben even managed to get one pass for the Observer to cover a City Hall press conference, let alone two?
It didn’t matter; he was in a rush, so she had to keep up. She grabbed her purse and followed him out of the office, up the stairs, out of the Whitman building and two blocks to the student parking lot. And then—“Holy crap! How do you have a Jaguar?”
It was green. Almost emerald, but even darker than that. And very well kept, at least from the outside. “It’s eighteen years old and my father got sick of the repair bills, that’s how. He replaced it with a Toyota, and I drive it as little as possible.” He didn’t quite laugh. “And pray every time I do.”
The car didn’t seem to have any problems on the drive over to City Hall. And Ben turned out to be a whiz at parallel parking, something Nora had barely managed on her road test and avoided whenever possible.
They even managed to get decent seats—in the second row, right behind a reporter from Government Affairs Monthly and a freelance writer for the Associated Press.
Ben turned to her and whispered, “OK, Nora. You’re just here to watch today. I probably am, too. I doubt I’ll have the chance to ask anything, but it’s still good experience just to be here.” She nodded. But she saw his notebook, with several questions scribbled in his nearly unreadable handwriting.
Mayor Kinsey and his press secretary came out, a few minutes late, and gave a short statement about progress on building a new runway for the airport, and then they took questions. Nora wasn’t sure why she and Ben were even here—nothing that was being discussed seemed at all relevant to Albion College.
But then the transportation reporter from the Albany Courier asked about proposed cuts to the city bus system. The Mayor gave a dodgy non-answer, and Nora saw her hand shoot up before she even realized she’d done it. Ben glared at her, but it was too late—she was being called on.
“Yes, Miss …”
“Langley, Albion Observer.” She paused for a moment, trying to recall the exact figures in the article she’d been working on just an hour ago. “Over 40% of students at Albion are commuters, and most of them rely on the number 23 bus route to go to and from campus. If you cut that route, how will they be able to complete their education? These are local people who will become local employees and local taxpayers when they graduate. If they graduate, given the impact of your transit cuts. What do you say to them and their families?”
She couldn’t believe herself; her heart was pounding too loud for her to even hear the Mayor’s answer. But it must have been another dodge, because she saw a dozen raised hands to follow up on her question, and several more reporters frantically jotting down the Mayor’s words. And hers, too?
But better than that was the way Ben’s glare had transformed into a proud—almost triumphant—grin.
Daniel, October 10
Daniel was at the desk in the lab, as usual on a Wednesday. And the lab was almost empty, also as usual. The only difference today was that he was caught up on all his classes, so he could actually pay attention to the one person who was working in the lab.
It was Valerie. She was here a lot. Almost every day he worked in the lab, come to think of it. And she had a question almost every visit. It was weird that she couldn’t get the hang of things he’d explained three or four times.
“Hey, Daniel,” she said, seemingly on cue.
He went over to see what she needed.
“I can’t get the footer to look right. It keeps messing it up.”
He’d shown her how to fix that last week. And two weeks ago. “You have to use the format menu. You can’t just click in the footer like you did there.”
He grabbed the mouse to show her, and her hand brushed against his. He expected—he didn’t know what, maybe for her to jump away? But she didn’t. She smiled at him instead, and then watched him demonstrate—again—what she needed to do.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll remember this time. Unless something,”—she glanced up at him, smiled—“distracts me.” She shrugged. “Or maybe there’s only so much room in my brain, and it’s filled with case readings and statutes. No room for anything else.”
Daniel doubted that. He was pretty sure there was room in Valerie’s brain for whatever she wanted to be there.
And then a thought occurred to him, so absurd that he couldn’t imagine where it had come from. Maybe she did remember about the footers—and everything else she kept “forgetting”—and she just wanted his attention.
