The Faculty Club Part 19

A moment pa.s.sed.

"Well," the cop near Chance said, looking at my clothes, "you do look pretty stupid."

"Yeah. My first time in commando gear."

"Whad'ya say, John? This could just be some townie kids snooping around, threw a rock through the window?"

The cop near me nodded, thinking.

"Disappear," he said finally. "If I see you again, I might have to take a stick to your head. Got it?" He pulled me up roughly and started laughing. He slapped me on the back. "Get out of here. And stay out of trouble."

They were both laughing now. I felt like I wanted to vomit. Chance and I kept mumbling thank you as we worked our way to the door. We were almost there.

"Say," the calm officer said casually, "what's in there?"

He gave Chance's side pouch a little tap with his baton.

Chance winced, involuntarily.

"Just my camera," he said, still moving toward the door.

The cop gave the pouch another tap, harder this time.

"Can I see it?" he said.

The other cop was circling calmly around, between us and the door.

"Sure," Chance said. He opened the pouch and tilted it toward the officer.

"Why don't you take it out," the cop said.

Chance exhaled. He took the camera out.

The cop took it and turned it around in his hands.

"Pretty nice camera," he said.

"Big, too," the other cop said from behind us. "Not one of those little pocket ones you see the kids with."

"True," the first cop said, c.o.c.king his head. "Not one of those camera phones either. That's what I notice these days."

"Can I see it?" the cop between us and the door asked.

"Sure," Chance said quietly. He pa.s.sed it over.

"Wow, this is a real camera. It's got lenses and everything."

The cop in front of us said pleasantly, "You a photographer, son?"

"It's just a hobby."

"That's good. My son's hobby is being an a.s.shole. Still, though . . ."

"Why bring such a nice camera on a prank, I wonder . . ." the other cop finished.

Chance mumbled something about taking a picture in the dining hall.

"Huh," the cop said.

"Say, Officer Peters," the man behind us said. "If I'm not mistaken, this is one of those James Bond cameras, good in the dark and so forth."

"Huh," the officer said again.

Ever so slightly, I saw Chance rise up on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. I felt voltage building in my arms and legs.

The officer reached back into Chance's bag. His hand came out holding a piece of paper.

My heart sank as I realized it was our map.

Chance started to say something, but the cop raised his hand. He unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the page. The corner of his mouth flickered.

I felt a body close behind me.

The cop looked up. His face was still a mask of pleasantness, but all the warmth had drained from the eyes, the smile.

"What were you boys looking for down there, exactly?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

There was a moment of perfect stillness.

Chance ran.

There was a crack as the cop behind us rammed Chance into the wall. The camera fell and slid along the floor. The other cop went for me. I saw a baton rise up in the air above Chance. Without thinking I jumped toward it and knocked them apart. Chance leapt up and ran blindly into the other officer. "Go," he yelled.

I ran out the door and down the hall. The hole of the window came closer and I jumped, hit the ground outside, and tumbled over the rocky gra.s.s. I saw Chance pa.s.s me and keep running. Back on my feet I ran through the gate and didn't stop, didn't even think, took off in the opposite direction from Chance and ran until the gloom factory was out of sight behind me. I kept running across the far edge of the campus, on service roads and then through the woods of the west side, looping around to the edge of the river. When I couldn't run anymore I walked, cutting a winding path through the woods until I was sure no one was following me. I rubbed the black off my eyes with my sweats.h.i.+rt and threw it into the river. Now I was in a gray long-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt and black pants. I still looked like an idiot, but now it was the kind of idiot who just stumbled drunk out of a club. I cut toward the middle of the campus. I pa.s.sed an upper-cla.s.s dorm and heard a party upstairs. I went to the party and blended into the anonymous shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the small room, purple and red lights, loud ba.s.s, everyone jumping to the music, the smell of orange juice and liquor saturating the air. I stole a green coat from the pile in the bedroom by the door. Now I was an alcohol-soaked, green-coated student blending into the throngs of Sat.u.r.day night revelers on the main campus. I wound my way to the quiet side street of my dorm. No one followed me. I waited in the hallway around the first corner for ten minutes. No one came in the door after me. I got to my room, locked the door behind me, switched off the lights. I checked the lock on every window. I doubled-checked the lock on my door. Remembering the invitations placed on my bed, I moved my chair to the door and wedged it at an angle under the k.n.o.b, the feet digging into the floor.

I sat on the floor below the window and peeked out the blinds. No one on the street below. No one in the yard beyond.

I looked at the poster of Albert Einstein on my wall. What are you smirking at? I asked him.

I was safe.

In the plant, my face had black paint smeared all over it. And no one had followed me home.

They didn't know who I was.

This was my warning. This was my rock bottom, my chance at salvation. Done. Finished. Take the Incompletes. Work hard, get straight A's in the spring.

A normal career. A normal life. No fame. No glory. No secrets. No power.

That was fine.

I could be a person again.

20.

The next morning, I felt lighter than I had in months, confident and full of purpose. I called Chance to make sure he was okay, but he wasn't in. I called the hospital and learned that Sarah had been discharged. I walked to her brownstone and rang the bell. Sarah's roommate answered the door, still glum, with thick gla.s.ses and a pink barrette in her hair.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Sarah."

A slight pause.

"She's not here."

"I know she's here. She got discharged yesterday."

She leaned toward me and puffed out her chest, ready for battle.

"I know who you are."

"Look, um . . . what's your name?"

She eyed me suspiciously, as if revealing her name would grant me some secret power over her. Finally, she said, "Carrie. But she doesn't want to see you."

"I understand. I wouldn't want to see me either. And you're a good friend for trying to keep me out. But I'm here for a reason. I want to make things right."

"Oh. I didn't realize you were Jesus," she said.

A voice called down from the stairs beyond their living room. "Carrie, who is it?"

"It's the guy," she replied. "The lawyer."

"Law student," I said.

"He won't go away," Carrie explained.

There was a long pause, and then Sarah said, "It's okay. Let him in."

Carrie narrowed her eyes at me.

"Whatever," she said, stepping aside.

I walked into a neatly appointed living room, the complete opposite of Miles's philosopher's cave. They had self-a.s.sembled modern furniture, the kind that comes in a box and lives in a world halfway between student and adult. There was one bedroom off the living room; the staircase led up to a second. Sarah waited at the top of the stairs, her door cracked. I could see half her face, one bright hazel eye, one rosy cheek.

I took a breath and started up the stairs.

When I got to the top, I saw her in a blast of sunlight from the window. She glowed, without makeup or jewelry, her cheeks flushed, eyes iridescent. She was somehow ordinary and enchanted at the same time: the tomboy you know your whole life before you see her at the prom and realize she'd been beautiful the whole time.

"Sarah," I started to say, but she walked away from the door, leaving it open.

She sat down on her bed and hugged her legs. She nodded at a chair by her desk.

"Thanks," I said.

All the speeches I'd practiced on the way over seemed inadequate now, flimsy and childish. Instead, I just looked at her. She was watching me, quietly. Her room was cheerful, with light yellow walls and framed Delacroix prints of Parisian life: Ferris wheels, hilltop churches, kids with scarves in the snow, warm orange windows. But then I saw the cardboard box filled with books on the floor, next to other boxes, with sweaters, socks, folders: she was packing? On top of the books was a model brain, with every hill and valley labeled, though they all looked the same to me.

When our eyes met, there was a tense energy between us, but also, I noted, curiosity. Whatever else, she wanted me to say something. I noticed my hands were shaking.

I pointed at the model brain.

"May I?"

She sighed into her folded hands. "Why not?"

I turned it over in my hands. It was made of rubber and felt pleasantly spongy.

"Is part of my brain really called the Sylvian fissure?"

She nodded.

"Sounds like a place where you'd meet a witch. Or a talking wolf."

Stop talking, I willed myself. She looked at me for a long time. Then she nodded at the brain.

"There's also an anterior commissure."

"Where soldiers buy toothpaste."

"And a cingulate gyrus."

"A dance craze. The Cingulate Gyrus."

"Everybody's doin' it," she said. For a split second, the corners of her lips flickered into a smile. Then, as if she suddenly remembered why we were here, a wave pa.s.sed over her face, her eyes hardened, and we were back to square one. She didn't say anything for a moment, and when she did, her voice was strangely bland.

"I quit my program."

There was no rebuke in her voice, but it felt like a hard slap anyway.

"I'm sorry, Sarah."