New York City, USA
February 2011
Lies in every step you walk
"Rilla? Do you have any idea?"
Startled, I turn my head. Both Megan and Chelsea are watching me with interest and what looks like mild amusement.
"Ah, well…" I lean forward to cast a look at the book opened in front of me. "Let's see…" But the words on the page might as well be in Kiswahili, for how little sense they make to me. It's all just… stuff. (I also have no idea which particular problem they're working on, which is not helping matters.)
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Megan jump to her feet and round the table to come stand beside me. Shoving my hand away, she starts turning several pages of my book until she finds what she's looking for.
"Try this one," she advises and beams at me.
I look at the page. If anything, it makes even less sense than before.
Scooting her chair over to my other side, Chelsea reaches out to point at the open book. "Look here. We've figured out the first part of it, but the second stumps us. Any ideas?"
Shaking my head free of unhelpful (if otherwise pleasant) thoughts, I bend over the book and try to concentrate in earnest. Because it's not like I'm not trying. I know we need to figure this out if we want to do reasonably well in the exam, even if it's a while off yet. It's just that my mind tends to get easily distracted these days. Just right now, it was replaying this morning for me. Ken and I, both running a little late, decided to save some time by sharing the shower. The effect of which was that he was an hour late to a meeting about aid grants to some African country, I missed my first class entirely and George had to wait for his second breakfast. So much for saving time.
"Rilla?" asks Megan and nudges me in the side to get my attention.
Ah, drat.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I apologise, dropping back against the backrest of my chair and rubbing my neck in frustration. "I just…"
"You have other things on your mind," finishes Chelsea kindly. "That's alright."
"Not helpful though," I sigh.
Megan, still standing beside me, bobs up and down on the balls of her feet. "But nicer than this boring stuff here. You were smiling," she points out.
Hardly surprising, is it?
"Boring or not, we have to master it," I declare, screwing my eyes up in an effort to clear my mind. "So, let's focus."
I can focus. At least I'm reasonably sure I can.
"You do that. I'm leaving you to it though. I have training," announces Megan, sounding not the least bit sorry at the prospect of getting to leave this stuffy library rather sooner than later.
(She likes sports, Megan does. Otherwise, she's lovely.)
"Which training?" asks Chelsea, looking past me at Megan.
It's a valid question, too. Megan plays both volleyball and basketball and is, as far as I'm aware, also quite a good fencer. (Fencing being an altogether baffling sport, if you ask me. It's mind-bogglingly boring for something so inherently violent.)
"Tennis. I thought I'd try out something new," Megan explains happily. With flying fingers, she collects her things and shoves them haphazardly into her bag. Then, with a cheery wave, she is gone, almost jogging towards the doors leading to freedom.
I turn to Chelsea and raise an eyebrow. She smiles back. "She spent an hour sitting still in a library. That's as much as anyone can expect from Meg," she points out.
"Probably," I concede. Megan is forever moving.
Then, with a long-suffering sigh, I turn back towards the book. (Why did I decide to go to college again?) "Tell me what you figured out while I was… mentally absent and we'll have a stab at the rest of it together?" I suggest to Chelsea.
She nods in agreement, sliding her notes over to me for a better look. This time, I do manage to focus and we make reasonable progress for a good half hour and at least seven pages. Only then do we run into another problem that, even with our combined brain power, leaves us both scratching our heads.
Throwing my head back in frustration, I blow out a long breath. "Can't we take another course instead?"
"I'm afraid not. It's mandatory," Chelsea answers regretfully.
Figures.
"But I think the course material mentions another book that might help," she continues, already going through her notes, her forehead crinkling in concentration.
I welcome the little break, taking a moment or two to stretch my arms above my head and stare at the ceiling. (One of the lights flickers. You'd think that with all that money NYU takes from us, they could at least get the lights to work properly.)
Far too soon, Chelsea sits up straighter. "I've got it." She shows me a printed list of literature, pointing out a specific entry. (The list looks vaguely familiar. I wonder if I also got it? And what happened to it?)
"You take a break, I'll look for the book," I decide, taking the sheet of paper from her. Because, let's be honest, in our small study group Chelsea is the only one undisputedly pulling her weight. The least I can do is play runner.
Leaving a gratefully smiling Chelsea behind, I turn to make my way up to eighth floor to get the book she indicated. Bobst Library is so huge that 'fetching a book real quick' easily turns into a real workout, especially when you're in the study rooms on one of the lower levels and the book you need all the way up on eighth or ninth floor. (Seventh is just music and why you'd need that many books to study music is yet another of life's mysteries I still have to figure out.).
Still, at least you have some great views while trudging up those stairs. (There are elevators, but who has time to wait for those anyway?) From the outside, Bobst looks like a big red monolith, but the inside is all glass and gold and light. And from the windows of the reading room up on tenth floor, you have a pretty sweet view over Washington Square Park towards to the Empire State Building. The perks of living in New York, I guess.
I have just reached eight floor and turned right towards the economics section, when my phone rings for attention. Fishing it out of my back pocket, I take a few steps to the side to lean against the railing with its added Plexiglas barrier (installed, apparently, after a couple of suicides some years back) to look down at the atrium below.
"Hey," I greet softly after taking the call, my free hand unconsciously moving up to twirl the circle charm of my gold necklace. (I told inquiring friends – read: Nia – that it was a Christmas present from my parents. I have yet to come up with an excuse to tell inquiring family members.)
"Hello beautiful," comes Ken's voice over the line. "How are you doing?"
"I'm in the library. Studying. Trying to, anyway," I answer with a wry smile at my surroundings. "You?"
He chuckles. "Trying to concentrate on a meeting to organise a conference on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space next month."
Well, Grandpa John would certainly be all over that.
"What would the non-peaceful use of outer space look like?" I wonder.
"Who knows? It all dates back to some Cold War hysteria. But once the UN has a committee established, they're unlikely to let go of it again. They have treaties and conventions in place and everything," explains Ken, though he does sound about as enthusiastic as I feel about the economics problem waiting for me.
Changing tracks, he asks, "Did you get to college alright this morning?"
I actually snort, causing a girl walking past me to turn and give me a funny look. Dropping my voice even further, I whisper into the phone, "Are you kidding me? I missed my entire first class."
"Sorry to hear that." But he doesn't sound very sorry, does he?
"Oh, it was only 20th century American lit. Probably just Salinger and Fitzgerald again. I'll wing it. But I also have a nicely sized bruise on my elbow. From, you know…" I trail off.
'From hitting it against the wall of the shower cubicle', I was going to say. But these may not be the surroundings for that particular conversation.
He does, at least, sound sympathetic now. "I'm certainly sorry to hear that," he assures. "I could have a look at it tonight. Kiss it better."
Oh, I bet he could.
"I have to work tonight. I'd promised to take over a shift," I tell him with a sigh.
He hums in reply, but doesn't say anything.
"I can't blow them off again. I already did it twice this month." My regret is certainly genuine. It's not that I don't want to skip work. I mean, who in their right mind wants to bus tables when they can instead spend the evening with a handsome man, who's probably going to feel very bad about that bruise and put some effort into making up for it?
Ken seems to consider that for a moment. "When are you off? I'll come by whenever you're free."
Lightly drumming my fingers against the railing, I try to decide what to answer. I am fully aware that I should tell him no. I should tell him that I have an early class tomorrow and that I can't afford to miss that one and that I still have heaps work to do and that a whole evening waitressing usually just leaves me wanting to sleep. I should.
"Not before ten. Shall I just call you?"
"Sounds good." I can hear the smile in his voice and just like that, all thoughts of what I should be doing vanish into thin air. Sleep, after all, is for the weak.
"Shall I bring a late night snack?" Ken offers, his voice a smidge teasing.
"You know me too well!" I exclaim, while mentally already calculating how often I'm going to have to run up and down those stairs again to make up for a late night snack I really shouldn't eat.
He laughs. "That's the idea. Anyway, I have to head back inside. See you tonight!"
"Yes. See you tonight." I answer, trying and not really succeeding in keeping what is probably a pretty barmy smile from my face.
He's thrown my whole life into disarray. There's no arguing that. But I really wouldn't have it any other way.
Pocketing the phone again, I make my way over to the rows of bookcases that hold very many clever and probably even more not so clever books on economics. Finding the right row, I let one finger run along the spines of the books in search for the correct one, which might, hopefully, help us out with that pesky problem.
I have just reached a section that looks promising, when I hear a voice behind me, "Rilla?"
Turning, I spy a figure at the other end of the row that does, upon closer inspection, reveals itself to be Brian Kovac from my American Lit class.
"Hello Brian," I greet politely while still trying to look at the books out of the corner of my eye without him noticing.
Brian, however, comes closer and, with an internal sigh, I give up my search for now. "You missed class this morning," he states. "Were you sick?"
"I… I overslept for a bit and was… held up afterwards," I answer carefully. No need to explain quite what held me, right?
"Oh. Well, that can happen. I'm glad you are not unwell," replies Brian and shuffles his feet a little.
I give a non-committal half-smile. I mean, it's not like I can say that I'm also glad I'm not unwell, is it?
"Have you already started work on your essay?" Brian continues. "I'm writing mine on William S. Burroughs."
"Wasn't he the one who shot his wife and got away with it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Brian blinks. "Ah, but… but it was an accident, wasn't it? Burroughs said it was."
"He would, wouldn't he?" I point out, my other eyebrow joining the first one.
A beat of silence, before Brian awkwardly clears his throat. "Have you already picked a writer for your essay? If not, you might choose Kerouac. He and Burroughs were friends. We could do our research on the Beat Generation together."
Kerouac? Not effing likely! I mean, I admit that he wasn't too shoddy to look at as a young man, but twenty pages of On The Road convinced me once and for all that his pretty face was his greatest asset. (And really, what can be expected from a man who looked towards James Joyce for inspiration?)
"No, sorry. I'm already writing about…" Quick, a name! "About… about… Edith Wharton." Which isn't the most creative pick, I'll readily admit that, but then, Kerouac really isn't either, is he?
Brian nods, not quite looking at me. "She is a good choice."
"Yes, I thought so," I agree. My eyes flit over to the row of books of their own accord.
"Would you like to copy my notes from today's class?" Brian asks suddenly. "We discussed Salinger."
Ha! Called it!
"That would great," I declare, bestowing a smile upon him for his offer.
Brian gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat. "Are you free Friday evening? We might meet up and you could copy the notes."
Or you could just give them to me now so I can run them through a photocopier real quick?
But no. Breathe, Rilla. No need to be mean.
"Sorry, I'm watching my sister's kids that night," I apologise, trying my utmost to be kind. (And sending a silent apology towards Jake and Izzie for yet again using them in a lie to get me out of an appointment. With how often I've invoked them lately to keep my friends from getting suspicious about how little I go out anymore, I'm starting to feel some irrational guilt towards them. Especially because Nia is already theorising that I'm on child minding duty so often lately because Joy and Dan are getting a divorce. Which I've yet to set her straight on, I'm afraid.)
Brian opens his mouth to reply (probably to suggest Saturday evening instead), but I am faster. "How about we grab some lunch in the cafeteria together next Monday and I copy down your notes then?"
He doesn't exactly look ecstatic at my suggestion, but nods anyway. Which is good, because I can very probably rope Seraphina or Chelsea into joining us 'by coincidence'. Maybe that'll help him cotton on. (Otherwise, I might have to have a quiet word with him sometime soon.)
And, speaking of the devil, Chelsea choses just this moment to suddenly appear at my side (rather like an angel sent from up on high much more than a Beelzebub from down below).
"Here you are," she notes calmly.
"I'm sorry. I left you waiting," I realise, feeling some actual remorse, even though you could argue that neither the phone call nor my little chat with Brian here, are actually my fault.
"I fought five vending machines, conquered one and ate two of these small bags of chips," Chelsea recounts with a smile. "After that, I thought I'd better go looking for you before two became four."
Convincingly argued.
Chelsea casts a pointed look at Brian, then looks back at me.
"This is Brian from my American lit class. Brian, Chelsea. She's also majoring in economics," I introduce.
For a moment, they look at each other, but both being on the shy side, neither has the courage to actually extend a hand in greeting, so they end up just nodding awkwardly at each other and quickly look elsewhere.
I take a breath. "Right. I'll see you at Kimmel on Monday, Brian. Does 1:30 work for you?"
Brian nods. "Uh, yes. Sure."
"Lovely. Good luck with Burroughs." I give him a cheery wave and turn back towards the bookcase, staring straight at the books' spines until I can hear Brian shuffling off.
"I have it here. The book," Chelsea informs me helpfully once Brian is out of earshot, holding up the very book I came here for in the first place.
I rub a hand across my face. "Sorry. I meant to come back sooner, but… well, you met Brian."
Chelsea nods understandingly. "Yes, I did. Is it William S. Burroughs he's doing research on?"
"So he said," I confirm, letting my gaze drift into the direction in which Brian disappeared. "And I wish him good luck either way, looking for material on Burroughs in the section for British Parliamentary Papers."
This, at least, draws a laugh from Chelsea, before she takes a step into direction of the stairs. "Come on, let's get back to work," she encourages. "I still have some of those small bags of chips down where our things are."
And who could possibly decline a bag of chips?
Thankfully, the hard-won book does help us out with the problem at hand, and a few further ones besides. We work for almost another hour (going through more than one bag of chips in the process), and when I finally desert Chelsea, I actually feel like I've understood quite a bit. Which is more than I could have said this morning, so I suppose that's progress.
The faculty club, which houses the restaurant I work for, is only a few streets away from Bobst Library, so even though I cut it a bit close, I just about manage to turn up in time for my shift. To my delight, I immediately spy Tracy by the doors leading to the kitchen.
"Blythe! Haven't seen you in a while," she greets me, pocketing her order pad and coming over to where I'm simultaneously trying to divest myself of my coat, put my bag in a locker, switch my heeled boots to trainers, and tie an apron around my waist.
"Yeah. I've been a bit busy with classes and everything," I lie and would have crossed my fingers but it's rendered a bit difficult by having my hands full with other things. (Just to be clear – I hate it, the lying. But, well… what else is there to do?)
Quickly, before she can press any further, I ask, "How are you?"
Ken came back from England with some advice about Tracy's case, apparently gleaned from Aunt Mary, and even phone numbers to places in New York that work with the charities his aunt supports and that Tracy could turn to. But while she listened to me carefully explain it, she has yet to show any kind of initiative of her own. It's a bit frustrating, but I guess it's never as easy as it looks like from the outside.
"Fine," Tracy answers with a smile that I hope to be genuine. "Working lots, but it's good. I've done a fair few catering events lately and they always pay good money."
In addition to the normal restaurant on the main floor, the faculty club also has rooms upstairs that they rent out for events, usually providing both food and staff as well. Individual tips are usually less forthcoming during private dinners, but there's usually a service charge paid by whoever is hosting the event. And with the club being nominally only open to faculty, staff and alumni of NYU, tips can be pretty hit and miss. If you're lucky, you have a former student who made some pretty money down on Wall Street and wants the world to know, but you're just as likely to get a room full of normal NYU staff, who are already shelling out so much on their meal that they skimp on the tips. Doing catering, you at least know what to expect.
"That's great. Done anything else lately? Something fun?" I ask, while finally managing to secure my apron. I'd like to ask how things are at home, but this is hardly the place.
"We saw a movie the other day," Tracy answers after a moment of thinking. "The Roommate, about a girl whose college roommate turns out to be quite the lunatic."
The 'we', in this case, very probably includes her bastard of a husband (no way he lets her go to the cinema without him) and I feel a hot coil of anger in my stomach at the thought of him, but swallow the words that press to the surface. Ken's aunt said not to rush her, much as I really, really want to.
"I had a pretty weird roommate myself during first year," I relate instead, making sure to keep my voice light. "She was no lunatic, but she had her heart set on helping me find Jesus. I mean, she was mostly quite sweet, but it was a bit creepy at times."
"Was she at least successful?" Tracy wonders.
"Eh… Not really?" I make a comical face to go along with the words, causing Tracy to laugh. (She's such a lovely person. I do so want her to be happy!)
We don't get further than that though, because the doors to the dining room swing open in that very moment, revealing a disgruntled Bridget, another colleague of ours.
"If the two of you are done chatting, I wouldn't mind not doing all the work on my own," she snaps and glares at us over a tray of empty glasses.
I smile a sourly sweet smile back, but Tracy jumps into action immediately. "Yes, of course. Sorry, Bridget," she apologises. "We'll get to it right away."
"Well, hurry," is Bridget's only response as she disappears into the kitchen. (She's lovely to look at, Bridget is, but in a perpetual bad mood. She still gets pretty high tips though, which speaks volumes about the human race and its bias towards good looks.)
Tracy reaches out to squeeze my arm. "Talk later?"
I nod, even as my mind is already starting on some mental arithmetic, trying to figure out from where I'm supposed to take time to talk to Tracy without leaving Ken waiting for too long.
My kingdom for a Time-Turner!
But with neither a magical, time-travelling object nor a good idea forthcoming, I put off the problem for later, instead pocketing my own order pad and following Tracy into the dining room. (Just in time, too. As the door shuts behind me, I can just hear Bridget leave the kitchen. The last thing I need is to be hissed at by her again.)
As far as college eateries go, the restaurant is pretty nice to look at – bit country house in style, lots of wood, not too fancy – and the work, too, is preferable to working the counters at one of the dining halls, which is what I did during first year. Plus, you never get tips while handing out over-cooked pasta to under-funded students, and seeing as I haven't worked as much as I ought to these past two months, I can really use the money.
Thus, I square my shoulders, put on my very best smile and walk up to the first table, which is occupied by what I suspect are faculty members. "Good evening. Have you ordered already?"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Lies' (written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, released by The Rolling Stones in 1978).
To AnneShirley:
Congratulations! Three prizes sounds very impressive, so please imagine me applauding you from half a world away! And my commiseration on the complicatedness of wearing a Sari. I was dressed in a Kimono once while I was in Japan, and while I realise it's a totally different garment, I think they are similar in that they look easy to wear but actually involve a lot of complicated construction business. I know I just stood there and tried to breathe as little as possible ;). (Also, you beat this chapter with your review, so you aren't at all late. And anyway, if something is worth waiting for, it's lovely, long, chatty reviews!)
I must admit that my initial interest in the Romanovs goes back to that animated movie about Anastasia in the 1990s. In my defence, I was still in primary school and didn't know any better. Still, not as impressive as being influenced by celebrated British historians ;). But I did start to read up on the real history of the Romanovs when I was old enough and I'd be lying if I claimed that my decision to go to Russia wasn't influenced by my interest in those Romanovs. Though it didn't hurt that all those palaces are very pretty to look at - and the Eremitage is a dream!
I love your characterisation of Ken! (And yes, Di would approve as well.) He's really trying to be considerate and sincere, but he's also a man who hasn't heard the word No nearly often enough in his life. He very genuinely wants to be there with her, but he also doesn't really expect to be denied entry. Which is something he's going to have to work on, because if Rilla won't put a damper on all that confidence herself, I'm sure she's related to more than enough people who will! After all, no-one ever accused a Blythe of lacking opinions.
Actually, I think Owen would be greatly amused at that introduction. Whereas Rilla, naturally, would be mortified. So while I laughed, perhaps we should advise Ken to find some other words for when The Great Introduction rolls around ;).
I absolutely adored my Nokia phone back in the day! So sturdy! (Not to mention very modern at the time...) I was a proficient Snake player, too. So simple, yet so effective. Ah, the nostalgia...
Anne's pretty great about dealing with the... somewhat unusual situation Rilla has gotten herself into, isn't she? I based her on my own mother, who's also pretty great about a lot of things, especially when it comes to giving advice in a way that won't make stubborn children want to run the other way immediately. I mean, I needed to hear a lot of stuff my Mum had to say and Rilla needs to hear a lot of stuff Anne has to say, so that's that circle nicely closed.
Dylan is just the gift that keeps on giving, really. I keep coming back to him and his petty phrases for titles (makes me realise that the Nobel Committee was onto something when they gave him the Literature Prize). As you have seen, we're making a detour to The Stones with this one, but I'll see what I can do for the next, re: your favourites!
