Lost in Thought (4 page)

I learned as we ate that her “just a doctor” father was actually Chief of Surgery at a big hospital in Boston. She thought she might follow in his footsteps, or maybe become a researcher or biomedical engineer; she was still deciding. I told her about my weird hobby and how I dreamed of owning my own antique store. In comparison, that suddenly seemed not very impressive or ambitious, but she seemed to think it was a great idea.

“That sounds
fabulous!”
she gushed. “Way more glamorous than me in a lab coat all day.” I thought that curing cancer was probably more glamorous in the long run, even if the clothes weren’t as good, but I appreciated her enthusiasm. “You’d be like…a historian of the everyday! I can picture you wearing the sexiest vintage dresses and sweaters, passing on little bits of history to your customers. I’m totally jealous.

Maybe I can be your assistant! I’d look great in glasses and vintage boots, carrying a clipboard and taking your notes.”

We continued to chat on the way back to Marquise House, but I was fading quickly. On top of the dramatic last few days, I’d been up very early for our drive that morning and had a busy day ahead of me.

It wasn’t late, but I got ready for bed as soon as we got back to our room. Amy went to her desk to work on some homework, and promised to be quiet and let me get a good sleep.

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As I drifted off, I mused about her calling me an “historian.” I’d never quite thought of it that way and I liked it. Maybe being the keeper of small, seemingly inconsequential bits of history was not such a bad life to lead, and maybe it was a more important job than I thought.

y first day was an absolute blur of students and teachers, of remembering my way from building to building with only M fifteen minutes between classes, even with Amy’s helpful map, and of introducing myself over and over at the beginning of each class. I was exhausted by the time it was my lunch hour, but I had yet to meet with Headmaster Stewart. A note handed to me at the beginning of my second period Statistics class told me that was when she expected me.

I made my way to the Administration building, one of the prettiest on campus. Tall and Victorian, with a round front tower and loads of gingerbread trim, it was situated almost exactly in the center of campus so that you passed it on your way to nearly everything. It was also painted an unusual but surprisingly attractive pale lavender color. At least it was easy to find.

I climbed the porch steps and opened the screen door into an old-fashioned entryway. I had no idea where to go, up the stairs or to the bustling parlors on the left and right, and was a little bit nervous, so I just stood there like an idiot, admiring the beautiful antique mirror and console table. A boy who looked to be in maybe the eighth grade and

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also about to wet his pants came tripping down the stairs and almost crashed into me. He skidded to a stop, rapidly spilling apologies, and I asked him for Dr. Stewart’s office. He pointed up the stairs and fled out the door. His look of abject terror did nothing to help my nervousness, but I made my way up the stairs anyway. Slowly.

The pleasant woman at the desk ushered me straight into Headmaster Stewart’s huge office suite, sitting me down in the anteroom with a cheerful, “Welcome to Northbrook! Dr. Stewart will be right with you.” I didn’t have to worry about my growling stomach because she waved me over to a delicious looking lunch spread that was laid out on an antique sideboard. This was my kind of place. While filling my plate, I wondered if the furniture was all original, and mentally complimented the original owners on their excellent taste. I was just putting a slice of apple with cheddar in my mouth when the interior door opened and Headmaster Stewart beckoned me inside her office.

She was tall, a few inches taller than me even, and so thin that I wanted to hand her my sandwich, out of pity or suddenly feeling incredibly fat, I wasn’t sure which. Her face was narrow and calculating but not openly unfriendly. I knew at once that she could be imposing when she needed to be and downright terrifying if she wanted to be.

The poor kid running down the stairs was proof of that. She wore a somewhat unfashionable ensemble of long dark skirt, heavy-heeled pumps, and button down shirt, topped by a scholarly plaid jacket. She was saved from total frumpiness by the fact that it all fit her thin frame well, making her look blade sharp, and adding to my feeling that she could cut me down with one look if I didn’t impress her. I swallowed and smiled tentatively.

“Hello Headmaster Stewart, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for lunch.”

She laughed, and my tension eased by a tiny bit. “It’s you I should thank for lunch, Lainey—it’s Lainey you prefer, isn’t that right?—

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because it is Legacy students, like you, who help keep our Academy running at the level our current students and alumni have come to expect.”

Unsure how to respond to that, since I knew so little about this school and its expectations or my apparently special Legacy status, I went with what I thought was a safe, “I’m very happy to be here.”

“And we’re delighted to have you,” Dr. Stewart replied. “I know your transition here has been rather unexpected, but I hope you’ll adjust quickly and come to enjoy your few years here.”

I thought that “unexpected” was a pretty big understatement, since I went from never having heard of this place to being a full-time boarding student with a fully funded scholarship in about seventy-two hours, so I decided she was being tactful. In fact, from the way she was eyeing me as she talked, I got the impression Headmaster Stewart was as curious about me as I was about this entire situation.

She was a professional though, and as I worked through my lunch, she gave me a brief history of the school, most of which I’d heard in the Admissions building the first day, but I listened politely anyway.

She moved on to how glad they were to have me—actually, she mentioned that one several times—emphasized her high expectations for me, and commented on how impressed she was with my worldliness, as she called it. I wasn’t entirely sure if she meant it as a compliment.

She touched very briefly on my “medical concerns” and assured me that the school would do everything it could to help me. Then she threw a curve ball.

“There’s a long-standing tradition of student cooperation here at Northbrook,” she intoned. This seemed both obvious to me and also ominous. I wasn’t sure what she was getting at. “Each student performs four hours of service at the school per week—your assignments will be determined next week—and a team activity is compulsory each

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semester. Do you have any preferences, or any areas of sports exper-tise?”

For a moment, I was excited. I liked the idea of service to the school and I hoped to get back to my regular martial arts practices, one of the things I would miss most about my change in lifestyle. “I’ve taken martial arts since I was a kid, actually!” I told her. “I’m a brown belt in kickboxing and a blue belt in karate.”

My excitement deflated with her frown. “That’s wonderful,” she said, though her tone implied exactly the opposite of wonderful.

“However, we focus more on cooperative sports…You’re rather tall, so I thought perhaps basketball?” she added hopefully.

I panicked a little, not wanting to be a disappointment at my very first meeting with the headmaster, but team sports and I were practically complete strangers.

“I’ve never had much chance to play basketball, but I’m willing to try?” I ended my sentence like a question but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to please this woman, so she wouldn’t make me run from the room like that poor eighth grader on the stairs. And, I admitted to myself, so she wouldn’t tell me my Legacy was an accident and send me packing three days after I arrived. As nervous as I was about this whole staying-in-one-place thing, now that I had it, I was surprised that I wanted it more than anything.

But my panic was not necessary, this time anyway. We determined that my “unique upbringing might not have been conducive to traditional team activities” and I learned the compulsory team requirements were not quite as cruel as I thought. There were all kinds of “teams,”

including musical ensembles, ballet troupes, creative writing groups, debate clubs, and even a media production team. In the end, I was enlisted for the team sport that had the most individual performances: the swim team. A quick call to the athletic office had me scheduled for my first practice the next morning.

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After a few more assurances that the school was “so delighted to have me” and that they were “certain I was going to be a valuable member of the student body,” my meeting with the headmaster was over. As I hitched my bag over my shoulder and was about to leave, Dr. Stewart said two things that, at the time, I assumed were separate thoughts, and I didn’t take either for very important. Not until much later I would realize I’d been wrong on both counts.

“I know your class books were delivered for you, but I’m sure you’d love to visit the bookstore yourself,” she suggested. “We’re lucky to have it as a benefit to Northbrook.” I nodded and turned to go, but as I opened the door she added in a light tone incongruous with the serious look on her face, “This is a special school, Lainey. We can’t wait to see what special part you’ll be.”

WHEN CLASSES ENDED for the afternoon, I decided to do as the headmaster suggested and check out the bookstore. I had plenty of homework, sure, but about the only thing I liked more than shopping for books was shopping for vintage books. Turned out I was in luck.

The bookstore was across the street from the main campus, easily the largest business on the block. The stone façade was three stories high, with wide, book-filled windows on the first and second floors. A discreet wooden sign on a decorative iron bar proclaimed it, simply, “Penrose Books.” I pushed open the weathered brass door and walked into my new little slice of heaven.

Penrose’s was everything I ever dreamed a bookstore would be. It had warm yellow light streaming through the windows onto row after row of shelves that stretched almost to the high ceilings. Where the sun couldn’t reach, what looked like old-fashioned gas lights lit the space in a soft, inviting glow. On one end of the floor was a long wooden counter with an antique register that must have weighed a hundred pounds resting at the corner. On the other side was a reading lounge with many stuffed couches and chairs, a few small tables, and a

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giant fireplace that was clearly still used on the colder days. A handful of students were already there talking, reading, or doing homework.

The entire place smelled like leather and paper. It was fantastic.

I didn’t see anyone who appeared to be working there, but I wasn’t looking for anything specific. After a quick glance around, I followed an intriguing sign that read: FIRST EDITIONS AND RARITIES, 2ND

FLOOR to where it pointed up a wide staircase with polished brass rail-ings.

It was quiet and cozy upstairs, with even more rows of books than downstairs, and the same soft light making the entire place relaxing and incredibly inviting. I thought I was the only customer up there. At the far end of the floor, I found FIRST EDITIONS. There was a second, smaller staircase, one that must have been hidden behind the register area on the first floor, blocked with a chain and a small sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY in a fancy script. If I thought the downstairs smelled great, this area was even more amazing. Now it smelled like
old
leather and paper, a wonderful combination of pipe tobacco, cotton, and time. I wanted to move my bed over and sleep in this section every night.

I was gently thumbing through a pristine leather-bound edition of “Modern” Poetry, circa the early 1900s, daydreaming about who might have owned it in the past, when I was suddenly jolted back to the present day.

“That’s one of our best editions; you must have a great eye,” came a soft—and highly unexpected—voice from behind me. I gave the most embarrassing, girly little shriek and spun around, nearly dropping one of the best editions in the store unceremoniously onto the floor.

He was handsome, tall, several inches above six feet, and lean but obviously muscular, all long legs and graceful limbs. His hair brushed over his forehead, curling at the ends. It was the unnamable color between brown and blond with brighter gold in some places, as if he

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spent lots of time outdoors. Or was just really lucky. Beautiful liquid blue eyes with darker edges topped a strong nose, narrow and straight, and lips that were perhaps a little too thin but complemented the rest of his features. He wore a simple t-shirt with jeans that fit perfectly, not too tight, not too loose.

He was the kind of guy I’d admire approvingly, if I saw him on the street or in the dining hall, but he was not the stuff of dreams, or so I thought. And then he smiled at me. Suddenly he became not just handsome but
really
handsome, entrancing even. I couldn’t look away.

Didn’t want to either. I realized that I’d been wrong. He
was
the stuff of dreams, because he was
real.
He was a boy you didn’t fantasize about but actually knew and dated and were envied by other girls for it.

Of course, in the few seconds between when I turned around and he smiled, I couldn’t have made such a detailed inventory of his physical charms. Initially I had only a fleeting impression of cute boy, tall, unexpectedly talking to—and smiling at—me, but it would come to seem as if I always knew him exactly as he was, that I couldn’t remember him as anything less than everything. Eventually I would know his face better than my own, than anyone’s. But I didn’t know that then. I didn’t even know his name.