Chapter Nineteen Maya

Chapter Nineteen

Maya

November 2011

Over the past month, the last dregs of fall finally gave way to winter. Temperatures fell, Lake Carnegie froze over, and winter came with a vengeance. Snow poured over campus, cloaking trees, weighing on rooftops, and settling into the cracks between stones, while the pavement became so slick with black ice that one false step could send you plunging toward the earth.

To escape the storm, I decided to find refuge in Firestone Library.

I wandered to C Floor, under the Skylight Atrium, where rays of light sifted through the high glass ceiling, illuminating dust in the air. Once settled, I opened my laptop and stared at the blank page. The header of my paper filled the screen—“Female Hysteria in the 19th Century—Nervous Disorder or Disordered Society?” I’d never had trouble focusing before. Why was it all of a sudden so hard to write one paper? The cursor blinked back at me. Sighing, I leaned back and looked across the room.

I’d chosen this spot because A, it was one of the few places where I could have my back against a wall, and B, it had the perfect view of Lila Jones. She was a member of Sterling Club whom I’d briefly met at bicker but was totally in awe of. She had this cool confidence about her, a series of tiny gold hoops crawling up her ear, ripped jeans and Doc Martens. Her bright red hair was the color of embers and draped over her face as she scanned the textbook in front of her. I suppose I felt a sort of closeness to her—being that we were both outsiders. She didn’t have many friends and spent most of her time in the library too.

When I went to Professor DuPont’s office hours, she had been there when I arrived. She’d tilted her head back, exposing her neck, and laughed in the most sensual yet unaffected way. As I stood outside, looking in through the blinds, his eyes were glued to her face, infatuated.

I watched Lila adjust her headphones now and wondered what music she was listening to. Maybe the Smiths, or something darker, like Nick Cave. I was taking a sip of my coffee, now lukewarm, when my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Daisy: Excited about initiation Sunday? And pride swelled within me. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten into Sterling.

After typing my response— Hell yes! —I looked over my shoulder to where Lila had been. She was gone.

“Hey, Maya.” Lila leaned on the armchair across from me and tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear, headphones dangling around her neck.

“Hey,” I said, unable to think. I suddenly became aware of my heartbeat. “Um, what are you studying?” What are you studying? I sounded like such a nerd.

“I’m reading T. S. Eliot. My thesis is on time and memory in Four Quartets, ” she said. Her catlike eyes were a vibrant emerald green and she had light freckles scattered across her nose.

“That’s cool,” I said, regaining composure. “I read Four Quartets, it’s beautiful. ‘Footfalls echo in the memory…’?”

“?‘…down the passage we did not take, toward the door we never opened, into the rose garden.’?” Lila smiled. She sat on the arm of my chair, leaned toward me, and whispered in my ear. “ Be careful. ”

I pulled back and looked at her, confused. Be careful? Of what?

“Did you say something?”

But Lila didn’t answer. She gave a small smile and walked away, leaving goosebumps on my arm where she touched me.

After returning to my work for some time, I grabbed the next book from the stack and opened it. Tucked in the front cover was a torn piece of paper. In scrawling handwriting, it read: Don’t trust them. Get out while you still can.

A part of me wanted to laugh at the cryptic message. Did Lila slide this note into my book? I looked around, expecting her to jump out of the shadows. Was this some kind of joke?

I glanced back in the direction Lila had been, but she was gone. A few students hovered over their reading—no one I recognized. My breath grew shallow. Was she trying to warn me away from Sterling Club? From Princeton?

A chilly draft swept past as I scanned the corners of the room, and somewhere in the depths of my subconscious was a flutter of unease.