As the rest of the team claimed tables and study cubicles, I wandered deeper into the stacks. I’d come too far not to glimpse the sci-fi section.
Luckily, there were signs leading the way. After weaving through M–O literature, a hard left at philosophy, and passing a dark information desk, I was standing at the rounded arch that had been the background on my laptop for three years. Another brass plaque was built into the side of the arch. I pressed my fingers into the engraved letters.
SCIENCE FICTION SPECIAL COLLECTION, EST. JANUARY 1, 2001.
Underneath, the message repeated in binary.
I honestly didn’t know if I’d ever been happier.
Other than the gallery wall of screen-printed posters advertising different fictional planets, the room wasn’t much different from the rest of the library. The study tables had the same small lamps and there were a few of the armchairs that had been up in the lounge. But they were set apart from the collection.
I settled on my stomach between two of the tall redwood bookcases. When I won the Melee, this room would be my reward. These books were the only incentive I needed.
Not ready to start committing more Wilde to memory, I started with the last story in the packet, switching between highlighting and making small annotations in the margins—monkey, magical realism, secret name.
After I wrote my first note on the second story—What kind of name is Twinkle?—I popped my knuckles and stretched. My eyes slid right. On the bottom shelf, there was a myth wrapped in an ivory jacket and printed with bold yellow font.
I have to keep studying, I thought. I can’t fall behind.
But the forbidden book was already in my hand.
Octavia Butler’s books took up an entire shelf on my bookcase at home. When I was up late and too restless to sleep, Butler’s stories kept me company. Considering she wrote terrifying books, this was probably not normal. But I’d been addicted to her prose since sixth grade, when my mom had sent me a copy of Kindred.
Survivor was the only book of hers that I’d never been able to get my hands on. Butler had hated it so much that she’d refused to let it stay in print. It could have been three hundred pages of stick figures for all I cared. It was the missing link in the Patternist series.
All three of my parents had laughed every time I’d asked for a copy. Even used, it was worth hundreds of dollars.
But it was here. It was in my hands. Ignoring it would be the height of sacrilege. Like spitting on the pope or telling Katee Sackhoff that you preferred Dirk Benedict’s Lieutenant Starbuck.
Ugh. I offended myself just thinking about that.
It wasn’t like I was going to go to sleep at lights-out anyway. I could catch up on the rest of the short stories before the next time we met with Hari.
I opened the book. The pages were musty sweet.
“Ever?” Leigh’s voice dragged me away from the Kohns’ planet and thrust me—bleary-eyed and wobbly—back into the present. I took a breath as the seconds since I’d started reading righted themselves into long minutes. Balls. Were we late for our next lecture?
“I’m here,” I said hoarsely. I tore off a strip of paper from my binder and stuffed it into Survivor. I forced myself to put it back in the empty space on the shelf. Looking down, I realized I’d cut off the first paragraph of “This Blessed House.” Balls again.
Leigh appeared at the end of the aisle. “Oh, good. I knew this is where I’d find you. Kate went to check the bathrooms. Not that you couldn’t have to pee, but—Are you okay?”
I closed my binder, hiding the evidence of my academic infidelity. I was sure that Leigh wouldn’t understand getting sidetracked on the first day of classes. She’d probably read through all five stories with time to spare and moved on to finding research books for the next section. That morning, she had talked about wanting to find the text our art history guides were pulled from.
I got to my feet, making a show of patting down the pockets of my shorts.
“I lost track of time,” I said. “I don’t know where I left my phone.”
“It’s on your desk, between your face wash and your lotion,” she said, the worrying draining out of her face. “Come on. Hari’s counting the pencils and highlighters before he lets us leave the building. And I’d like to, you know, learn something today.”
11
We learned nothing.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly nothing. The study packets were full of new ideas, dates, and philosophical questions. My retinas burned with words emblazoned with highlighter strokes. My hand cramped from making notes.
It was the counselors’ silence that was starting to wear on everyone’s nerves. In all of our classes, our collegiate advisers hadn’t said more than “Open your binders.” Some of them hadn’t even introduced themselves. I still didn’t know the Perfect Nerd Girl’s real name.
All of the vim and vigor of the first day had disappeared like fog burning off in the sunlight. Each morning, we fought for shower stalls in the communal bathroom. The teams sat together for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We trudged from building to building, sitting in silence except for the rustling of binder paper. Even our first music class had consisted of us reading our notes while we “imagined a symphony,” and our counselor, Faulkner, put on a pair of headphones.
“It has to be a test. Like hazing,” I said, as the team sat down to yet another lackluster lunch on Friday afternoon. We’d been released from Cornell’s class without so much as a handshake.
“I think they’re all completely incompetent,” Perla said. “It’s not like they’re that much older than us. They aren’t certified to teach us anything.”
“You’re just mad that they got your coffee order wrong this morning,” Kate huffed.
“Well,” Perla said, stabbing her fork into her iceberg lettuce salad, “if they can’t tell the difference between white chocolate and caramel, then I don’t want them trying to explain something that would actually require a spare neuron.”
Galen dragged his hands over his face, his fingers leaving trails on his cheeks. “I’ve got a massive study hangover. It’s all I’ve done for three days. I miss TV.”
“There’s a movie in the quad tonight,” Leigh said.
“They’re playing The Breakfast Club,” Jams growled. “Again.”
I tugged at my hair. “That’s every night this week.”
“They could switch it up next week and give us a night of Pretty in Pink,” Brandon chuckled.
“I hate Molly Ringwald’s face,” Perla said.
“You hate everyone’s face,” Kate said under her breath.
One of Perla’s eyebrows arched. “Mostly yours. You’re looking particularly moisturized today.”
“I didn’t take your stupid face lotion!” Kate groaned. “Why would I?”
“Yeah, someone else came into our room and took my moisturizer,” Perla said stiffly. “I’m sure Cheeseman needed my Kiehl’s for his gross, sweaty head.”