Ryan folds the paper carelessly and throws it in his bag.
“It’s important,” I remind him. “You won’t get anyone working without clear schedules and a shot-by-shot plan.”
“Already covered,” he drawls, surprising me. “Don’t look at me like me that. I’ve been planning this longer than you.”
“Well, all right.” I frown. “I think that’s it.” I’d set aside another hour for this meeting, expecting tantrums and ultimatums at the very least.
“Cool, I’ll see you by the equipment room on Saturday.” Ryan pulls his shoes back on and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nice work on the rewrites.”
He’s gone before I recover from the parting compliment.
With time to spare before a graduate screening of short films, I linger in the library and browse the social science sections for a little pleasure reading. I organized for my Oxford professors to email me the assignments so I can be certain that I don’t miss too much, but sometimes it’s nice just to wander the stacks and see what catches my eye. Picking out a couple of books on democracy, I find a quiet area with some desks and couches and settle in.
But I can’t concentrate. Usually I can put a book in my hands and be oblivious to the world. It’s a great skill for studying, but for some reason my superpowers aren’t working today. Every movement, every sound: they all catch my attention, and soon I’m watching the people around me closer than my work. Back in Oxford, libraries are silent and sacrosanct, but here people don’t seem to care about keeping quiet. Two boys in sports shirts are complaining over their notes, a blond girl bobs her head in time to her iPod, and two girls are giggling together behind a stack of books. Their desk is spread with candy wrappers, magazines, and colored pens, and studying looks like the last thing on their minds as they hiss at each other.
“Shhh, she’ll hear.”
“No way.”
I glance around and find the object of their gossiping. A girl is curled up in the corner, her dark hair cut short and choppy with pink streaks. She’s utterly absorbed in her book, so much so that she hasn’t noticed the strip of toilet tissue stuck on the bottom of one chunky boot, fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. The gossips giggle again, louder this time, and the girl looks up. She shoots a defiant look at them but doesn’t see what they’re laughing about and tries to turn back to her book.
“Excuse me.” I lean over and catch her attention. She stares at me with a hint of suspicion. I smile apologetically and gesture to her foot. “You’ve got . . .”
“Oh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” I give her a weak grin and nearly turn back to my book, but something about her lack of concern for the whispering makes me pause. “I like your hair,” I say shyly. I could never have the nerve to do something so bold — or permanent.
“And I” — she surveys my shirt and plain jeans — “don’t like anything about your outfit. Except your earrings, they’re kind of cool,” she adds with a grin.
I should be insulted, but her comment seems more sincere than anything I’ve heard all week from Morgan or Lexi. She’s wearing black jeans and a shirt in purple and green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.
“Nobody gets them,” I say, toying with the tiny metal symbols. I’m about to launch into an explanation, but the girl nods, her eyes thickly lined with purple ink.
“A thunderbolt and an owl — that’s from the Greeks, right? Zeus and his daughter Athena.”
I grin, surprised. “Right!”
“What classes are you taking?” She nods at my books.
“Film,” I admit. “These are just for fun.”
“Huh.” Studying me, she pauses, then holds out her hand. “I’m Carla. Carla Reyes.”
“Emily Lewis.” I shake, feeling strange at the formality.
“Good to meet you.” She grins. “Now, I better get back to this.” She glares at the thick textbook. “Parliamentary democracies won’t learn themselves.”
I deflate a little. My brief chat with Carla is the sum total of my social interaction that week. “Wait, is that Tsebelis?” I ask, turning over the textbook.
“You know it?”
“Intimately.” I grimace at the memory. “It killed me last term.”
“So you know what the hell they’re going on about with comparative factors and all that?”
“It took a while, but yes.” I nod. “I could lend you my notes, if you want.”
Carla bounces up. “Seriously?”
“I’ve got them all on my computer.” I shrug. “I could print you off a copy. And if you’re studying that, you’ll probably need the material on Lijphart and Sartori as well.”
“Girl, you’d be saving my butt.” Talking at full volume now, Carla grins at me and sweeps her notebooks into a purple patent bag. “Let’s go.”
I decide that even Morgan doesn’t have enough stamina to still be naked back in our room, so I follow Carla out of the building.
“You know, you’re the first person who hasn’t asked me about my accent,” I realize, hurrying to keep up as she strides ahead down the busy pavement.
She shrugs. “I figure everyone came here from someplace else.”
“Did you?”
Carla snorts. “Do I look like one of those girls?” She shakes her head, hair shimmering in the sun. “L.A.,” she explains. “Inglewood. I wanted to stay and go to UCLA, but this place offered more scholarship money.”
“So you’re a first-year? I mean, freshman,” I correct myself.
“Yup.” Carla comes to a halt by a crowded coffee stand. “Hey, Rico, what’s up?”
“Nothin’ much, girl.” The boy on duty wipes his hands on his apron and gives Carla an adoring smile. “You want your usual?”
“Sure, and . . .” She turns to me expectantly.
“Oh, a latte would be great. Decaf,” I add, remembering my sister’s lectures about caffeine being one step away from crack when it comes to addiction.
“Doesn’t that negate the whole point of coffee?” Carla laughs before turning back to Rico. “But you heard her.”
“Coming up.” He sets to work, the machine spluttering away as Carla surveys me.