London Harmony: Small Fry (3 page)

I found the parking structure near the residence halls and checked my paperwork for the ten millionth time to make sure I had slot 5B and my parking sticker visible in the rear window.  I know, I shouldn't be so obsessive, but I think it is from the structure Vannie and I needed to help her function when we couldn't afford her meds.

A small piece of me is ashamed to admit that I get a little scared when I get a little obsessive compulsive, I remember that schizophrenia has a strong hereditary component, and I'm not as strong as Vanessa is.  I've see what the affliction has done to my sister and, know I have a predilection for the same disorder.

I looked at the brand new, modern structure.  The Halls of Residence at Ponsonby Place, just adjacent to the college.  It was student housing for Chelsea and other nearby educational institutions.  In most cases, the various Halls of Residence that were sprinkled around the heart of London were low rent, yearly stay apartments for students.

Some rooms are financed by different colleges to award to scholarship recipients.  I was one of those lucky ones, but it also meant I would have a roommate instead of a private room.  June laughed when my acceptance letter came with a note from the Dean stating that they have never received such a well articulated entrance essay.

I used the key card to get into the building and looked around.  I was assigned the first floor, 5B.  Classes didn't start for a week, but the place was crowded.  I thought I might be in a TARDIS since the place seemed much bigger on the inside, a testament to the architects for giving the entry such a vast and inviting space.  There were sofas, and seating areas everywhere, and little workstations.  Once things settled down, this would be a good area just to sit and people watch.

I saw a little office area near one of the two gated areas, there was a sign over the office that said Residence Resources so I veered off toward it, dragging two suitcases.  I was getting a lot of looks and reminded myself I wanted to change my look.

Everyone looked so... preppy?  And here I was dressed as little miss badass rocker.  Then I looked down at the faded US flag tee I was wearing under my unzipped leather jacket.  Oh, that might be part of the reason too.  I stepped up to the counter set into the wall of the office, feeling self-conscious.  I zipped up my jacket as a woman came scurrying over.

I looked over the counter into the office beyond, which looked as if the Russian Mafia had torn it apart searching for something.  It was quite a contrast to the almost antiseptically spotless hall. The woman looked to be maybe twenty, twenty-two at the most, and she looked as frazzled as the office.

She looked at me with wide, wild, brown eyes.  Her curly auburn was hair pulled back into a loose, crooked ponytail, which made her seem a little manic.  She looked at me then stood up straight and put on some round, Lennon spectacles and took a deep breath. She straightened the tails of her blouse that was untucked and just hanging down to the pocket bottoms of her jeans.

Then she exhaled and a different person was standing in front of me, with a small smile full of confidence and adroit competence.  She was looking slightly to my left.  “Right then, Welcome to  Ponsonby Hall.  I'm Amarissa Hoyte, but everyone just calls me Amy.  How may I be of assistance miss?”

I looked to my left, but nobody was there.  Then I looked at her again and smiled back as I extended my hand. “Hello Amy, it is a pleasure to meet you.  My name is Francine Brighton, but people call me...”  I almost said, Small Fry.  June was so going to pay for that nickname. “...Fran.  I'm a resident here, there was supposed to be paperwork?”

She looked down to the left of my hand and then grinned and shook it.  “A Yank!  Grand.  Yes, paperwork.”  She tilted her head like she was focusing sort of at me then nodded and turned around to regard the mess behind her as she said offhandedly, “Brighton, right.  Second highest entrance scores in Chelsea history.  Easton Scholarship recipient.  Quite American, here on a workers Visa.  Five foot six, blonde hair and blue eyes.  Rooming with Max Harper. And...”

She held up a finger like she was stating something consequentially monumental then tilted her head at some of the mountains of papers. “Occupant of room 5B.”  She chittered like a chipmunk then just grabbed some papers from the middle of a stack and yanked them out without disturbing the rest of the stack.

She turned around and almost dramatically whipped her ponytail behind her as she grinned like a loon.  I was busy being stunned and impressed that she had rattled off all that information about me.  She focused to my left and slid a little folder with my name on it in front of me.  “This is your welcome packet to the Hall, it will tell you everything you need to know about the residence and layout the rules.”

Then she squeaked out, “Oh!”  Then she slid a pad in front of me. “Thumb please.”  I looked at her then the pad and placed my thumb on it, then she put out her hand. “Key card please.”  I grinned at the silly smile she was sporting.  She was having fun.  I noted a line forming behind me.  She was here alone, doing the intake for all the residents?  No wonder she looked frazzled.

I handed her my key card and she slid it into a slot on the machine.  Then I looked up, just to start blinking after I was blinded by a flash.  She attached the camera to the device and a few seconds later a green light appeared, and she slid my card out and it now had a little black and white photo of me in the center of it below my name.

She focused to my left and said, “Your thumbprint or the keycard will open the main doors, the door to your room, and the laundry in the basement.”  Then I opened my mouth to ask where I could find my room but she beat me to it.  She pointed a little right of where she was looking, and said, “North Wing, third door on the left.”

Then in a total nonsequitur she said, “I love your accent.  So have you met a real cowboy?”

I had to grin.  There seemed to be a reality disconnect with a few Brits.  They knew that the United States wasn't all cowboys and frontier anymore, hasn't been for over a century, but some still asked that same question.  I shook my head. “Nope.  Sorry.”

The people behind me were making impatient noises.  She looked past me and to the left of the line and made a disapproving sound then grinned at me.  “If you need anything or have any questions, just ring up pound pound on the house phone or the number in the welcome packet on your mobile, and it will connect you with me.”

I nodded and said, “Thanks.  It was great meeting you.”

She grinned and scrunched her head down to her shoulders.  Then she looked all around the counter as I was about to step away.  She mumbled, “Now where did my glasses get to?”

I smiled and reached over and tapped the earpiece of the glasses she was still wearing, “They're right here, Specs.”

She raised her hand and touched them, then took them off to look at them accusingly.  “So they are.  They're always wandering off unattended.  Like cats.  Cats are always wandering.”  She put them back on and bit the tip of her tongue in a silly manner.  I chuckled and waved a goodbye, then walked off toward the North Wing, dragging two suitcases behind me.  I noted many other young adults hauling boxes, bags and cases too.

There was a turnstile gate with a security guard at the entrance to the hall that had a huge plexiglass sign with gold letters spelling out North Wing hanging above it.  The guard looked disinterested in just about anything but his mobile as he texted with someone.  I looked at the turnstile and saw the scanner and about pulled out my card again but then remembered and put my thumb on the pad and a light on the turnstile turned green.  Cool.

I wrestled the bags through with me.  The struggle catching passing attention from the guard.  Then I was through.  There were neat little nooks all over the hall, which had dark green carpeting.  The nooks had cushioned benches, reading lights and charging stations for laptops, or tablets.  It seemed they designed the whole structure around giving people places to study or get together with friends.

I mumbled, “Ah, 5B.”  Then thumbed the lock and opened the door  It thumped into a cardboard box filled with blankets, and a girl gave a short, surprised scream!

A girl with lovely chocolate skin and huge brown eyes was taking deep calming breaths.  She grinned. “Bloody hell you startled me.”  Then she held her hand to her head like a phone. “Hello?  Yes mum, terribly sorry, but I seemed to have had a fright and died on my first day at Uni.  Yes, terribly undignified.”

I pulled my bags beside me and grinned at the woman who was flashing her pearly whites at me, and offered my hand.  “Francine Brighton, Fran.  You must be my roommate, Max?”

She nodded and shook my hand. “Maximilia Porter. Max.”  Then she brightened, as she took in my look.  “Yank?”  Just when I think I'm blending, that's the first thing everyone asks recently.

I shook my head. “Canadian.”  Then asked, “Brit?”  She chuckled and I rolled my eyes with a smile. “Yes, I'm from the States.”

She just gave a cheesy grin.  “Brill!  Any preference to which bed you want?  I've already started moving into the space next to the loo.”

I lowered my eyes and looked downtrodden and she said quickly, “I can move over to the other.”

I looked up at her and pursed my lips, fighting another smile.  “I was just playing.  Either is fine with me and you're already set up.”

She smirked and started grabbing things from a box on her bed. “I thought Canadians were supposed to be cordial and polite, not mean.”

I started to say, “I'm not Can...”  Then squinted at her, catching the ribbing.  “Hey now.  Be nice or I'll short sheet your bed.”

She barked out some laughter and said, “You're all right, Brighton.”  I smiled and unpacked my stuff as we chatted and got to know each other.  She even walked out to help with the boxes still in the car.

She was an aspiring artist who was awarded a scholarship as well, and she had both parents.  She was the eldest of four siblings.  All girls.  She was also a fencer.  I found that fascinating and she showed me her equipment and her foil.  I wasn't a real physical person, except jogging twice a week, but fencing sounded fun.  She said it helps with the analytical part of her mind, keeping it sharp.

As we settled in and realized neither of us brought food to stock the tiny little kitchenette, we ordered takeout.  A while later, we were sitting on our beds, eating Chinese and sharing our first impressions of the Hall.

She spoke between bites of sweet and sour pork. “What about that Amy?  Odd duck her.  Wonder what's wrong with her eyes.”

I shrugged. “I like her, I think she's a hoot.  You see how she seems to know where everything is in that mess?  And she's random.  I like random.”  Then I paused and thought.  “She probably just has minor Amblyopia or Strabismus.  Her focal point is just moved a bit which is indicative of one or the other.”

She tilted her head slightly and I saw her brow furrow slightly.  “Yes, I think she's cute too.”  Then she asked. “Pre-med?  I thought they said this was a hall for the Universty of the Arts, London.”

I blushed and looked at my almond chicken.  “No, I just like to read.”  She arched an eyebrow and then grabbed another white container and started inhaling the chow mein.  I threw a fortune cookie at her and she squeaked.  I grinned.  Yup, Max would do for a roommate.

The next morning, I was already bored.  Classes wouldn't start until Monday, six days from then.  I couldn't do nothing.  Max had gotten up early and went off to spend the day with her boyfriend, Kyle.  I looked at the campus map then the surrounding area.  Just to keep busy, I flicked through the job listings for students on my tablet.  There was one at the Royal Library Archive, less than two blocks away!

I threw on my jacket, pulled my hair back, slipped a red bandanna on, and grabbed my bag.  The weight was off on it, so I peeked inside.  I had forgotten J-Dub's gift!  I grinned and sat on my bed and pulled out the little wrapped package.  There was a little card.  I opened it, and it read “I'm so very proud of you Small Fry.  I know how you like words and junk.”  And her signature.

I carefully untied the tawny twine and unwrapped the plain brown paper wrapping.  Then grinned at the white tissue paper around a thick book.  Then my heart stopped when I pulled the tissue away.  I swallowed hard and ran my fingers over the gilded letters on the green linen cover.  I whispered, “No way.”

My hands started shaking as I saw the misspelling of the title on the cover, signifying it to be the 1873 First American Edition of Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas.  I closed my eyes for a moment and cried silently.  How in the hell had she even found one of these?  They were almost priceless.

I remembered one of the first long conversations June and I had after she became my legal guardian when Vannie went through the program.  She wanted to know why I loved reading so much, loved books, and words.  And I shared with her the day that Vanessa had become eighteen and petitioned the court to remove me from foster care and have me remanded to her care.

When we arrived at her tiny little apartment near the auto mechanic shop Van worked at.  She pulled out a book to read to me, Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Seas.  She read to me every night and I got lost in that fantastical world.  It was the strongest emotional moment of my life.  Knowing Vanessa had never broken her promise to fight for me, then my sister, who rarely spoke much, showed me the magic of reading, of escaping into another world as an unbreakable family.  June had remembered that all these years.

I carefully re-wrapped it in the tissue and the brown paper and tied it up.  I couldn't wait to thumb through the pages, but not until I got some acid-free gloves to handle it properly.  I wiped my cheeks and smiled as I put it reverently on the shelf beside my bed.  I promised the book, “Soon.”  Then I turned and almost skipped to the door.  This was going to be such an awesome, astonishing, fabulous, magnificent day!

I arrived at the address and looked up at the large brick building.  Like most of the buildings in London, it had the feel and taste of history.  They just don't build structures with character anymore.  And this one just screamed, “Hello there, I'm an old haunted schoolhouse!”  It was a large three story building that took up most of the block.  It had a steeply pitched roof that looked to be composed of layered slate shingles.  It was bracketed on either end by huge stone chimneys.  Though it had a modest, normal sized door under a little overhang to keep it out of the rain.

The only marking on the building was a little bronze plaque below the large bronze address numbers.  It read  Royal Library Archive.  I tried the door, but it was locked.  So I pressed the little black doorbell button with a bronze ring next to the opening which had a little sign that read, “Ring for Assistance.”

I could hear the old fashioned bell ringing somewhere inside.  Then I heard the sound of an electric motor and looked up to see a camera tucked up in the peak of the overhang, focusing on me.  Then there was a loud buzz signaling a remote lock release and I tried the door again and it opened freely.  I grinned, this was feeling all cloak and dagger.

I stepped into a voluminous hall with white marble floors.  It wasn't meant to be grand, I've learned that most of the buildings over a hundred years old in London were either stone floors like this or hardwood.  It wasn't for opulence, it was just because things were built right back then, allowing buildings to stand the test of time and last hundreds of years if need be.

I read somewhere that most modern buildings like gas stations, strip malls, and the like, are designed for a sixty-year life cycle.  So not even a single lifetime, to me, that is a sad thing and just punctuates my prior point about buildings not having much character.

I looked around and a portly, balding gentleman stepped out of an oak door with slatted glass that was marked with “Office”.   He was in a relaxed suit, and he had a bushy, graying mustache which just demanded your attention.  He would be the envy of all the walruses at a marine park.  His nose was rosy and he had a genuine smile on his face when he stepped up to me.  His height was deceptive, out of context he would have appeared shorter than he actually was.  He was over six feet tall when he reached me.

He pushed his wire-rim glasses higher up on his nose, then counter-intuitively he looked over them to me as he asked, “Right then, do you have your request form?  Or will you be staying to read here in a reading nook?”  He put off that, every girl's grandpa, vibe and I caught myself grinning back at the man.

I got distracted. “People can read at the Archive?”  That was something I was going to have to explore later.  Then I shook my head and refocused on the reason I was here.  Working one day a week at London Harmony was going to put a damper on my disposable income.  Before he could respond, I put my hand out.  “I'm sorry, got distracted there.  Good morning sir, my name is Francine Brighton, and I came to apply for the student work study job you had posted online.”

He brightened at that.  “Ah! Yes, of course.”  Then he started back toward the office. “Come, come.”  Then he said as he held the door open for me in a chivalrous manner, “Harold Donnigold.  Chief Archivist at your service, Miss Brighton.”

He started rummaging around on the one desk in the cramped office and made a satisfied sound as he grabbed a brass key and handed it to me.  Then opened a drawer in a cabinet and gave me a box of acid-free latex gloves.  I was confused and then he gave me an electronic tablet and a piece of paper that was titled, “Archive Retrieval Request”.

Then he shooed me toward the door saying, “The system is easy.  We receive request forms either online or the preferred hard copy like this.  Then use the pad to find the location of the desired material, you retrieve it and place them here.”  He patted a shelving unit beside the office with numbered slots.  Then you...”  He paused when I actually held up my hand like I were in school and felt immediately embarrassed about it, but I was confused as hell at to what was going on.

I looked at him sheepishly. “Ummm... does this mean I have the job?”

He grinned then scrunched up his face. “Don't be daft girl.  Of course you have the job, just how many students do you think apply for work study in a warehouse of moldy old books?  You'd be the first to show interest in over three bloody years.”

I smiled and said, “Well now, that was the easiest job interview ever.”

He looked genuinely amused and I couldn't help but like the man.  Then he said, “We'll get to the silly paperwork and whatnot later.  First, I'll show you the filing system and layout of the archives on the four floors.”  Oh dear lord, the jowly way he spoke, he sounded like Richard Nixon with a British accent.

Four?  Oh, the basement.  I echoed my thought. “Four?  Four floors of books?”

He must have seen the twinkle in my eyes and he chuckled. “Yes.  We're just bursting at the seams with history and knowledge here.”  I thought about how huge the building was, about the size of a football field and there were four floors stuffed with books?  Wow!

I asked as he ushered me through an Archive Staff Only, door, “How many people work here? The place is huge!”

He furrowed his brow like he was concentrating hard and said, “Including you?”  I nodded and he looked up and then nodded like he just came to the number and brightened up and said with humor tinging his voice. “Including you, the custodian, Mr. Myong, and myself there would be three.  It would have been four, but my assistant, Mrs. Reed, passed away last year, God rest her soul.”

I blinked. “Umm... you do everything yourself?”

He nodded. “It isn't so bad until midterms and finals.  When everything is marked 'rush'.  Bloody lazy students waiting til the last minute.  I've got request retrieval down to a three week backlog and holding.”

I grinned and he gave me the tour.  I was in heaven.  Most of the books were older than me.  He even brought me to the environmentally controlled vaults with priceless books dating back to before the printing press when everything was written by hand.  They belonged in a museum, but he said that there weren't enough museums to display them all.  And they just sit in there, unloved and unread for so long.  I made another silent promise to the books all around me.  “Soon.”

He mentioned the crates in the attic space.  Or what he called the “Long Term Storage” but implied it really meant, the books nobody had requested in decades but weren't valuable in any way.  We didn't go up there in the tour.

There were little tables and chairs by the ends of the rows upon rows of shelves on the three main floors and basement.  Then on the main floor, about a quarter of it had private reading rooms and the halls were lined with little reading nooks.  A couple of them were occupied by older, scholarly looking people and there was one boy around my age furiously writing in a notebook as he read from an old leather bound book.

After a couple retrievals and then re-shelving of books from the reading nooks, he asked if I could work out the day.  Then we could talk about schedules and fill out the actual paperwork to make me official.

His final word before he set me loose on the list of almost three hundred backlogged retrievals was “That key is your lifeblood Miss Brighton, it will open every door in the Archive, guard it with your very life.  I'd hate to have to tell Mr. Myong that he needs to re-key the entire building if you did.”  He was half serious, half joking. I assured him I would.

I walked up to the third floor for my first solo retrieval.  Then I just stood in the middle of the floor, looking around at the hundreds of rows of shelves that were stacked floor to ceiling with books.  It was a dream!  I now worked in a huge, private library, with books that were old before my grandparents were born!

I opened my arms and just spun in place, just to be silly.  Then stopped dead when I heard a door open.  I may have bleeked a startled sound then just stopped breathing altogether.  There standing frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, was a cute woman with curly red hair.  She was wearing jeans and green sweater.

I said, “Hello,” I blushed self-consciously for my display.  She stood there looking at me like she was trying to figure out who I was.  Then she timidly slid the rest of the way out of the door to the Long Term Storage in the attic and then shut the door, her eyes on me the whole time.  She took a key on a chain around her neck and locked the door.  I thought I was the only other worker there besides Mr. Donnigold.

She waved cutely at me, her freckled face unreadable.  She seemed so timid, with the ends of her sleeves bunched in her hands as she just rushed off.  I wanted to go after her to ask her name, but I had work to do.  I smiled as I looked at the door to the attic, then went to work in my own private wonderland, running my gloved hands along the spines of the books as I walked.