London Harmony: Small Fry (4 page)

The week just flew by.  Max and I got to know each other better, but I didn't get to know many more people before classes started as I spent every waking hour in the Archives.  I sat and read on the third floor, where all the works of fiction were stored.  I'd kick back at one of the little tables and indulged myself, feasting upon words, as I put my headphones on and immersed myself in music.

I saw that girl from time to time, using her key to make her way around the place, but never caught up with her.  I kept meaning to ask Mr. Donnigold... sorry, Harold, who she was.  She was always dressed cutely and struck me as overly shy which made her even more intriguing to me.  She seemed to have this little crooked smile on her face as she did endearing things like tucking her wild hair behind her ear as she hurried away from me.

Between Harold and I, we brought the backlog down to a couple hundred titles by the end of the week.  Since I'd only be working three afternoons a week when classes started, it would take us a couple months at least to get rid of the backlog altogether.  I wore my key on a lanyard around my neck, it made me feel like I was a librarian at a secret library.

Max and I went to the Chelsea new student orientations, got our schedules, and took a tour of the campus.  They had a smaller library that had a strong art and culture section.  Sorry, but that made me smile.

On Monday, I told Max on my way out the door, “Well this is it, college.  Wish me luck.”

She threw an eraser at me and grinned.  “Are all Canadian's such drama queens?”

I started to say I wasn't Canadian, then rolled my eyes at the woman.  She was a lot of fun.  I just looked down my nose at her and said imperiously, “Meany.”

She chuckled out through the door as I shut it, “Such strong words for a Yank.”

I yelled back as I headed down the hall, “I'm not listening to you!”

I checked my schedule for the millionth time, just in case, you know, I had been reading it wrong the past couple days.  Yup, English Literature, it was still the same.  I rolled my eyes at myself and made my way to the lecture hall as I looked at my schedule, besides the requirements, Literature, History, Philosophy, and Calculus.  I had four applied arts classes.

Maybe I'd be able to figure out what I wanted to do in life between them.  I was so unfocused except knowing I loved music and reading.  Vannie often says that she would get unfocused, and that is how she knew she was slipping again.  I know it is irrational, but I always worry about that whenever I feel like this.  I smiled at the thought of Van.  Even when she did have a psychotic break, she never, ever hurt me.  She was just that strong willed.

I made my way though he crowded corridors, exchanging smiles and nods with other freshmen that I recognized from orientation.  We were easy to pick out, we were the ones with wide eyes who looked terrified, and excited, and on the verge of throwing up.  Then I stepped into the crowded lecture hall.  My heart sank, I knew I should have showed up more than fifteen minutes early like I had, all the good seats up front were taken.  I scanned around.  There were a couple places in the middle of the tiered seating... okay, scratch that, someone just claimed them.

I looked at the back of the room, where there were six or seven seats left, I sighed in defeat, they were so far away from the action.  I loved sitting up front, it was like you could feel the knowledge radiating off the teachers in secondary school.  I imagined it would be even better here.

I flopped down in an aisle seat.  If I were cursed to sit at the top of the world, at least I'd have easy egress at the end of class.  My departure, exodus, withdrawal, emanation would be swift.  Good God, I'm a geek.

When the lecture was about to start, I could see the professor grabbing some papers from a briefcase at the desk off to the side of a podium when someone sat on the other side of the aisle.  I glanced over then smiled hugely, it was the girl from the Archives.

I gave her a tiny wave.  She didn't respond at first.  Instead, she scrutinized me.  I mean really took a good look at me from head to toe, with an unreadable expression on her face.  I sort of felt self-conscious, like I was being analyzed.  Her eyes stopped at my spiked leather bracelet and my bandanna before she smiled meekly and gave a tiny wave back.  She smiled and shrank into her seat and bunched up the sleeves of her white blouse in her hands as she turned to the front before I could say anything, when Professor Whitley spoke.

He had a really thick British accent that I associated with the upper echelon in London.  It was like a class thing, and all the scholarly types seemed to share his particular crisp diction.  He gave a brief overview of the course and his expectations of each of us.  Then he stepped back as his teaching assistant, Gregory, took roll call as the professor looked on to place names with faces.

I was the third name called, I was used to that, having a B name.  I grunted a guttural affirmative like most of the students.  Then when the young man called out, “Tasha Reed.”  She sort of hesitantly raised a hand with her cuffs still bunched in her fist.  He looked around and called her name again and she said in a timid voice, “Here.”

The professor went over the reading material that we were expected to have read over the summer that were laid out in the course outline.  Then discussed the future titles.  He made an emphasis that the class was not for reading the books. It was for learning 'how' to read the books and how to assess, digest, and understand what the author had intended for their audience.

He looked at the time, we still had fifteen minutes left in the class so he asked, “How many of you took the time to read and understand Clarissa, by Samuel Richardson.  I know that most of you chose Jane Eyre from the list, a three hundred page work as opposed to a fifteen hundred page work.  But these titles were not suggested reading, they were required.”

I raised my hand as did two others near the front row, and I smiled when Tasha raised her hand half way.  She glanced over and smiled back then lowered her hand.  He looked around and hung his head then said, ok then... keep your hands up.  He pointed at a guy in the front row and asked, “What was the predominating theme in the novel?”

The guy started, “Mental and physical abuse of...”

Professor Whitley cut him off abruptly. “Wrong.  And you miss?”

He pointed at a girl with her hand up who raised her chin and said, “Misogyny and rape...”

Again he cut her off, “Wrong.”  Then he looked up to the top row and pointed at me. “The young woman dressed like a thug, who doesn't respect this class or the people around her enough to wear proper attire in a college setting.”

I wavered as everyone turned toward me.  I swallowed, just great, this would be the first impression people had of me.  I whispered, “Jealousy and power.”

He said, “Come now, speak up.”

Louder, my voice cracking, I said, “Jealousy and power?”

He paused at that a second with a little grin, then asked, “Is that an answer or a question.”

I sat up straighter and said firmly, “That is my answer.  There were many other subtexts and currents flowing throughout the plot lines, but the predominant underpinnings of the text were her family's jealousy of her, and Lovelace's desire to have absolute power over Clarissa.  I know that is an oversimplified overview of the...”

The silver-haired man interrupted with a look surprise on his face. “Good to see at least one bloody person actually took the time understand the work.”

I slumped down in my seat, trying to hide away like Tasha when he looked all around the hall.  “Monday, I expect you all to have read Clarissa, and write a short synopsis, ending with your personal reaction to the manuscript.  There is no right or wrong when it comes to your personal opinions, so try not to write what you think I want to hear.  I get enough smoke blown up my arse by the board of trustees.”

There was a mix of disappointed groans for the assignment and laughter about his quip about the trustees.  Then he said louder as he looked at his watch, “I expect each of you to get with Gregory, to set up short introduction interviews with me by the end of the week.  Dismissed.”  I heard a bit of ex-military in the dismissal.  I gathered my things and looked over, and Tasha was already gone.

The rest of the day had a much less stressful tone to it.  I really enjoyed my art conceptualization course with Professor Jillian Grey, she was a hoot.  She let us know that the first two weeks, we weren't allowed to create anything, instead, she wanted us to come up with a project and submit the idea to her.  There were no limits except our imagination as to what we deemed as art.  Great, I didn't even know who I was, now I was expected to come up with my own coursework?  I grinned at myself.  Time to unlock Vannie's creativity gene.

My final class, Calculus, went late. Professor Winters wanted to meet with each of us for a couple minutes to familiarize himself with us.  So I didn't have time to get back to my room at Ponsonby Hall, and had to rush off straight to the Archives.

Harold looked relieved to see me.  I squinted an eye and he said with a grin, “Most work study students realize their life is over and all free time has to be devoted to studies on the first day.  They usually don't return.”

I playfully shoved the portly man's shoulder and said, “Let's nibble down the backlog shall we?”  He nodded and handed me a Retrieval Request form and he took one and said regally, “Indubitably Miss Brighton.”  I rolled my eyes at the man and headed off to- I looked at the form- the second floor, as I put on some gloves.

On my one fifteen minute break, I headed up to the third floor and selected an obscure title from the shelves and sat down to absorb the story as I pulled my headphones over my ears.  This was a medieval comedy that reminded me a bit of Chaucer.  My cell buzzed, telling me my break was over.  I switched off my tunes, a somewhat mellow thrash metal mix by an up and coming band in the underground music scene, Bitter Regrets.

As I was re-shelving the book, I saw Tasha slide up to the door to the attic and slip her key in the lock as she looked around.  She froze when she saw me and then scrutinized me again.  She kept doing that, what was she seeing?  I smiled and waved and called over, “Hello.”

I was about to walk over to her when she smiled back and looked down and said, “Hi.”  Then she disappeared through the door, shutting it behind her.  She was so flippin' cute!  Oh dear lord, she had my motor running.  I promised myself I'd take the time to actually talk to her the next time I saw her.  There was something about her that I was connecting with, identifying with,  but I wasn't sure what it was.  Besides her cute smile.

When I got back to my room that night, I kicked back to work on my homework, do a little light reading and listen to some tunes on my Bluetooth speakers.  When Max returned with her beau, Kyle, I smiled at them and went to mute the speakers and put my headphones on.  She stopped me. “No wait.”

Then she tilted her head and then squinted at me almost accusingly.  “I know every J8 song, but not that one.  Where did you get it?”

I blushed, this was a conversation I was avoiding.  So I just told the vague truth. “My sister in law wrote it for me on my eighteenth birthday.”

Then I tried to mute it again, she had her hand on the speaker, looking at me accusingly.  Wheels were spinning then she blurted out, “Bloody hell!  Your sister-in-law is June Harris-West!?!”  I nodded as she went on, “Oh my god, I'm in love with her voice!”  I sighed, that was pretty much everyone's reaction.

She keyed in on that and said quickly, “Sorry.  Your secret.  Kyle and I won't tell a soul.”

I smiled sheepishly back.  “Thanks.  I sort of want to do college on my own, without being under either of my sister's shadows.”

She nodded and asked, “What's it called?”

I almost buried my face in my hands as I squeaked out, “Small Fry.”

She smiled and bobbed her head to the beat then showed some teeth at the line about a walking thesaurus.  “Oh my god!  You're the Small Fry she's singing about!”

I nodded my head and said, “That's the nickname June saddled me with when she first met me.  Embarrassing I know, but I sort of like it.  It makes me feel...”

I tried to come up with the proper term and she supplied, “Loved.”

I thought about it then nodded and grinned back.  “Yeah, it makes me feel loved.”

She nodded back and changed the subject. “So... Small Fry, you already eat?  Lots of studying to do so it would be easier to order takeout than cook tonight.”  I agreed and we kicked back for our first study session of many I was sure we would have throughout the next four years.

The next day I spent being introduced to my Tuesday-Thursday schedule.  I noticed Tasha in the halls and waved at her.  She walked past, looking me up and down, with what looked like confusion in her eyes.  She seemed to look everywhere but my face, her eyes stopping at my bandanna.  Then she waved, bunched up the sleeves on her long sweater in her hands, and hurried past with her eyes down.  It was frickin' adorable and I caught myself smiling as I watched her go.

I wanted to call after her but I was going to be late for my last class if I didn't hurry.  What brilliant scheduling genius puts a student’s classes back to back on opposite sides of the campus?  I told myself I'd catch up with her at the Archive to introduce myself.

As I sat in History 101, I wondered how the curriculum would differ in the States, as most of the history laid out in the course outline, centered on European history here.  Which is as it should be.

After class I dropped off my backpack at my room then headed off to the Archive.  I missed the smell of the musty old books already.  I was a little disappointed when I didn't see Tasha that night.

I just filled request form pulls, and then looked at the last one for the night.  I squinted at it LTS R5 916?  What the heck kind of location call out was that?  I headed back to the office and quirked an accusing eyebrow at Harold.  “Are you playing with me with this one?”

He glanced at it and said with humor tinging his voice, “You don't know how to read a simple location callout?  Heaven forbid.  Now I guess I'll need a new assistant.”  He was grinning and having far too much fun at my expense, he must be punished.  I stuck my tongue out at him and he chuckled.  “Long Term Storage, Row 5, Box 916.”

Oh!  The attic.  The one place I had never checked out in the building. Fun!  I squinted at the man. “Would calling my boss a smartass get me fired?”

He seemed to think on it a second then said, “Most definitely.  We have a code of ethics we must adhere to.”

I squinted more and shook my finger at him. “Then you'd have to take care of the backlog yourself.”

He nodded. “This much is true.  So go ahead, do your worst then.”

He mock cringed, I rolled my eyes and shoved his shoulder.  I shook a finger at him. “You're just lucky I'm in a good mood, or you'd get that and worse.”

He raised his nose. “Brash Americans all.”

I almost skipped off, shooting back, “Snooty Brits.”  I grinned at his chuckling.  I was really getting to like the man.  A couple flights of stairs later, I found myself at the locked door to the attic space.

I unlocked it and slipped in, then I went up a wide, oak, spiral staircase.  It was dimly lit from some natural light spilling down the stairs.  I looked back to see an old twist style light switch back at the door.  The sides of the treads were covered in dust, but the centers were clean, indicating recent traffic on them.  The steps were surprisingly sturdy, I was expecting creaking and moaning as I went but there was none of that.

The walls leading up were unfinished and exposed.  I could see old wiring that looked like it was wrapped in fabric, reminding me of the age of the structure.  When I reached the top, I looked at the outside wall, which had newer insulation between the beams of the otherwise exposed wall.  Must have been some pseudo-modern retrofit to conserve power by insulating the structure better.

The rafters, which started off at the wall at just over five feet above the dusty slatted floor, arched up high above, maybe twenty feet or so by the time it hit the midpoint of the building.  There was some of that insulation drooping between rafters and some had torn completely away from the structure altogether and just hung down.  I could see wood slats spanning the rafters.

It was apparent that the attic was not the domain of the custodian, Mr. Myong.  He kept the rest of the building almost antiseptically spotless and well maintained.

I looked down the long line of old rough lumber shelves that went the length of the building.  There were eight dormers spaced about thirty feet apart with round, dusty, cobwebbed windows letting dim illumination in.

I noticed another twist switch next to me at the top of the stairs and turned it with an audible click.  Light bulbs that were hanging from the rafters, suspended by the wiring, flickered to life.  Giving just a little bit more illumination to the space and making the shadows seem that much more pronounced.  A couple blinked on and off, as they were deciding whether or not to give up the ghost.  Some were out.

I stepped to the closest shelf and saw a plaque fastened to it and I wiped off a layer of dust.  It was labeled “Row 1”.  I nodded to myself, this was going to be easy.  I moved down four rows and wiped off the plaque, then blinked. Umm... “Row 1”.  I checked a few more, they were all labeled Row 1.

I chuckled to myself, Harold was so going to pay.  He was probably down in the office chuckling still.  I sighed and looked down a row and it looked like there was a gap between the wall of shelves at the back.  I moved down the row, noting the hundreds of dusty wooden boxes with box numbers apparently burned on the side.

I stopped at one that had its lid ajar, and pulled it down and looked inside out of curiosity.  There were some dusty books from the middle of the twentieth century in them.  The open lid had let dust into the box.  I took a minute to take out all the books and blow the dust off of them and wipe them down the best I could.  I put them back into the box, fastened the lid properly, and replaced the box on the shelf.

I reached what I thought was the far wall and looked through the opening to see another set of shelves stretching off to either side.  I wiped a plaque and it read “Row 2”.  Ah ha!  So there were multiple partitions like this!  I looked at the dividing shelves and wiped a plaque and it said, “Cross Row 1.”

I grinned and took a moment to explore.  There were twists and turns at times.  Some rows were dead ends because of crates of books stacked up.  It was like a labyrinth!  It almost felt like an adventure.  I looked at the time on my cell and sighed, I'd have to explore later, it was about time to go home.

I looked at the floor as I walked.  Nobody had been up here for a long time.  My fresh footprints marred the dust on the floor.  I made my way to the next cross row and found an opening and moved through to row 3.  I noted a well-worn path in the dust here, then grinned, it must be from Tasha.  Again I wondered what her function was here.  Was she checking the inventory of the Long Term Storage?

I had to backtrack a couple times to find an unblocked passage the get through to Row 4.  Then I got smart and looked at Tasha's path and before I knew it, I was at Row 5.  Most of the lights in this row were out and there were no dormer windows on this side of the building.

My pocket vibrated.  I pulled out my cell and saw the Archive's number on it.  I answered. “What do you want you evil man?”

Harold chuckled and said, “Just seeing if I needed to send out a search party for your dried bones and hire a new student.”

I quipped, “Nobody else would take the job.”  Then I assured him, “I just let this place suck me in and I was exploring.  I'm at Row 5 now and will be down in a bit.”

I could almost hear his nod over the phone as he said, “Right then.  It's closing time.  Lock up when you're done Fran?”

I smiled and said, “Sure thing.”  This was the first time he was letting me lock up.  But then again,  Mr. Myong started his shift an hour ago so it wasn't like I was the only one here.  I said my goodnight, then hung up and dusted off the cobwebs from a box.  213, okay, I headed north a few rows and checked a box. 761.  The next aisle I found box 916 and pulled it off the shelf I could just barely reach.

I set it on the floor and dusted off the lid and popped it open.  There were about twenty books in it and I checked the title.  After-Blitz, the Autobiography of Lieutenant Fredrick T. Boggs.

I found the brown leather bound book, with the title on the spine and cover, with simple white lettering.  It wasn't very old.  I flipped to the copyright page after the title page, 1949, first printing.

I sealed the crate and replaced it then I leaned against the shelf a few feet down, under one of the dim lights and looked inside the book.  Wondering why someone wanted to check out such an obscure title.  What a mistake that was.  After flipping through some pages, I found the Lieutenant was one of the many men assigned to ordnance disposal after the London Blitz.

After the war, he and his three-man team located and either exploded, diffused, or moved unexploded German bombs from the nightly bombing runs which had terrorized the city.  I had gone back to the beginning of the book and was on chapter three before I realized I fell into the lure of reading a fascinating piece of history that not many people even thought about.  There were so many books about the war, but not many about the cleanup afterwards.  And that was about the man's thankless task.

Grrr... it was well past closing.  I'd have to get down to make sure everyone was out of the reading nooks.  Not like they could get into any rooms except the bathrooms, and the main door was locked all the time anyway.

I sighed, knowing I'd be reading the rest of this book when it was returned.  That's the danger, peril, hazard, risk, jeopardy, of being a bibliophile like myself.  Must consume weeeerrrrddddzzzz!  I chuckled at myself and made my way to the Cross Row and stopped when I swear I heard someone cough down at the far end of the row.

It was almost pitch black down there as most of the lights in the far corner were burned out.  But I could see a flicker.  I started walking down to the end and looked down, noticing a well-worn trail in the dust.  Was Tasha still working?  I had to remember to ask Harold what her function was here.  I knew she didn't pull requests like me.

I headed to the end and turned into the last aisle.  There was a blanket draped across the space about half way down and I saw the flickering of candle light and I could smell the sulfur of matches.  Then I froze and looked around.  The way things were double stacked by the shelves, to make more room beyond the blanket.  This was the most secluded corner of the labyrinth.  The candles.  I looked up and the bulbs weren't burned out back here, someone had unscrewed them.

This had all the familiar markers of...  My mind drifted back to New York, like a flashback.  I inhaled sharply, not savoring the memories, this was someone's home.

I could see a person's shadow flickering on the blanket in the candle light.  I knocked on a crate next to the blanket and called out, “Knock knock.  Anybody home?”

There was a quick movement and the candle went out.  It was almost pitch black back there without the candle light.  I called out again, “Tasha, is that you in there?  It's alright.”  I was met by silence.  I said, “Really, it's okay.  I'm coming in.”

I lit up the screen on my cell.  It cast an almost eerie whitish blue light on everything, making harsh shadows.  I reached out and pulled the blanket aside enough to stick my head into the space and held the cell high to illuminate the area the best I could.  I saw the stacks of snack foods and bottles of water on a shelf and the plastic bag she was using to for trash to keep the area clean.

Then clothes and other belongings, stacked in a row on another shelf, to give some semblance of order and structure to an otherwise chaotic life.  I stared at the sleeping bag and blankets rolled up like a pillow on the floor in the far corner.  I thought of Vanessa keeping me warm, wrapped up in blankets like that on the floor of the office in the abandoned mechanic shop we had spent over a year in.  I knew a nest when I saw one.  She had been here for months by the looks of how much she had accumulated.

Then I turned my cell toward the other corner and Tasha was standing there looking down, her hands in her armpits.  She hissed low, “Get out of here.”  Then it changed to a plead. “Please don't call anyone.  I'll leave now.”

I held up a hand.  “I'm not calling anyone Tasha.  Come on over.  Let's have a seat and talk.”  I motioned to her nest and sat down first, setting my cell on the floor to light up a smaller area.

She stepped up to me, moving closer to the exit and put her hand in front of her face, blocking out my face a couple times then settling her eyes on my wrist then my bandanna.  Then she looked me up and down again like she did.  Then she tilted her head and asked, “Wait, you're that new girl they have working here?  You're in one of my classes too... right?”

I deflated a bit, she had seen me dozens of times here and sat right next to me in English Lit, but wasn't sure.  I was apparently not very memorable.  I nodded and exhaled.  “Francine Brighton, Fran.”  I offered a hand.

She looked back at the hanging blanket, making a decision between running and sitting.  She shook my hand and almost whispered, “Natasha Reed.  Just Tasha.”  Then she sat as far away from me as she could on the sleeping bag.  I noted she had acid-free gloves on like I did.

We stared at each other for a moment, then I looked around.  I saw an old, white leather bound book, next to the candle.  I reached over to pick it up carefully.  I recognized the distinctive wreath of laurels and flowers on the cover.  It was an original 1812 Kinder - und Hausmarchen; Children's and Household Tales; by the Brother's Grimm.  I smiled at it and carefully looked inside at the German print.

I looked up at her and she shrugged, looking down and bunching her sleeves in her hand. “I wanted to read the originals to see how they differed from the English, toned down versions. I wasn't stealing it.  I was going to put it back when I was done.”  This was from the Archives?