Gatebound

Chapter I

It’s one of those days when the air is perfectly balmy as it winds past the tall sycamore trees around me, caressing my legs under my skirt like the hero of a romance novel might, and I feel giddy with a bliss that’s almost sexual. I let myself dance across the courtyard in front of me, and in my imagination, I look charming, but the bemused face of the older guy I’m moving past – twenty-three or  twenty-four, probably a grad student – tells me otherwise and I settle quickly into the stride that I know works. I’m swaying my hips, but just a little, and I tighten my posture in a way that I know nips in the waistline of my sundress and makes my chest more prominent. Another glance at the grad student disappoints – he isn’t even looking my direction now. But another guy walks by, a frat boy, judging by the muscle tank and basketball shorts, and he grins cockily at me in a way that tells me I look as good as I feel.

Good. I wink back and feel confidence swell within me, enough that I can ignore the way that the swoosh of the door I’m pulling open plasters hair into my lip-gloss, and once I’m inside I’m distracted by the space I’ve entered. The Lit department feels as cozy as it did last semester, scented faintly with vanilla and painted a comforting espresso tone, and for a moment I wonder for the millionth time why the Communications department chose modern décor that feels like the interior of a warehouse.

As I head toward the rickety elevator, I’m pondering again the reason behind Professor Shields’ summons. I’ve been missing his mythology class, and missing his office hours even more, so I’m glad for an excuse to see the old man. As much as I would never admit it, after he spent a semester enchanting me with all the ancient fairytales, “Intro to Demographics” is leaving me intellectually starved. Still musing, I step into the metal box and resist the urge to shudder. I’ve never been a fan of enclosed spaces.

My finger is just reaching toward the glowing number 8 when a male voice echoes into the elevator. “Hold the door, please!” It’s a nice voice, pleasantly deep and friendly sounding, so I’m disappointed enough that I have to hold back a scowl when the same grad student from outside jogs in through the silver doors. “Eight, please,” he says, and then “Oh,” wryly when he sees that it’s already lit up.

As the doors slide shut with a groaning sound that speaks volumes about the age and condition of the elevator, I’m sizing up the boy – man, actually – who stands next to me. He’s nothing special, really. Light brown hair tops a plain face, and to compound the reasons that I shouldn’t care about his opinion of me, he’s wearing a striped polo shirt, jeans that are too big, and worst of all, tennis shoes, as well as carrying a leather suitcase that screams academia.

On the other hand, he’s looking disinterestedly at the wall in a way that says he barely knows there’s someone else in the elevator with him, and that pricks my ego. I clear my throat a little and push my shoulders back. He doesn’t even blink. Irked, I start tapping my foot, and finally manage to draw his gaze – but only to my wedge heels, my favorite shoes, and he sniffs after looking at them in a way that makes me feel like a deflated balloon.

At this point, I want nothing more than to leave the elevator and go talk to Professor Shields, who never makes me feel small or uninteresting. I dive out the doors as they open and clatter along the hall, cursing my shoes and knowing that my elevator companion is probably behind me, judging me even more. My stiff feeling of self-consciousness fades, though, as I tap on the cracked door of the professor’s office and a cheerful voice rings out. “Come in, come in!” As soon as I push the wooden door inwards, the craggy face of the man I look up to more than just about anyone appears, beaming at me.

“Miss Finch! You’re here! Oh good, and here’s Alex, too! Perfect, perfect.”

As the professor’s warm hand against my back guides me into his familiar office, I stiffen. I sit down in the plush blue armchair that faces the desk, keeping my eyes on my lap, but I know what I’ll see when I look up.