Don't Turn Around

by Michelle Gagnon

“I had study group.” Abruptly she took her hand off the guy’s arm, as if she’d just noticed it was there.

  Peter examined him: six feet tall, black hair, blue eyes, square jaw. Wearing jeans and a toggled wool coat. Standard prom king, the kind of guy who quarterbacked the football team, edited the school paper, and became valedictorian. The exact type Peter had always detested. Reflexively, Peter looked down: leather shoes. How could Amanda like a guy who wore leather shoes? “I’m Peter,” he said, jutting out his hand. “Amanda’s boyfriend.”

  “Drew.” The guy shook, his smile tight. “I didn’t know Amanda had a boyfriend.”

  They both looked at her. A small part of Peter was happy to see Amanda shift uncomfortably.

  “Well, Peter and I are …”

  “We’re what?” Peter demanded when she didn’t finish.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked, brow furrowing. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “It’s cold,” Drew said. “I should probably get going.”

  “Good idea,” Peter said. “See ya.”

  Amanda hesitated, then waved her key card over the door. It clicked open, and Peter pulled it wide, holding it open for her. Before walking off, Drew called back over his shoulder, “See you in class, Amanda.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Bye.”

  She ducked inside and waited for Peter, but wouldn’t meet his eyes. In silence, he followed her up a flight of stairs to her dorm room.

  Amanda lived in a single suite, which meant that she technically had her own room, but had to go through an outside bedroom to get to it. Mercifully, her roommate, Diem, wasn’t there.

  “She’s been gone all week,” Amanda said, passing by the unmade bed. “New boyfriend, I think.”

  Peter didn’t say anything. She walked into her room and flicked on a lamp that was draped with a scarf to mute the light. She sank down on the bed and pulled off her knit Ugg boots. She still hadn’t met Peter’s eyes.

  He dropped the duffel to the floor, but remained standing. It was a small room, rendered smaller by all the decorating she’d done. Amanda had pinned enormous swaths of fabric across the ceiling to hide the ugly tiles, and covered the floor with overlapping woven rugs. The walls were decorated with signs from the various rallies she’d attended over the years: PETA, NOW, Teens in Trouble, GLAAD. Oversized throw pillows dotted the floor, and an orange IKEA butterfly chair sat in a corner. Above her bed hung the standard print of Che Guevara that Peter figured they must hand out to everyone on registration day. The first time he’d visited, he’d jokingly nicknamed it the “überradical opium den.”

  Now, instead of feeling colorful and exotic and inviting, the room struck him as claustrophobic. Amanda still hadn’t spoken. Finally, he asked, “Are you seeing that guy?”

  She shook her head. “We’re just friends.”

  “Yeah? Because it looked like—”

  “I said, we’re just friends.” Amanda pushed off the bed and crossed the room. On top of the built-in vanity she had an electric teakettle. She shook it to see if it was full, then pressed the on button. Without turning around she asked, “Why are you here, Peter?”

  “My parents kicked me out.”

  “What?” She swiveled, her face scrunching up with concern. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. They got pissed because I was trying to find out more about that thing. You know, what I told you about at brunch today.”

  Her face had gone blank, and Peter wondered if she’d even been listening that morning. “They kicked you out because someone stole your laptop?”

  “He didn’t steal it, he just … that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me guess: You want to stay here.”

  “Yeah, I do.” His turn to shift. “Why? Isn’t that okay?”

  “It’s just that—” Amanda ran a hand through her wavy hair. “I mean, I’ve got class early tomorrow.”

  “So we’ll just sleep,” Peter said, remembering her expression when she looked up at Drew. Drew. He even hated the guy’s name.

  Amanda stretched her hands up and dropped her head back. “It’s fine, whatever,” she said. “I’m going to brush my teeth. If you want some tea, help yourself.”

  She gathered up her shower kit and slipped on a pair of Moroccan slippers, then left the room.

  Peter sank down on the bed. Tea was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t sure he could sleep anymore, either, even though he felt completely wiped out. Truth be told, all he wanted was to lie down and start crying, and he hadn’t shed a tear in years.

  Peter lay back against the pillows and crossed his hands behind his head, staring up at the paisley pattern that billowed slightly in the wind from the heating vent. The whole room smelled vaguely of lavender and patchouli, a scent Peter always associated with Amanda. There was a framed photo on her bedside table. She was a kid in the picture, around twelve years old. An older boy with braces, her brother, Marcus, had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. They both looked healthy and happy. She’d told him once that it was the last good photo she had of her brother. Soon after that Marcus started using, and in later photos you could see him literally wasting away. Then he’d run off and vanished from the family photo albums entirely.

  It was a common bond they’d discovered, that they both knew the pain of losing a sibling. Peter wondered if Drew had any idea what that was like. Probably not—he looked like the type of guy whose entire life had been too easy, who’d never lost anything important.

  Peter turned on his side to face the wall. When Amanda came back in, he pretended to have already fallen asleep.

  Noa raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The messenger bag bounced against her side painfully, and there was a throb of protest in her chest—apparently it hadn’t healed enough for her to be sprinting. She ignored the pain, panic driving her onward. The stairwell door was thrown open above her, followed by the sound of heavy boots clomping downstairs. No yelling this time, which somehow made her pursuers even more frightening.

  The studio apartment was on the fifth floor. Noa had no idea where the emergency stairwell let out, if she’d end up in the lobby or on the street. Or if there’d be anyone else waiting for her down there. It sounded like the men chasing her were gaining. She pushed every thought out of her mind, focusing solely on moving faster. At the bottom of the stairs was a plain wooden door with a paddle handle. She hit it at a dead run and shoved through it …

  … straight into another guy dressed in black. He’d half-turned toward the door as it opened. Right before she crashed into him, his eyes went wide with recognition. Her momentum sent them flying backward through the building lobby. Noa landed hard on top of him, knocking her head against his collarbone.

  She fought to disentangle herself during the valuable few seconds before he recovered from the surprise. The guy was looking stupidly at her, wheezing—there’d been a crack; maybe he’d broken a rib when he hit the ground. She leaped to her feet and started running again. The stairwell door slammed open behind her and someone yelled, “Hey!”

  She pushed through the front door. The temperature had dropped, and the cold air hit her like a slap. She skidded on a patch of black ice right in front of the building and almost went flying, but her bootheel caught the edge of a sidewalk brick at the last second, stabilizing her.

  Noa headed right, toward the nearest corner. She figured her best shot at losing them was in the shadowed side streets. She kept checking for a gap in the buildings, a way to duck into a backyard, but everything was fenced off.

  She didn’t know this section of Boston well, which was the main reason she’d chosen it, figuring they wouldn’t be looking for her here. Cambridge was dominated by the Harvard campus. The small dwellings lining the street mainly housed faculty and students. All the windows were dark and shaded, the streets empty.

  Noa cut right up the next street. She could still hear them behind her. She wasn’t a fast ru
nner, even when she was in shape. She wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace for more than another minute or two. Her lungs felt raw and chafed and the cold air made it worse, like every inhale was a piece of glass slashing at them.

  At the next corner, Noa turned right again and came face-to-face with a solid wall of massive brick buildings bridged by a wrought-iron gate: the main entrance to Harvard Yard. It stood open.

  She bolted across the street and through the gate. Inside, a concrete path veered left through manicured lawns. More brick buildings loomed out of the darkness. Noa could still hear them chasing her. She tore for the nearest gap between buildings.

  It opened out on an enormous grassy quad. Quiet, but there were still lights on in a few of the windows high above. Other paths crossed and intersected the one she was on. She darted across the grass. It was hard beneath her feet, the ground frozen solid. Noa headed for the nearest door. Gave it a tug, but it was locked.

  She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Six men were entering the quad. As soon as they spotted her, they started to fan out.

  Noa fought back a wave of despair and gritted her teeth. She was not going to end up back on that table. She raced along the side of the building.

  At the end of it, she broke left. The space between the buildings narrowed. She prayed that she wouldn’t end up at a dead end.

  Voices up ahead. Noa ran toward them. Emerging in another quad, she saw two people trotting down a long flight of stairs spanning an imposing neoclassical building—the library. Light spilled out of the enormous glass windows lining its facade. Noa made for it. She vaulted up the steps and yanked open the door.

  Inside, her boots echoed on marble. She was in a huge lobby, a dome shot up three stories overhead. Slowing, she approached a small round booth with a security guard tucked inside. He was old, white-haired, half-asleep. At the sight of his uniform she initially froze, remembering the guards back at the warehouse complex. But his was dark black, with maroon patches on the upper sleeves. It looked more like a police uniform than anything else. Not that Noa had ever had much luck with cops, either. But the devil you know …, she thought to herself.

  Beside him was a security gate with a metal detector. He watched blearily as she approached.

  “Gotta show your ID,” he muttered.

  Noa looked back over her shoulder. Through the glass panes in the copper doors, a cluster of faces peered in at her. She turned back to the guard and swallowed hard, trying to get her breath back. “I forgot it.”

  “Can’t let you in without ID,” he said decisively, turning back to a small TV. Tinny voices blared from it, the sound of scattered clapping and cheers.

  “Please,” Noa said, desperation in her voice. “It’s important.”

  “Midterms,” he grumbled. “You’d think it was life and death. Why you kids can’t just study in your rooms—”

  “I think someone’s following me,” she blurted out.

  That piqued his interest. The guard looked up again and said, “Yeah? Like a boyfriend or something?”

  “Something,” Noa said. She heard the door open behind her and looked back. One of the guys was walking in. Despite his best efforts to look casual, he clearly didn’t belong on a college campus.

  The security guard followed her gaze, then slowly got to his feet. “You bothering this girl?”

  “No, sir.” The guy held up both hands placatingly. His voice was calm and steady, authoritative. He wasn’t much taller than her but looked muscular, like a bodybuilder. Hair shorn in a crew cut, a scar that seamed his face along the right side. He appeared unarmed, but there was a clear note of menace in his voice as he shifted his gaze to her and held out a hand. “Noa, you need to come with me.”

  “You have to let me in,” she pleaded, turning back to the guard. “Please.”

  “What’s going on here?” the guard asked, eyes narrowing.

  The guy was examining the perimeter of the room—checking for cameras, Noa realized.

  That settled it. She dashed past the guard, through the metal detector. It blared in her wake.

  “Hey!” the guard called after her.

  She ignored him. The alarm faded as Noa turned the corner and found herself facing row after row of books.

  She’d never been in a library like this. Before she’d managed to buy her first laptop, she’d used the terminals at the small library a few blocks away from The Center. But that was a tiny facility, just an open room with a few terminals tucked in the corner.

  In comparison, this library was overwhelming. She froze momentarily. It wasn’t what she’d expected. The shelves were metal, almost clinical looking. Each row stretched a hundred feet into the distance, and there were at least a dozen of them lined up like dominoes. She trotted down a few rows. Halfway down the aisle, she spotted a small metal staircase that ascended to the next floor.

  Noa heard footsteps behind her—more than one person from the sound of it. She darted toward the staircase. Her boots made a hollow clanging sound as she bolted up the stairs, but there was no helping it. They’d probably seen where she was headed, anyway.

  The staircase opened onto another long series of stacks. Behind her, another staircase led up, identical to the one she’d just climbed. Without stopping to think about it, she mounted that one, too. She went up two more floors, each time encountering another set of stacks, another staircase. Noa wondered how many floors there were. She couldn’t keep going up forever; at some point she’d have to find a place to hide.

  Abruptly, the alarm downstairs fell silent.

  Noa stopped on the next floor and made her way through the aisles of books, emerging in a corridor. Dimly lit, carpeted. Dark oil paintings of old white men glowered down at her. At hip level, standing glass display cases held ancient-looking books.

  A few doors led off the hall, but they were all dark. Noa tried the handle of the nearest one: locked. She moved along, trying each door. She couldn’t hear anyone behind her, but that didn’t mean anything. Maybe the guard had managed to stop them. Or they figured she was trapped, and were waiting outside for her.

  They might be right. She had no idea if there was another way out of the building.

  Her messenger bag felt heavy, but she didn’t dare drop it. She wouldn’t survive if she only had the clothes on her back to work with. She needed the laptop.

  The knob on the tenth door she tried was unlocked.

  Noa opened it and ducked inside. Another long hallway lined with doors. The lighting was brighter, the doors narrower and less official looking. She made her way down the row. All of these were locked, too. The hallway hooked right, revealing another short corridor, more doors. Then it ended. Noa went all the way down to check, but that was it. She’d hit a dead end.

  She slumped against the wall. Her breathing was still ragged, and everything hurt. She should have bought sneakers; these boots were killing her feet and she could feel the beginnings of blisters on her heels. Not that any of that would matter if she was captured again.

  A familiar sound. Noa tilted her head to the side: Someone close by was tapping away at a keyboard. Halfway down the row, a slit of light crept from beneath the doorframe.

  Noa hesitated, but decided she had nothing to lose. She walked over and raised her hand, then lightly rapped on the door.

  The typing stopped, then a male voice said, “Tonight’s my night, Caleb. What time is it, anyway …”

  “It’s not Caleb,” Noa said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  She stepped back as the door snapped open. Standing there was a college kid, tall and thin with longish blond hair, green eyes, and glasses. A scraggly goatee clung to his chin. He wore a T-shirt, jeans, and white socks without shoes. At the sight of her, he looked puzzled. “Uh, hi,” he finally said. “Are you locked out of your carrel?”

  “No,” Noa said. “Can I come in?”

  “I’m kind of … working in here.” He gestured weakly behind himself. It was a tiny room, roughly t
he size of a large storage closet. A small wooden desk was built into one side; the opposite wall held a bookcase. There were open books and papers scattered everywhere, including the floor.

  Noa quickly stepped forward, backing him into the room. She spoke in a low, urgent voice, saying, “I just need one minute.”

  “One minute for what?” He appeared even more confused as she shut the door. “Did Caleb put you—”

  “Shh!” Noa said. She’d heard another door opening at the far end of the hall—the one she came in through. She made sure the lock on the study carrel door was pushed in, then reached up and flicked off the light.

  “Hey! This is really—”

  “Please be quiet!” Noa begged. She found his arm in the dark and squeezed it. He made a small noise, but didn’t say anything else.

  Footsteps down the hall. A heavy tread, moving slowly. At the sound of a click, Noa caught her breath: He was doing the same thing she had, trying all the doors. A pause, another click. Then another.

  It was a tiny space; they were inches apart. The college guy’s breath reeked of pizza. He seemed to sense the danger, or at least he’d decided to trust her enough to stop talking. They stood in silence as the footsteps came closer.

  Noa couldn’t help it; she jumped when their doorknob clicked. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that the lock worked, that he couldn’t hear them breathing. An eternity seemed to pass before the footsteps moved on to the next door down. Five more, and they stopped entirely.

  Noa felt the guy shift beside her. Heard an intake of breath, like he was getting ready to speak. She reached up and found his mouth through the gloom, then clasped her hand over it. His lips felt dry and warm.

  The footsteps started up again, the stride more purposeful this time. They passed the door. After they turned the corner, the sound started to fade. The main door squeaked open again, then closed with a bang.

  Noa realized she’d been holding her breath. She released it and dropped her hand.

  The light flicked on, and the guy glared down at her. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Thank you,” Noa managed, suddenly completely spent. She dropped into the chair in front of the desk.