The Season of Shay and Dane

by Lucy Lacefield

  I reach for a tight cone of its blooms and gently pull it to my face, closing my eyes with the slow inhalation. I carefully release it from my fingertips and take a few steps further and reach for another one—my eyelids closing, only wanting the perfect aroma to exist in the moment. . . slowly stepping out from around the bush. . . the perfumed scent lingering with me.

  “Holy shit—!” Someone’s words cut into the air.

  —My body stings as it collides with the concrete.

  The back of my head immediately throbs. . . I can’t find my focus.

  I reach down my side, my satchel’s not there.

  I hear a desperate voice. “Are you okay?”

  I slowly turn my head his way. “Ou—. . .,” my thought stops. He hurriedly kneels beside me. Yale Track. The large letters on his shirt come into view. He must not have seen me come from between the buildings.

  I start to tremble; I can’t speak. I move my left hand slowly up to my head and slide my fingers into the back of my hair feeling my scalp for blood. His face is near me searching—I can tell he’s upset.

  He speaks softly, his eyes full of concern, “Don’t try to move just yet, let me see if you’re bleeding.”

  I don’t take my hand away; I just listen to his voice. He cradles one hand behind my neck and stretches his other hand over mine, lacing our fingers together; the unfamiliar touch makes me flinch, and he begins slowly moving through my hair.

  “No blood,” he whispers. The relief is evident in his smile beginning to form. “Do you think you can stand?”

  “Yes,” I struggle saying, my lips quivering—my voice nearly inaudible.

  I get myself to a sitting position, forcing back tears as the pounding in my head gets stronger with rising.

  He leans to me reassuringly, “Ready?”

  I nod.

  He slides one arm around my waist and holds my hand with the other, bracing me as he lifts me up. He must be nine or ten inches taller than me and I let the weight of my small frame fall guiltlessly into him. A tear streaks down my face and I bend my head further trying not to be seen. I don’t know if I’m crying because of the scare and the pain, or that I’m so close to him now.

  He leads me a few feet to the small bus bench outside of my building.

  “Thank you. . .,” I say carefully, looking slowly to where I had fallen to see where my bag was.

  He follows my eyes and walks back over to collect it and the emptied disposable coffee cup. As he turns around, I can see the coffee has splattered on his shirt and shorts and I begin to smile a little at the whole confusion, at the same time more tears start to flow down.

  He places the bag between us on the bench. I can feel him looking at me with my face turned downwards and my hands, one rubbing the other, in my lap. I’m sure he sees the tears now.

  “I’m so very sorry.” The apology in his tone makes me feel sad for him, and I know it’s only right and kind that I lift my head.

  I turn to him, and the tenderness in his eyes catches me.

  “It’s alright,” I say, wanting to be courteous for his help and yet feel able to simply be remaining on the bench with him. But I’m a little winded and want to wait a second before walking up the flight of stairs to the front door—my hands still caressing together on my jeans. He reaches for them, just lightly touching the tops, when I slide them down the sides of my legs.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Can I walk with you to where you need to be?” his voice still the same softness.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you. . . and this is my building.”

  He looks behind us to read the words carved at the top, Everett Science.

  I find the courage with his distraction. “I’m sorry the coffee got on your clothes,” I say quietly. For myself I needed to acknowledge it, and I meant it. He wouldn’t think I was just maybe shy around men, he would probably think I was rude if I didn’t, and a Yale athlete and maybe from an affluent family, he probably has all types of girls wanting his attention and then trying to be difficult to make a chase of it. He’s been gentle to me and I couldn’t let him walk away not feeling my gratitude.

  “It’s nothing.” He looks down at his clothing and smiles, lightly brushing his shirt with the back of his hand, both of us knowing that won’t change anything, and I’m sure only being thoughtful for my benefit.

  I find myself smiling, with warm tears still drying on my face.

  “Can I at least replace your cup of coffee?”

  “Really, it’s alright. . .but I should probably get inside. . .thank you for getting my bag.” I reach for it and slide my hand over the top, my fingers moving over the contour of the monogramming etched in the pale leather above the closure, a graduation gift from my parents.

  “Sure. . .You sure you’re okay?” He hadn’t noticed the strap on my bag had formed into a loop and was resting on his bare thigh.

  “I’m okay.” I begin to slide my bag to pick it up and stand; the sensation going across his leg makes him see my hesitancy, and he lifts it and passes it to me. “Thanks. . .”

  As I walk away, I can see he’s still there on the bench.

  Dane

  I lean back into the bench and tilt my neck looking up at the sky in utter disbelief of what just happened. In all of my years running track, I’ve never had such a colossal hit.

  Where was my head?

  And she was so nice about.

  The rhythm of my run just got too centered. I wasn’t seeing a thing except for the path traced out in my mind—that I pounded down.

  Jesus!

  And now she’s somewhere up there in that building trying to walk it off.

  She must have been nearly a foot shorter than me, and so quiet. There wasn’t anything more that I could do but apologize, but still—shit. The burning coffee that washed over me was nothing compared to the fall she took.

  I rub my hand across my forehead and look down at my clothes, lifting the bottom edge of my shirt to see if I’m scalded—only a little pink. Some professor, I assume, walks past me judgmentally with a black leather bag and dressed in an expensive cardigan and slacks—they’re easy to spot. Their attire looks mid-nineteenth century—all but the cloak. He looks back over his shoulder firmly scrutinizing my appearance.

  Sure.

  I slap my thighs with my hands and get up from the bench. What a way for my last morning run to end—wiping out some sweet girl.

  —Everett Science.

  I turn to read the name and ground myself with where I’m at. As I look up at the building, I’m almost positive I see her in the window. I move a little to the side to get out of view of a few branches blocking me.

  She’s gone.

  I didn’t tell her my name when I offered to replace her coffee. And I didn’t ask her hers—wouldn’t have. Just saw the initials on her bag—S with a big B and an L . . . expensive bag, and probably an expensive girl—a legacy—with alumni parents.

  My thoughts clear somewhat and I decide to head back the way I came, not finishing my run—just shower and get some breakfast.

  5

  shay

  I move away from the window.

  Could he have seen me?

  Why did it matter to me that I looked to see if he was still there? It’s only thirty minutes before Professor Richards gets into his office and I still want to find aspirin somewhere for my head; I haven’t even unlocked my lab yet.

  Maybe the storage closet has a first aid kit in it.

  I take the keys out of my satchel and find the silver one with an S written on it in black marker. I lean the bag against the door to keep it propped open just in case. I feel for the light switch and see a faded white first aid box sitting on one of the metal shelves. I flick the latch and fumble through it.

  Off in the distance, I hear footsteps getting nearer. I step out just in time to see Jenny unlocking our office door.

  “Shay! You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Hey, Jenny. Sorry,” I say
calmly, even though I’m surprised to see her here.

  “Are you alright?” she asks, stepping closer into me, her expression tightening into an inquiry. “I thought I’d come and help you with your lab. . .,” she breaks off, the puzzled look not fading.

  “Yeah,” I offer reassuringly, my face softening to ease her alarm. “One of the track guys and I ran into each other in front of the building, but I’m okay.”

  “Oh my God—they’re like gladiators! And no doubt an unsympathetic Neanderthal who got his way bought here,” she winces, one side of her mouth turning up. I’m sure at the thought of the cushy life she goes on and on about that Yale athletes have, and at the same time scanning me for battle wounds.

  “No, really, he was nice.”

  “Nice!” She folds her arms.

  “Yes,” I say slowly, trying to pace her. “He helped me up.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  I walk towards my door, edging her along with me to diffuse the conversation.

  “So you got harpooned by an athlete—the biggest face-titutes on campus, and he peels you off of the ground and now they’re good guys?”

  I get my door unlocked and slide my bag onto a counter with Jenny staying close behind.

  “Jenny, listen, I’m sure they’re not all face-titutes.” I keep from looking back at where she’s bounced herself up on a corner of one of the lab tables and continue making my way around the room, recalling which microscopes need which parts. Sure, some of the athletes are here by the grace of their parents good fortune, but even then they have to be halfway decent just to be on the team. And yes, their pictures are enshrined all over campus for that matter, but calling them face-titutes, that’s pretty harsh.

  “Fine,” she huffs, and willingly surrenders to the topic. “There’s too much work to get done anyway. What can I do to help?”

  “Would you mind getting me a cup of water to take these pills with? My head’s killing me,” I say with a pleading half-smile, not to spark anymore debate. Jenny’s the kind of person that doesn’t easily concede her opinions; if there’s a cause she believes in she’ll be the one making buttons for shirts at 5 a. m. on her Cheerio strewn table to pass out at a rally.

  She rolls her eyes and blows up a piece of black hair that’s fallen out of her ponytail, schlumping herself down to go and find me a cup of water.

  “Thanks!” I call after her.

  dane

  It’s been half a day since I knocked that poor girl to the ground, but the thought of her keeps coming back. Maybe it’s just guilt and hoping that she’s okay. But I can’t shake it away.

  She didn’t want any more help, not even a new coffee. Of course, why would she? Where would I just get a random cup of coffee from that early, with most of the campus locked tight?

  But the look in her eyes on the bench, it wasn’t the same as others; she seemed genuine, not even letting me touch her hand in apology. Anyone else would’ve read the shirt and feigned a little more theatrics with needing help. I’m getting used to the hunters knowing my face from the track posters, and the luring willingness I’ve seen displayed to latch on for wherever they think this might take me—propositions that might even widen the eyes of some of the guys back at housing, and that have gotten all too familiar. Admittedly, sometimes they knew just how to light off my testosterone and I’d have to get beyond actually deliberating their proposals, usually with a run at the end of the day. But this girl, she didn’t even seem to care about the letters stamped across my practice shirt.

  Still, she was looking out the window. I’m sure of it.

  The slap of Coach Lewis’ clipboard against the table gets my attention. “Listen up!” he barks over the banter. “I expect you back here at 8:00 sharp tomorrow morning—not 8:30!” The last person that showed up late got sent through so many test sprints he broke down, literally, and curled up on the track crying with a damning cramp. “We need to hash out Harvard before we meet up this weekend—familiarize yourselves some more! I expect input! Got it?!” What a prick.

  We all knew, I knew, who my toughest competitors were, and not one of them was on the Harvard team. I wasn’t too worried about winning my heat this weekend.

  After he’s finishes bashing at what team morale still exists, I’ll grab my duffel from the locker and head out of the stadium and try to convince myself to take a walk past the biology building just to see if she’s still around.

  6

  shay

  “Finished yet?”

  I don’t even have to turn around and look at the door to know the attitude that’s hovering there for my answer.

  “Just getting this last lens in place.” Jenny’s already left. Without her help for the first two hours I would’ve spent several more here on my own being haunted persistently by Professor Richards. But after the first check he made and seeing that Jenny was here with me, he kind of backed off for awhile. “There. All done.”

  I turn to see he’s gone.

  Creeper. If I didn’t know his rudeness and expectations as well as I do, he’d seem half-stalker-half-professor. And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring; I can’t imagine who could be married to him. I know people try to turn their job off when they leave the office, but he would have to have a pretty big switch. Maybe that was part of his problem; maybe he had a jilted heart. Maybe he was just lonely—right—not for me to think about. But for some reason he doesn’t scare me like he does some of the others—granted, I don’t want too many encounters with him.

  I scoop up the bubble-wrap and the rest of the packing material lying about on the tables and dump it into the trash can. Finished.

  I turn to scan the room, seeing everything in order.

  What a day. Just the pressure around it is enough to put me into a heavy sleep tonight, let alone the ache in my body from falling this morning.

  I slide my bag off of the counter and hit the light switch, turning to lock the door.

  dane

  The building looks dead. I’m sure anyone here would have left by now, including the unnamed girl who keeps plaguing my thoughts.

  I stand staring at the front of it kneading the nape of my neck, when my leg goes forward before my mind fully catches up— and I’ve given in to the foolish courage to walk up the steps to the glass doors. They’re unlocked. Barely hesitating, I go in.

  The campus buildings are left open for students to walk through on any regular day, just because I’m not in this program doesn’t exclude me from browsing, I tell myself nervously.

  Really?

  If she were to walk into this lobby right now and see only me standing here she’d probably hit the floor again, out of pure fear this time.

  It wouldn’t be hard for her to find me though, if she were even interested to, but unless I hang around outside, and who knows what times or days, it’ll be nearly impossible for me to try to know who she is on this size of a campus.

  No doubt this is a science building. The sterility of just the lobby says the only thing that needs to be present here is a high intellect, not to mention the litany of esteemed faculty whose somber pictures trail eye-level in glass cases down one side of the wall.

  I step across to the other side looking at a large grouping of much younger faces that take up a shorter display length. The graduate students’ courses of study are listed under their names below their pictures. . . Elliott Amesworth—Year 2-Dept. of Microbiology. . . Evan Anscott. . . Attenburg. . . Avery. . . B’s. . . She had a large B on her bag. I keep scanning. Pryce Baxter. . . Beatty. . . Bennett—found her! Shay Bennett—Year 1-Dept. of Molecular Biology. . . I step closer in. I feel calm all over, the way I had sitting next to her. Something about her face just has an ease to it.

  “Can I help you young man?” The stark quietness in the lobby magnifies the voice and I lurch inside turning around to see a short, plump man in a gray custodian’s suit with a train conductor type hat resting lopsided on his head. He’s holding a mop staring at me blankly, as if the on
ly thing he has to protect himself with is that mop and a giant ring of jangling keys.

  I’m glad I have my track suit on so I can get out here. “Nope, just looking around at the pictures.”

  “I’m about to lock up,” he instructs still somewhat curious at the loitering.

  “Yep, headed out now. Thanks,” I say already walking towards the entrance.

  7

  shay

  I unfold the note taped to my apartment door: Made tuna salad and brownies. Come up to eat when you get back—if you can stand the mess. J.

  I unlock my door and step in just far enough to drop my bag and head up to Jenny’s.

  The rushed noises of returning from spring break can be heard coming from behind the closed doors in the hallway as I walk past them.

  As I get to the top of the flight of stairs I prepare myself for the clutter in her apartment, knowing that for her it’s organized chaos, and lightly knock.

  “Door’s open!” she calls over sounds coming from inside.

  “Hey Jenny. Thanks for the invite,” I say, looking at her effort of cleaning up, and actually it looks pretty good. I can see she’s tried to mimic my apartment a little and it flatters me, especially when everything else between us has always had me on the needing side. This morning she had stayed as long as she could in my lab. Something I didn’t even expect and was beyond grateful for, but after we got specimens checked in she had to get home and have a head start on things for classes to resume, having just gotten back a couple of days before me. I’m sure she’s been working all afternoon. Her futon is covered with folded, washed clothes and all of the dishes are stacked in a strainer beside the sink, even her old university newspapers that she collects each one of and are normally lying about everywhere like they’re wallpapering the floor, that she swears one day she’ll have the time to read, are stacked in a heap the height of a chair.