Where am I?
I scan the rest of the small room: two identical desks, two identical dressers, two closed doors. I wonder briefly if I could be in prison before deciding that flowered sheets and arty photographs probably aren’t government-issue. My mind careens through a parade of other horrible possibilities. Maybe those two doors are locked. Maybe I was drugged and kidnapped, and this is where my captors have been holding me. I think back to last night. Did I remember to dead-bolt my door? The flannel pants and gray Brookside Cross-Country T-shirt I’m wearing are mine, but I don’t remember having brought them to L.A. with me, and I definitely wasn’t wearing them last night. I never changed out of my pajama-dress. What the hell is going on?
There are voices outside. People talking. Someone laughing. I get out of bed and move toward the window, which, to my relief, is not barred or locked but halfway open and clearly the source of both the sunlight and the icy air. I push the glass all the way up and stick my head out.
The window is on the second story of a U-shaped brick building, overlooking an enclosed courtyard. The voices I hear belong to a group of students, laden with backpacks and messenger bags, gathered around a wooden bench. The room, the building, the kids outside. This has to be a college campus. But where? This doesn’t look anything like the pictures I’ve seen of UCLA or USC. And besides, the air feels much too cool for this to be Southern California. My fear turns into panic. I have to get out of here.
I walk to one of the doors, say a quick prayer that it’s not locked, and open it. It’s a closet. As I survey its contents, my forearms prickle with goose bumps. The clothes inside are mine.
On the other side of the other door is a short hallway leading to a small common room. I see the end of a green couch and the edge of a coffee table. An out-of-commission fireplace that’s doubling as a pantry, stocked with a box of organic oatmeal, two bags of cinnamon soy crisps, and a jar of almond butter. A fancy-looking espresso machine on the floor. Purple Nikes by the door. And an ankle.
The ankle—attached to a small, delicate-looking, bare female foot—is suspended in the air, parallel to the ground, as if its owner is balancing on one leg. I take a step closer, trying to get a better glimpse of this person before she sees me.
“Abby?” The foot drops to the floor, and a pretty Asian girl comes into view. At first I think she’s younger than me, but then I realize that she’s just small. She can’t be more than five feet tall, but she looks strong. Her tiny, muscular body is in yoga pants and a tank top, and she’s standing on a yoga mat. When she sees me, she smiles. “I didn’t wake you, did I? I was trying to be quiet.”
I want to scream, WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT AM I DOING HERE???? But for some reason, I don’t. I simply smile back and shake my head.
“Good,” she replies, reaching for the bottle of water near her feet. “After last night, I figured you could use some sleep.” Last night? She smiles again, bigger this time. “Happy birthday, roomie!”
My birthday. I’d forgotten. Which, considering the morning I’ve had, is not nearly as weird as the fact that this chick I’ve never seen before is calling me roomie. “Thanks.”
The girl reaches for an opaque vitamin bottle sitting on the coffee table and dumps two pills into her palm. “Willow bark?” she asks me. I give her a blank, slightly bewildered stare, which pretty much sums up my mental state right now. “It’s for headaches,” she explains. “I woke up with a monster one.”
“Um, no, that’s okay,” I reply. Considering the circumstances, it’s probably better not to accept unmarked pills from strangers. Plus, remarkably, though my head is swimming, it isn’t pounding. Despite the gallon of champagne I consumed last night, I’m not the least bit hungover.
The girl pops the pills in her mouth and takes a swig of water. “Well, I guess I should get in the shower,” she says. “I have econ at eleven.” She steps past me toward the bedroom. A polite person would step out of her way, but I just stand there motionless, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for all this. I’m still standing in the same spot when she emerges from the bedroom a few moments later, wrapped in a towel and carrying a shower caddy. “See you in a few!” she says brightly as she heads for the door. When she opens it, I get a glimpse of an octagonal entryway, surrounded by four dark wooden doors, all labeled with three-digit brass numbers. The door falls shut behind her, and I am alone.
I walk over to the couch and don’t so much sit as fall into it. My heart is racing, I’m ridiculously thirsty, and I have absolutely no idea where I am or how I got here. The clock on the cable box says it’s 10:10, which means that in the span of the last eight hours I, and all my belongings, somehow managed to get from room 316 at the Culver Hotel to here. Wherever “here” is.
My eyes scan the room, looking for evidence, and land on a dog-eared blue book lying on the coffee table. It takes me a moment to process its title: 2009–2010 Yale College Programs of Study.
I’m at Yale.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to wake up from what must be a dream. But when I open my eyes, I’m still here, on this velour couch, holding the Yale course catalog in my shaking hands. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm.
A phone rings, and I jump. Then I realize it’s my phone, ringing in the bedroom. I leap off the couch and hurry down the hall. My cell is on the desk next to the bed I woke up in.
MOM AND DAD—HOME
They’re no doubt calling to wish me happy birthday, but I can’t deal with them right now. I won’t be able to hold it together. I send the call to voicemail and immediately dial Caitlin’s number.
“Thank God,” I say as soon as she picks up.
“Happy birthday!” she shouts. I relax the moment I hear her voice. Caitlin will explain this to me. She’ll make this make sense.
“You have to help me.”
“Are you that hungover?” she asks with a laugh. “My head is throbbing, but other than that, I feel okay.”
“I’m serious, Caitlin. I’m freaking out.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks in alarm.
“Where are you right now?”
“In my room. Why?”
“At Yale?” I hold my breath, praying. Please let her be here, please let her be here.
“Of course at Yale, silly. Where else would I be?” I experience a brief flash of relief. Caitlin’s here. Caitlin, who has an answer for everything. She’ll have an answer for this. Everything is going to be fine. “Abby?” Caitlin’s voice is tinged with worry. “What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath. “I know it sounds crazy,” I begin. “But . . . I think I’m here, too. At Yale.”
Caitlin laughs. “You had me worried there for a sec. I thought something was seriously wrong.” Her voice sounds breezy now. Light. “It is sorta surreal though, huh? Our being here together.”
“How long have I been here?” I whisper.
“What do you mean? We got here a week ago Friday. Hey, are you all right?” The worry is back.
I am reeling. Caitlin is acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world for me to be here. Caitlin, the most rational person I know. My panic quickly becomes dread. Something is very wrong. Either that, or:
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“Is what a joke?” Caitlin sounds genuinely confused now. “Abby, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
I am most definitely not okay. My mind charges forward, tearing through every imaginable possibility. The problem is, there aren’t very many. Either I’m dreaming or hallucinating or crazy. Or everyone else is.
“I’m coming over there,” Caitlin says. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“No!” I say quickly, louder than I intended. “I mean, no . . . that’s okay. I’m fine,” I lie. I want Caitlin’s help, but first I need some time to think.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “I just had a really weird dream, that’s all.” One I can’t wake up
from.
“Abby.”
“I’m fine!” I repeat, struggling to keep my voice as light as possible. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
“We’re shopping Art History at eleven fifteen, right?” She still sounds unsure.
“Yep!” I say this with all the enthusiasm I can muster.
“Okay, cool.” Her voice returns to normal. “There’s a chem class I want to check out at ten thirty, so is it okay if I just meet you at McNeil?”
“Sure,” I say, already distracted. It’s ten fifteen now. That gives me an hour to figure out what the hell happened last night.
“’Kay, see you then.”
As soon as I press the end button, a text pops up on my screen.
Tyler: HAPPY BDAY BARNES. WELCOME TO THE BEST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE.
Ten minutes in, “best” is not the word I’d use.
I grab what looks like my laptop and shove it into the satchel hanging on the back of the desk chair, along with my wallet and phone. I’m about to leave the bedroom when I realize I should probably get dressed first. After surveying my closet, I go with the jeans I got for Christmas last year, my favorite white V-neck, and a snuggly brown cardigan I’ve never seen before. As I’m leaving the bedroom, my roomie returns from her shower.
“We’re still on for dinner tonight, right?” she asks. “I was thinking I’d invite a friend of Ben’s to come with.”
“Sure, sounds great.” I don’t have time to make birthday plans. Or figure out who Ben is.
“Eight o’clock at Samurai Sushi? Ben’s train gets in at seven thirty.”
I nod distractedly, checking around the room to make sure I have everything I need. My eyes land on a key card with my picture and a bar code on it. I grab it. “Okay, awesome,” the girl is saying. “I’ll make a reservation. Oh! Before you go . . .” She retrieves a tan envelope from her desk drawer and hands it to me. “This is for you.” I turn the envelope over in my hands. The words For Abby, Love, Marissa are handwritten in crisp black letters on the front. “Open it,” says Marissa, nudging me with her elbow. “And please don’t say I shouldn’t have gotten you anything. So what if we’ve only known each other twelve days? By the time my birthday comes in February, we’ll have been living together for five months, and even if we hate each other by then, you’ll feel obligated to get me something. I’m just saving myself from the hassle of feeling like an asshole when that happens.”
I return her smile, momentarily forgetting the fact that in the last seven minutes, I have somehow acquired an entirely new life, complete with autumn-appropriate attire and a gift-giving roommate.
Inside the envelope is a single black-and-white photograph of Caitlin and me, sitting side by side on the grass in front of what looks like a cathedral, laughing at some unknown joke. The photograph looks like something you’d see in a magazine. “What a great picture! Did you take this?” I ask, looking up at Marissa. She gives me a funny look.
“Last weekend, remember? At the Freshman Picnic.”
“Oh—right. Duh.” I force a smile, willing my heart to slow down. How does this girl I’ve never met have a photograph of me from last weekend?
“Since it turned out so well, I figured you might want a bigger version to hang on your wall. So I printed an eight-by-ten and am having it matted and framed. It’s supposed to be ready tomorrow.”
“Wow . . . thanks! Such a cool present.” I’m genuinely touched by the gift but itching to get out of here. I put on my best apologetic smile. “I really should get going. There’s a class I want to check out that starts pretty soon.” I move toward the door, hoping she won’t ask what class.
“No worries,” she replies. “See you tonight!” She waves, then disappears into the bedroom. I grab the course schedule from the coffee table and hurry out the door.
When I reach the courtyard, I realize that I don’t really have a plan. What I need is a place to think, preferably somewhere quiet with internet access. I flip through the course schedule and find a campus map on the inside back cover. It’s not exceptionally detailed, but the words Sterling Memorial Library leap out at me. Perfect. Now how the hell do I get there?
The courtyard, like the building around it, is U-shaped. The open part of the U faces a busy street, but there’s a high, wrought-iron fence stretching the entire length of the opening. Who gives someone a view of a major street but no way to get to it? I briefly consider yelling at someone through the bars but quickly decide against it. Probably wise to avoid crazy-person behavior, at least for the time being. At the base of the U is a wide tunnel through the buildings, which appears to be my only way out.
The tunnel dumps me into a massive enclosed quad. A quick glance at my map is all I need to get my bearings. The layout of the buildings, the size of the courtyard . . . this has to be Old Campus, which means I’ve just come from Vanderbilt Hall, the U-shaped building on the southern end. The library is just a couple of blocks northwest of here, so I head for the arched gate at the far corner of the quad. As I’m passing through the archway, a group of girls emerges from a door a few yards away, carrying coffee cups and pastry bags. My stomach growls with envy. The sign above the door says DURFEE’S and has a picture of a coffee mug on it. I dig through my bag for my wallet, praying that there’s money in it. I find four dollars and some change, enough for coffee and a bagel.
Durfee’s is bustling with activity. No one pays any attention to me, which is great, and the place is dirt cheap. I buy a large coffee, a sesame seed bagel, a bottle of water, and a granola bar for later, and still have a dollar left over. I’m a long way from L.A., that’s for sure.
As I’m walking out, two guys, both wearing polo shirts with the collar flipped up and smelling like day-old (okay, make that week-old) beer, walk in. They see me, look at each other, and smile. “Hey, hey,” one of them says to me. His shaggy red hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in quite some time. “You looked like you were having fun last night.”
“Last night?”
The guys laugh. “Yeah, it’s all a little foggy, huh?” the other one says. His blond hair is sticking straight up, like it dried while he was upside down.
Dirty Hair nods at my coffee cup and sack of goodies. “Lemme guess—coffee, water, and a bagel.” I stare at him. “Am I right?” I nod, not sure whether to be frightened or impressed. “Hangover essentials,” he explains. “But you forgot the Advil.”
“Oh . . . right.” I flash what I hope is a friendly smile, trying not to grimace as I feel my stomach churn. Standing this close to them and their beer-emanating pores is making me nauseous.
“They’re out of Advil,” the blond one says, pointing to the empty box. “Man, something must be up with the barometric pressure. Everyone I’ve talked to has a headache.” He nods at the line of people waiting to pay. All of them are clutching travel packs of pain relievers. “You want some Tylenol?” he asks me.
“Uh, no. I’m okay, actually. But thanks.” Blond Spikes just shrugs.
“So, what’re you up to today?” Dirty Hair asks, alcohol heavy on his breath. I seriously might puke. Right now.
“Uh, you know . . . nothing much. Hey, gotta run.” I don’t bother to wait for a response. Rude, maybe, but I figure a hasty exit is less socially scarring than dumping the contents of my stomach on their suede loafers.
A few minutes later, I’m flashing my ID card to the security guard at the entrance of Sterling Memorial Library, which I recognize from the photograph Marissa gave me. It looks more like a Gothic church than a library. The exterior is impressive, but the interior is breathtaking. The main entrance, adorned with symbols and writings in various ancient languages, opens into a cathedral-like nave with vaulted aisles, clerestoried lighting, and too many stained-glass windows to count. I head toward the circulation desk, which, fitting with the cathedral theme, looks like an altar. The librarian looks up as I approach.
“Hello there,” she says. “May I help you?”
�
��Hi . . . I’m, uh—”
She politely cuts me off. “A freshman.” I look as clueless as I feel, apparently. “Freshmen are the only students who come to the library during shopping period,” she explains with a kind smile. “Is this your first time to SML?” I nod. She reaches under the desk and pulls out a library map. “Then you’ll probably need one of these,” she says, sliding the map across the desk. “Library policies are on the back.”
I scan the map. “Where’s the best place for me to go?”
“Depends on how much privacy you want,” she replies. “There are five reading rooms on this level, a couple more scattered throughout the rest of the main building, and half a dozen study carrels on each level of the stacks.”
“The stacks?”
The librarian points to the map in my hands. “Our fifteen floors of books. If you’re looking for privacy, that’s your best bet.”
“And how do I . . .”
She turns to her computer and types a few keys. “All I’ll need is your ID card to reserve a carrel,” she tells me. I hand it to her. She scans the bar code, then gives it back to me. “All set. Carrel 3M-06.” She leans over and draws a red X on my library map, then points to her left, to another security guard station. “Just show the guard your ID.”
“Carrel,” I soon learn, is the library’s euphemism for the ridiculously tiny cubicles with plastic sliding doors that line the interior walls of the building. While I’m waiting for my laptop to boot up, I close my eyes and go over the last twenty-four hours in my mind, attempting to recall every detail of last night’s events. Could Bret have slipped me something? But why would he drug me and take me to Yale? And if I just got here last night, how does Marissa have a photo of me that was supposedly taken last week, and why is there a student ID card with my name and picture on it?
I sigh, opening my eyes just as my computer finishes booting up. Any uncertainty about whose laptop this is disappears when I see the home screen. The background image is a picture of Caitlin, Tyler, and me, standing on the Brookside football field, wearing caps and gowns and grinning like we just won the Super Bowl. It’s a graduation photo, obviously. But where did it come from? I missed graduation. I was already in L.A. by then, doing preproduction for the movie. Saturday, June 6, 2009. I remember calling Caitlin that afternoon to see how it went.
Parallel Page 5
