* * *

The day drags, but I was able to squeeze out a little early and Chuck still offered to pay me for the hour. I’m moving my bag up higher on my shoulder when I feel my phone buzz. It’s Casey.

CASEY: Dude. Lunch. Now.

ME: I ate. Go ahead.

CASEY: You suck. I wanted to eat one of your sandwiches.

ME: I’m sure Sheila will make you one.

CASEY: U not there?

ME: Got off at 1.

CASEY: So…2nd lunch?

ME: Go feed your face. I’ve got some things.

CASEY: You always have things.

I do always have things. What I should be doing is reviewing my history notes for my final exam tomorrow. But instead, I’m walking up the steps of the Delta House, an orange notebook in my hand. I feel like Prince Charming, but a really nerdy one—no glass slipper, just a laundry list of bones, intestinal mapping, and the phases of cellular division.

“Can I help you?” There’s one girl sitting out on the porch, her feet curled up in her lap along with a heavy book. She has a pencil stuffed in a twist of hair piled up on her head.

“Yeah, uh…I’m looking for someone. Paige Owens?” Her eyes turn to slits quickly, and there’s a flash of a menacing smile on her face. It’s strange.

“She isn’t here,” she says.

I can’t explain why exactly, but I don’t believe her.

“Do you want me to tell her something?” she asks, closing her book and dropping it in the seat next to her. She stands and pulls her hair down, letting dark waves from the twist fall over her shoulders. She’s trying to distract me. This is getting stranger.

“Just a notebook. She left it…somewhere,” I leave that vague, suddenly not wanting to tell this chick how I know Paige—why I know Paige—where I saw Paige. “Anyhow, I think she needs it to study,” I say, taking a step back as she approaches.

“You can leave it with me,” she says.

Yeah, that’s not happening.

“No, it’s okay. I have to talk to her about something too,” I say, making quick note of the disappointment on her face. Mission failed.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure when she’ll be back. Maybe try later on today,” she says, walking back to her seat, as if she’s suddenly lost interest.

“I’ll wait,” I say, sitting on a wood bench at the other end of the porch. The girl freezes when I do. It takes her a few seconds to move again, and when she finally gets back to her seat, she smiles at me in a way that says I just ruined her day.

“Suit yourself,” she says, one last attempt to make me leave.

I pull out my phone and check my text messages while I wait.

CASEY: Sheila’s sandwich was better than yours.

CASEY: No, it wasn’t really. I said that to make you feel bad.

CASEY: Next time just make me one and leave it in the fridge.

ME: You just don’t like paying for them.

CASEY: This is true.

ME: I’m going to start charging you.

CASEY: We’re no longer friends.

ME: I knew you wanted me for my meat.

CASEY: That’s what she said.

CASEY: Dude, where are you? I just stopped by your house?

ME: I have things.

CASEY: There’s more to this. To be continued.

I don’t write back. Instead, I flip through the pages of the notebook while I wait, peering up every few seconds to check the status on the girl at the other end of the porch. When she seems lost again in her own studying, I slip the pencil out from the spiral part of the notebook and draw a few doodles in the margins of the first few pages.

Once I reach the middle pages, I start to draw arrows at a few of her graphs, making commentary on her diagrams.

“What is this supposed to be?” I write next to a penciled sketch that I think is a cell. I draw legs, a tail, and a pig nose on another, and add a few more artistic additions to the page until I’ve basically left her with an elementary sketch of various farm animals.

I spare one more glance to the girl, waiting for her to look up at me. When she doesn’t, I write one more note to Paige.

Your own room, bathroom, regular meals, and someone who may or may not leave random works of art for you when you least expect it. Just…think about it, okay? You would actually be helping us out.

I pause for a few more seconds before finishing my note, adding in my phone number so she can call me. Now she has it twice. I read the note back to myself, each time thinking I sound more desperate, my attempt at humor becoming less and less humorous. By the fifth read, I poise the pencil’s eraser over my phone number and get ready to erase.