chapter seven.

Val

When it's too cold to be outside—which is most of the time during autumn and winter here—I camp out inside the architecture building, though I am far from an architecture student. It's one of the most aesthetically pleasing buildings on campus (which I suppose kind of makes sense)—with broad glass windows at unconventional angles and plants dangling from the ceiling like living curtains and soundless concrete floors. Not to mention there's a tiny coffee bar nestled in the corner of the main atrium, which is always a plus.

Normally the building's fairly quiet this late in the afternoon, so late it could as well be called evening. The sky is orange-blue and the grass is frost-kissed by the time I reach the building after my algebra class. I step inside, shaking frost from my boots, and don't get much further past the threshold before my heart sets to thrumming.

"Simon?"

He's standing a little ways down the hall, examining the architecture program's bulletin board. It's a sort of collage of famous architects and their projects and some of the projects of Boston University's own students. I'd never peg Simon as the kind of guy interested in the way bricks are assorted, but he has a hand to his chin and his eyes are narrow, like he's genuinely enamored.

So enamored I have to say his name again: "Simon?"

He jolts, pivoting to face me. "Oh! Val!"

One of the professors walks hurriedly out of her office and nearly bowls me down as I approach Simon; both of us watch her go for a moment. "Um," I say, coming up to his side, "what are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd find you here, is all," he says, and I wonder how in the hell he thought that, because the only other person I've told about this spot is Oliver, one of my old friends from school that I dated briefly and now only see in passing. "Architecture?" Simon goes on. "Do you have classes here?"

"No," I say, dropping my bag on the floor, since it's grown sort of heavy. "I just like the ambiance."

Simon laughs, but it's an obviously uncomfortable laugh. He pushes a few strands of his hair behind his ear; miraculously, he's tied his hair back into a miniature ponytail at the nape of his neck, a few gingery strands hanging in his face. I'm not sure how I feel about it. Okay. So I'm fairly sure how I feel about it, because my heart is thudding, for some reason.

"You were looking for me, then?" I ask, shoving my hands into the pockets of my dungarees. My sister hates these things—she told me this morning, actually, that they make me look like a hobo—but they're comfy, so I wear them anyway. "I mean, I thought we'd agreed to meet Friday, but if you want—"

"Yeah, about Friday."

I try to fight it, but that needle of disappointment jabs me anyway, right where it hurts. He reconsidered. He reconsidered and now he doesn't want to go out. What was it this time? Something I said? I am trying to be patient, but after a while it just gets...tiring.

I run my fingers through my curls, detangling a knot. Jo said she would put locs in for me later this week, which is a relief. I'd like to not have to think much about it for a while. "What about Friday?" I prompt, trying to seem nonchalant.

"I..." Simon exhales and whirls around, leaning his back against the bulletin board. He tilts his head a little, exposing a side of his freckled, graceful neck. I look away. "I live with my older brother, you know? He's a pain, really. But anyway, apparently our dad called to remind us that it's our great grandmother's birthday this weekend, and we have to head back there to celebrate with her."

I try not to think too hard about the fact I'm being ditched for an old woman; it seems selfish of me. Instead, I just say, "Oh. That's okay. I get that."

"I tried to weasel my way out of it, but...ah..." Simon winces, as if something's physically hurting him. "My family's very particular about this stuff. I'm really sorry. I'd stay if I could."

"Simon—"

"I mean, maybe it won't take the whole weekend, you know? Like maybe we can—"

"Simon."

He lifts his eyes from the floor. They are green and gold and brown and I have a weird urge to photograph them. There is something strange about those eyes. Something strange about him, in all, and I'll be damned if I don't figure out what it is one of these days. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, really," I tell him, brushing his shoulder with my hand. His eyes fall to where my hand touches him, and I self-consciously remove it. The air between us seems to thicken in a way that it's almost stifling. "There are several more days to come. You can take a weekend to celebrate your great grandmother's birth. You know, you're indirectly celebrating your own."

Another awkward laugh. "You're right. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"I mean, don't. Don't think of it that way. It's not your birthday, so you shouldn't—you know?"

He gnaws his lip. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

I am trying to remember when I got so bad at this talking thing, but I can't. So I decide to blame Simon.

I'm standing there, bouncing up and down my toes, trying to think of something to say that will kill the awkward silence bubbling up between us, when Simon takes one for the team. "I should...go," he says, pushing himself from the wall. "I'll see you around?"

"Yeah," I say, offering a shy wave. "See you around."

When he's gone, I turn and press my head against the wall.

The meeting room smells like freshly-brewed coffee and various saccharine pastries, and though we're getting our new assignments today, I'm finding it too easy for my mind to drift.

Normally on brainstorming or assignment days I'm on top of it, at the front of the room, seizing the whiteboard marker from Caz and jotting down ten ideas all in one fell swoop. After all, there are stories all around—on campus and off—that are begging to be told, and it's my job and the job of The Terrier's Gazette to dig them up.

Caz is still at the whiteboard, blue marker tapping away, his voice and Rita's voice and the voice of all the others blurring into the background. The only voice I'm paying any attention to is the one inside my head, which is sounding less and less like mine and more and more like Simon's. I have known him for two days, maybe, and yet the thought of his face still manages to stir something up within me. I'm not sure what. Excitement? Admiration? Fear? How do I even tell? Every emotion feels the same when you feel it intensely enough.

"Val? Val? Earth to Valerie Love?"

My head snaps up. Caz is looking at me now; everyone is. He has his marker perched over a particular line on the whiteboard—mysterious case of the missing professor—and his dark eyebrows sharply risen at me. "Val? You up to write this one? It's a biggie."

I squint at the words, hoping something will make sense. It doesn't. I must have been tuned out for much longer than I thought. "What's...what's that one again?" I ask, tapping my ballpoint pen against the legal pad underneath me. "Sorry. Must have missed it."

Caz frowns, adjusting the baseball cap on his head, underneath from which a few wild coils still escape. "A while ago—like eight years ago, about—one of the most distinguished sociology professors here went missing. Like, off the face of the earth. No one could track him. Recently, though, people have started to see him around again. But never long enough to talk to him."

"Is this..." I cut off, chuckling a little despite myself. "Is this some sort of ghost story?"

Rita, across the conference table from me, shrugs. "Who knows. It's interesting, is what it is."

"I don't do superstitious stuff."

"It's not superstition," says Caz, writing my name beside the assignment, and circling it. I exhale. Once it has been circled, it's official. The next few weeks of my life will be spent searching for someone who might not even exist. "It's a mystery. You like Nancy Drew, don't you?"

"I did. When I was like, twelve."

"Good!" announces Caz, finishing off his circle. Only when he caps his marker do I realize the board is filled with scribbles and circles—I was the last of us to receive my assignment. "You'll love this, then. Val?"

The meeting adjourned, the room rises to somewhat of a stir—people going back for donuts or coffee, people streaming out of the room, people pulling out laptops or phones and getting right to their research. Caz, however, is focused on me, his brown eyes holding mine, skin a warm, earthy brown in the sunlight filtering in through the window.

I always joke about how Caz would be the type of guy my mom would want me to marry. Intelligent, gentlemanly, black. He's someone out of a magazine, or a television show, or a dream.

"Yes?" I say, getting to my feet.

He taps one of the guys—Ben, one of our sports reporters—on the shoulder as he approaches. "Did you stay up late again? You seem out of it."

"No, I slept fairly well," I say. "Just particularly daydreamy today."

Caz hesitates. I've never seen Caz hesitate. "What about?"

I bite my lip, grinning at him. "Typical daydreamy things. Butterflies, flowery meadows, flouncing about in a puffy white sundress."

"Those are typical daydreamy things?"

"Duh," I tell him, hugging my legal pad to my chest. It dawns on me that most of the other staff has already filtered out of the meeting room, and Caz and I are alone. Something sticks in my throat. "If not, your daydreams are weird."

Caz scoffs, and for a second I think he's going to say something important, something dire, but then he just shakes his head and says. "You've got a good story this time around; people are gonna want to read it. I'm counting on you, you know."

"Oh, Caz," I taunt, making my way towards the door. "Have I ever let you down before?"

I don't hear his answer, because by then I've already left.