Chapter 1
I was late for chemistry the first day of my sophomore year because I forgot the room number. I’ve always been forgetful.
I could remember that the professor’s name was Dr. Gia-something-or-the-other, and I knew it was on the first floor, but the actual number eluded me completely.
As I wandered Choppin Hall like an idiot, other students filtered into their classes and the hallway became lonely corridor through which I alone continued to stalk, frustrated and cursing at myself, my sneakers squeaking on the polished tile.
I pulled out my phone— which was a couple of updates behind and running like a digital slug—and tapped the web browser. I logged into the university website and waited for the screen to change. The university’s servers, of course, were located thousands of miles off-campus. In a glacier. Made of molasses. So I stood there, getting increasingly more-late and wishing I had just written my schedule down.
I knew myself better than this. Why would I leave anything to memory?
Finally, my course listings materialized, and I realized I wasn’t even on the right floor. The room number was 336.
Two flights of stairs later, I found myself wandering the third floor of Choppin, which looked almost identical to the first floor. Now I knew the number, but the room didn’t exist.
It literally didn’t exist.
I stood with my brow furrowed and read 335 over the door to the left, then 337 over the door to the right. No 336.
“ I’m going insane,” I said aloud.
337 was a computer lab, and a goth kid with green-tipped hair leaned away from his computer and looked out at me. “What’s that?” he said.
“ I’m supposed to be in room 336, but apparently it doesn’t exist,” I said, laughing a little at myself.
“ Oh yeah,” said the goth kid. “Miss Zarves teaches in 336.”
“You know where it is?” I asked.
“It’s on the nineteenth floor, but there is no nineteenth floor. And there is no Miss Zarves.”
I stared at him for a moment, processing this madness. “What?” I said. “My professor is—” I glanced down at my phone, “Dr. Giacomo.”
“ Yeah, sorry,” said Goth Kid. “I was just messing with ya.” He pointed past me at the opposite side of the hall—a doorway I had ignored because it said “Choppin Main Lecture 3” on a brassy plate. Printed just beneath that, invisible to my panicked and quickly-scanning eyes, was the number 336.
“ You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
Goth Kid laughed good-naturedly. “Well, good luck,” he said.
“ Thanks,” I said over my shoulder. I rushed to the door and pushed it open.
I tripped as I entered and caught the door for support, slamming it hard against the interior wall.
Three hundred heads turned to face me, and three hundred pairs of eyes bored straight through me.
I froze, the force of all that sudden attention slamming all thought from my brain.
The room was huge and full of students and silent.
The prof essor stood behind a podium. The array of giant screens behind him all displayed a Word document of the course syllabus. Prominent among the bullet points for expected behavior was the bold topic, “Better Never than Late—I’d rather you not show up at all than disrupt my class.”
I swallowed.
The professor waited, staring with the rest of the students as I leaned against the door. He was a distinguished older man with steel-gray hair and hard, pale eyes. Even at this distance, I could see he was muscled and tall, exhibiting none of the hunched softness that usually hallmarked aging men.
“ Well,” he said, his voice like something made of oak, larger than life through his jacket-pinned microphone, “are you enjoying the attention?”
I could only stammer, “I… I didn’t…”
“ I’d like to continue, if that’s all right with you,” said Dr. Giacomo.
The class ruffled with subdued laughter, and my face burned.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
I let the door close and slunk into
I was late for chemistry the first day of my sophomore year because I forgot the room number. I’ve always been forgetful.
I could remember that the professor’s name was Dr. Gia-something-or-the-other, and I knew it was on the first floor, but the actual number eluded me completely.
As I wandered Choppin Hall like an idiot, other students filtered into their classes and the hallway became lonely corridor through which I alone continued to stalk, frustrated and cursing at myself, my sneakers squeaking on the polished tile.
I pulled out my phone— which was a couple of updates behind and running like a digital slug—and tapped the web browser. I logged into the university website and waited for the screen to change. The university’s servers, of course, were located thousands of miles off-campus. In a glacier. Made of molasses. So I stood there, getting increasingly more-late and wishing I had just written my schedule down.
I knew myself better than this. Why would I leave anything to memory?
Finally, my course listings materialized, and I realized I wasn’t even on the right floor. The room number was 336.
Two flights of stairs later, I found myself wandering the third floor of Choppin, which looked almost identical to the first floor. Now I knew the number, but the room didn’t exist.
It literally didn’t exist.
I stood with my brow furrowed and read 335 over the door to the left, then 337 over the door to the right. No 336.
“ I’m going insane,” I said aloud.
337 was a computer lab, and a goth kid with green-tipped hair leaned away from his computer and looked out at me. “What’s that?” he said.
“ I’m supposed to be in room 336, but apparently it doesn’t exist,” I said, laughing a little at myself.
“ Oh yeah,” said the goth kid. “Miss Zarves teaches in 336.”
“You know where it is?” I asked.
“It’s on the nineteenth floor, but there is no nineteenth floor. And there is no Miss Zarves.”
I stared at him for a moment, processing this madness. “What?” I said. “My professor is—” I glanced down at my phone, “Dr. Giacomo.”
“ Yeah, sorry,” said Goth Kid. “I was just messing with ya.” He pointed past me at the opposite side of the hall—a doorway I had ignored because it said “Choppin Main Lecture 3” on a brassy plate. Printed just beneath that, invisible to my panicked and quickly-scanning eyes, was the number 336.
“ You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I said.
Goth Kid laughed good-naturedly. “Well, good luck,” he said.
“ Thanks,” I said over my shoulder. I rushed to the door and pushed it open.
I tripped as I entered and caught the door for support, slamming it hard against the interior wall.
Three hundred heads turned to face me, and three hundred pairs of eyes bored straight through me.
I froze, the force of all that sudden attention slamming all thought from my brain.
The room was huge and full of students and silent.
The prof essor stood behind a podium. The array of giant screens behind him all displayed a Word document of the course syllabus. Prominent among the bullet points for expected behavior was the bold topic, “Better Never than Late—I’d rather you not show up at all than disrupt my class.”
I swallowed.
The professor waited, staring with the rest of the students as I leaned against the door. He was a distinguished older man with steel-gray hair and hard, pale eyes. Even at this distance, I could see he was muscled and tall, exhibiting none of the hunched softness that usually hallmarked aging men.
“ Well,” he said, his voice like something made of oak, larger than life through his jacket-pinned microphone, “are you enjoying the attention?”
I could only stammer, “I… I didn’t…”
“ I’d like to continue, if that’s all right with you,” said Dr. Giacomo.
The class ruffled with subdued laughter, and my face burned.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
I let the door close and slunk into
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