circulation desk. I could just go up to the people at the desk and tell them I needed it back.
So there I was, standing in line, practically hopping with impatience and straining my eyes to see past the counter to the book carts, hoping that I‘d recognize at least one of the volumes. The petite girl working the computer had a nose ring and two green stripes in her hair, and when I told her I needed my Aristotle back, she just stared at me and blinked. ―According to the system,‖ she said, pulling the info up on the screen, ―there are 215 copies of the collected writings of Aristotle in the Dwight Stacks alone.‖
―I know, but I need the one I was just looking at.‖
―And another 167 in the rest of the Eli University library system.‖
―Right,‖ I said, pointing behind her. ―But I need the one on that little cart back there.‖
She looked over her shoulder, then back at me. ―You want me to go digging through the cart to find a particular book, another copy of which you can easily retrieve from the shelves in 382
different forms?‖
Nice math, bitch. I was still carrying the one. But my momma always told me you catch more flies with honey.
―Pretty please.‖ I leaned forward. ―I left some rather sensitive health information in there, accidentally.‖ I gestured vaguely at my lower regions and whispered, “Test results.”
She retrieved the cart forthwith and started rummaging through the books.
Unfortunately, Poetics was not among them, nor were any of the other books I‘d had with me earlier.
―Sorry,‖ she said, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. She slid it across the counter, then laid her hand softly over mine. ―You know, I volunteer at the Eli Women‘s Center.
If you need to talk about anything, we have a twenty-four-hour Crisis Help Line.‖
I did my best to look somber. ―Thank you,‖ I said, taking the card and stuffing it in my pocket.
Okay, now what was I supposed to do?
―Hey! Psst, Amy. Amy Haskel.‖
I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Clarissa Cuthbert seated in a leather armchair in a little reading alcove. Her Louis Vuitton bag was on her lap, a pile of library books sat on the table beside her, and between two of her French manicured fingers, she dangled a white envelope
with a black border and a black wax seal.
―Looking for this?‖
And let me tell you why.
Remember Galen Twilo, numero dos on my Hit List? Well, soon after our Reading Week love-in, about two weeks into the second semester, when it was just penetrating my lust-addled brain that I would never again be treated to a post-coital discussion about existentialism and the incontrovertible nothingness of being (I know, strange thing to think right after an orgasm) in the arms of Mr. Twilo, I had a rather unfortunate encounter.
There‘s a sort of restaurant/club in New Haven called Tory‘s that caters to the very, very old-school factions of the student body. To eat there, you have to be a member, and the dress code is incredibly strict. They serve stuff like Welsh rarebit, and campus organizations who have Tory‘s members on their roster like to go and have what we call ―Tory‘s Nights,‖ where we sing songs and drink toasts out of giant silver trophy cups at the long tables in the restaurant‘s private banquet rooms, though we never actually eat anything. Clarissa Cuthbert is amongst the very oldest of the old school, and her father, some hotshot Wall Street guy, is the type of person who pays the steep post-graduate membership fee to Tory‘s just so he can eat toast points whenever he visits his daughter at his old alma mater.
I didn‘t know any of this then. I knew of Clarissa—she was beautiful in that ―Bergdorf blonde‖
way, dressed like she was in a fashion show for every class, and had a dorm room on campus (as all freshmen are required to) as well as a swank penthouse on the corner of Chapel and College Streets, the town‘s
So there I was, standing in line, practically hopping with impatience and straining my eyes to see past the counter to the book carts, hoping that I‘d recognize at least one of the volumes. The petite girl working the computer had a nose ring and two green stripes in her hair, and when I told her I needed my Aristotle back, she just stared at me and blinked. ―According to the system,‖ she said, pulling the info up on the screen, ―there are 215 copies of the collected writings of Aristotle in the Dwight Stacks alone.‖
―I know, but I need the one I was just looking at.‖
―And another 167 in the rest of the Eli University library system.‖
―Right,‖ I said, pointing behind her. ―But I need the one on that little cart back there.‖
She looked over her shoulder, then back at me. ―You want me to go digging through the cart to find a particular book, another copy of which you can easily retrieve from the shelves in 382
different forms?‖
Nice math, bitch. I was still carrying the one. But my momma always told me you catch more flies with honey.
―Pretty please.‖ I leaned forward. ―I left some rather sensitive health information in there, accidentally.‖ I gestured vaguely at my lower regions and whispered, “Test results.”
She retrieved the cart forthwith and started rummaging through the books.
Unfortunately, Poetics was not among them, nor were any of the other books I‘d had with me earlier.
―Sorry,‖ she said, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. She slid it across the counter, then laid her hand softly over mine. ―You know, I volunteer at the Eli Women‘s Center.
If you need to talk about anything, we have a twenty-four-hour Crisis Help Line.‖
I did my best to look somber. ―Thank you,‖ I said, taking the card and stuffing it in my pocket.
Okay, now what was I supposed to do?
―Hey! Psst, Amy. Amy Haskel.‖
I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Clarissa Cuthbert seated in a leather armchair in a little reading alcove. Her Louis Vuitton bag was on her lap, a pile of library books sat on the table beside her, and between two of her French manicured fingers, she dangled a white envelope
with a black border and a black wax seal.
―Looking for this?‖
And let me tell you why.
Remember Galen Twilo, numero dos on my Hit List? Well, soon after our Reading Week love-in, about two weeks into the second semester, when it was just penetrating my lust-addled brain that I would never again be treated to a post-coital discussion about existentialism and the incontrovertible nothingness of being (I know, strange thing to think right after an orgasm) in the arms of Mr. Twilo, I had a rather unfortunate encounter.
There‘s a sort of restaurant/club in New Haven called Tory‘s that caters to the very, very old-school factions of the student body. To eat there, you have to be a member, and the dress code is incredibly strict. They serve stuff like Welsh rarebit, and campus organizations who have Tory‘s members on their roster like to go and have what we call ―Tory‘s Nights,‖ where we sing songs and drink toasts out of giant silver trophy cups at the long tables in the restaurant‘s private banquet rooms, though we never actually eat anything. Clarissa Cuthbert is amongst the very oldest of the old school, and her father, some hotshot Wall Street guy, is the type of person who pays the steep post-graduate membership fee to Tory‘s just so he can eat toast points whenever he visits his daughter at his old alma mater.
I didn‘t know any of this then. I knew of Clarissa—she was beautiful in that ―Bergdorf blonde‖
way, dressed like she was in a fashion show for every class, and had a dorm room on campus (as all freshmen are required to) as well as a swank penthouse on the corner of Chapel and College Streets, the town‘s
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