Drowning Instinct(5)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

I nodded, tongue-tied, all the words I‘d thought about saying jamming up behind my teeth. Mr. Anderson‘s face was lean but square with high cheekbones, just the suggestion of a cleft in his chin and a broad forehead framed by thick, dark curls. His eyes were a startling, bright, silver-blue, like ancient ice, and his skin was bronzed from time in the sun. ―Th-thanks,‖ I finally managed. ―I‘m . . . I‘m sorry I made such a mess.‖

―Don‘t worry about it. You were just lucky that coffee wasn‘t hot. While you were cleaning up, I did the hall. One less thing for Harley to complain about.‖ He raised his mug.

―Need a cup?‖

―No,‖ and then thought that sounded rude, so I added: ―I don‘t really like coffee. It was my mother‘s idea.‖

―Smart woman. Coffee is the elixir of life.‖ He hesitated. ―Look, uh, about earlier . .

. what I was doing . . .‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said, quickly. ―Honest.‖

He put a hand up. ―Let me apologize, okay? All I wanted to say was I‘m sorry I scared you. You kind of caught me out. I wasn‘t expecting anyone around this early, obviously.‖ The way he rolled his eyes made me giggle and he grinned. His teeth were square and very white. He had a nice smile. ―That‘s better. I‘m training for an Iron Man.

Summer‘s no problem but once school starts up, I have to squeeze in time when I can. You a runner?‖

―I used to run cross-country,‖ I said and then wondered why I was telling him anything. Well, he had been nice. He could‘ve kicked me right back downstairs.

―For real? What‘s your time for a 5K?‖ I told him, and he made impressed sounds.

―Not bad. You done any middle distance? Eight or fifteen hundred?‖

―No. I haven‘t run in a while, actually. I mean, I haven‘t been training. Anyway, I just liked to run. I like . . . speed.‖ That wasn‘t quite what I meant to say, but to fly sounded, well, weird and I was supposed to be acting normally.

―I like the power,‖ he said. ―You know, when everything‘s working the way it should and nothing hurts? You slip into that zone where you‘re skimming the ground, almost like you‘re running alongside the earth instead of on it.‖

―Slipstream,‖ I said. It just came out.

He nodded, his eyes serious. He wouldn‘t be the kind to laugh even if he thought I was an idiot, I knew that. ―That‘s right. Only real runners get that.‖ He paused. ―So . . . you interested in training again? I‘m the track and cross-country coach and, well, I could always use another pair of legs, especially varsity girls.‖

Then he ran a hand through his hair and let out a little laugh. ―Sorry. School hasn‘t even started and you‘re new and already I‘m trying to sell you on a sport. You‘d probably like to settle in before getting yourself weighed down with a million obligations. Come on, I‘ll walk you downstairs to the library just in case Harley‘s still lurking.‖

He waited as I checked my left palm where I‘d penned my locker combination that morning. Unfortunately, between the coffee and washing up, the writing was faded and blurred, and I messed up the combination twice. Mr. Anderson waited a beat then said,

―You have to twirl it twice clockwise to reset the mechanism and . . . Here, let me.‖ He reached past. ―What‘s the combination?‖

I told him. This close, he smelled of sunlight, pine needles, and Dove soap. He spun the knob right, then left, then once around clockwise, and then stopped on the last number before giving the handle a yank. The locker clanked open.

―Thanks.‖ After I‘d stowed my stuff, we walked back down the hall, past his classroom. That lush music was still playing, and I said, ―That‘s really nice. I‘ve heard it before—in a movie.‖ I thought a second. ― Blume in Love, that last scene where they‘re in St. Mark‘s square.‖

―Yeah?‖ Cocking his head, he closed his eyes, listened a moment, said, ―You know, now that you mention it . . . that‘s right. But George Segal?‖ He gave me a curious look.

―He‘s not even my generation. How do you know the movie?‖

If there‘s one thing you have plenty of time for on a psych ward, it‘s watching DVDs. But I couldn‘t say that, so I just shrugged. ―I like movies. So, what‘s the music?‖

―It‘s from an opera, Tristan and Isolde. Wagner was kind of a Nazi, but I love his music. Like the helicopter scene in Apocalypse Now? That‘s Wagner, too.‖

―Really?‖

―Mmm-hmmm. ‗Ride of the Valkyries.‘ Robert Duvall is . . .‖ And Mr. Anderson kept that up all the way down the stairs, this steady patter about opera and films with classical music scores. 2001 even I knew, but Alien?

Harley was nowhere to be seen. As we neared the library, Mr. Anderson said, ―So where do you live that you have to come in so early?‖

―Lakeside.‖

His eyebrows lifted. ―Yeah? We‘re practically neighbors. I live maybe twenty miles west, a little past Plymouth in the Kettle Moraine. Why are you going to school here?‖ He listened as I gave him the SparkNotes version of my rehearsed speech: We live up north, only my mom’s bookstore is down here and Turing is such a great school, so blah, blah, blah.

―Which bookstore?‖ he asked.

―MacAllister‘s.‖

―Really? Cool. My wife‘s a big reader.‖

―Oh.‖ That he had a wife was like a pinprick. I felt myself deflate, which was completely stupid. Of course, he was married; he was gorgeous. Was he wearing a ring?

No, I didn‘t think so, but no way in hell I was going to look, not then. Not ever. Jesus, how many different ways can you spell loser? ―What does she like to read?‖

―Romance, mainly, and literary fiction. She likes someone locall. . . uhm . . .

Simmons, I think.‖

―Meryl? She‘s a really good friend of ours. My mom‘s known her since they were kids. Mom usually has a big writers‘ party the last weekend in September and Meryl comes down from her farm up north to, you know, sign books and stuff.‖

―Seriously? My wife will be impressed.‖

―Maybe I can get her an autographed book. Or Mom can invite you to the party.‖ I was babbling. What did I care if his wife had a signed copy of Meryl‘s latest? As we got to the library doors—open, mercifully, and the lights were on—I finished, lamely, ―For the reading, I mean.‖

―Sure, that would be nice,‖ he said, but his eyes were already dropping to his watch and I could tell his mind was leapfrogging ahead to the rest of his day. ―Well, you‘ll be okay now. See you eighth period, Ms. Lord.‖

The librarian was half asleep and sucking from a gallon coffee mug. She just gave me a vague wave and grunted that I could sit anywhere I liked. I prowled until I spotted a solitary desk snugged beneath a window at the end of a stack. I knew as soon as I saw it that this was the perfect spot: books to my right and a window on the world to my left.