“Goodnight. Thanks for walking me home.”
I catch his wave before I run up the steps to my dorm.
CHAPTER SIX
Believe it or not,I didn’t meet Zander at a party, or even in a bar. I met him in Survey of American Literature. I was a freshman, chomping at the bit to read and analyze. He was a junior, begrudgingly knocking out a required course. On the first day of class, he walked through the doorway, scanned the room, and plopped down right next to me. I thought he was gorgeous. Lean and athletic, bright blue eyes and sun-streaked hair. And his smile? I mean, come on, the guy has dimples. I thought to myself,he knows he’s hot. He’ll never look twice at me.
But he did. He sat beside me every class and talked to me. Only two weeks in, he invited me to a party at Omega Chi. I went with Liv and some other girls, figuring it was a casual group kind of thing, but Zander stayed with me the whole night. When it was time for me to leave, he kissed me up against some random SUV and asked me out to dinner.
It soon became apparent that Zander was no literary genius. He barely scraped out a C in American lit. But by then I was so infatuated with him I didn’t care. He had other gifts: charm, quick-thinking, people skills, and a popularity that knew no bounds.
So if Zander is the type of guy I’m used to hanging out with, then why am I having such a good time in the library with quiet, scholarly Leo? We’re not doing much—reading mostly, and occasionally talking. But it’s so peaceful. Leo doesn’t constantly demand my attention, even though I can’t keep from giving it to him. Sometimes on the sly.
We’re sitting on the floor, his back to the medieval history shelf and mine against the Renaissance shelf opposite him. Both of us have our legs stretched out, his feet in line with my hips, but mine only reaching his thighs. While he reads, he nibbles the inside of his bottom lip, and every now and then he gets up to wander the stacks and dig up more books.
When he returns from his fourth foray, I attempt a look of disapproval. But I have a feeling I’m smiling instead.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You told me I’m supposed to keep you on task.”
“Oh, right. I did say that.” He sits back down, cross-legged, beside me. “But I want to see what other people have to say about Pearl.” He shows me his new pet book,Critical Essays on The Scarlet Letter. “There’s an entire section in here on her.”
I lean in to browse the Table of Contents with him. I had to readThe Scarlet Letterin high school and I’m pretty sure I was the only one in my class who liked it. Years later, I still distinctly remember Hester Prynne’s young daughter, Pearl. Characters who are outliers always leave a deep impression on me.
Leo turns to an essay entitled, “Pearl: Devil, Spirit, or Fae?”
I ask, “Which do you think she is?”
“I don’t know yet. But I don’t think she’s purely human.”
I remember thinking that myself. “I’m going with fae.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because that’s what she seems like to me. It’s been a while since I’ve read it, but the main thing I remember is her dancing around like a little faerie and being, you know, unruly.” I frown. “Of course, the Puritans would think anyone having fun was unruly.”
Leo chuckles. “I guess that’s why most critics say she’s a devil.” He skims a few lines. “But I agree. She’s not a child of Heaven, is she? Maybe that’s why she’s fae. Because she’s a child of nature, not of God.”
“Is that what faeries are?”
“Depends on who you ask. But in most folklore, they’re closely tied to nature. Dryads, kelpies, elves, gnomes…”
“I thought faeries were just the little things with wings.”
“Those are pixies. They’re just one type of faerie.”
“You know an awful lot about them.” I’m a little giddy, I think, sitting this close to him.
He smiles shyly and looks down. “Yeah, well, I read and traveled around a lot while I was at Oxford.” He clears his throat. “So, I haven’t even asked you what you’re reading.”
“Oh.Anne of Green Gables.”
He holds out a hand and I give him the book so he can read the back cover. When he finishes, he turns those dark brown eyes to me. “Are you enjoying it?”
“I love it. Anne’s so easy to relate to. Here, listen to this—” I take the book back and flip through the highlighted pages until I find the passage I marked with a star. Setting the scene, I tell him, “Marilla—she’s the woman who adopted Anne—wants her to pray every night before bed. You know, in the proper way. But listen to what Anne says to her.”
I draw the book closer in order to read aloud. “‘Why must I kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I’d look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d justfeela prayer.’”
