More Than Water Page 2

  “Welcome to Howard Library,” he continues. “I’m Foster. Things here should be pretty straightforward since you have worked over at the main library. It’s the same system but in a smaller space. If you have any questions, feel free to ask.”

  “Your name is Foster?” I question, unbelieving. “As in, the beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t sound Australian.”

  “I must have left my accent back at my apartment.” He turns back toward the monitor and clicks the mouse. “Along with my crocodile, koala, and kangaroo.”

  “Well, that makes all the sense in the world.”

  “Yes, deriving facts from absurd logic—that must be your artistic side.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “It’s a family name.”

  “Can I call you Fozzie?”

  “Can I call you Evelyn?”

  “Not if you want me to answer.”

  “It’s safe to say, the same goes for calling me Fozzie. I’m not a Muppet.”

  I laugh at that response, having not thought of The Muppets in years. Crossing my arms over my middle, I observe him as he returns to his work like I’m not right next to him.

  “So, what needs to be done?” I ask.

  “I was just sorting through a few hold requests for other branches that I began about an hour ago. If you’d like, you can start sorting through the book returns. The drop-off access is right behind you.”

  Twisting at the waist, I spot the return deposit. I open it up, pull out the books, stack them onto an adjacent cart, and then wheel it over to the monitor next to Foster. Logging into the system with my ID, I begin the process of manually checking in and organizing the materials to be returned to their proper places.

  After checking through about half of the returns in silence, I ask, “Is it always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “This…dead.”

  Foster scans the room. “Yeah. It’s Friday night, which is usually the quietest. I suggest bringing your homework for your next shift. You’ll likely have a lot of spare time.”

  “If it’s not busy, why do they need two people working?”

  “Safety reasons.”

  “So, I was sent over to babysit you?”

  “That’s an interesting way of putting it, but yes. It’s school policy.”

  I go back to my task—clicking away, entering, and organizing. When the rest of the pile is sorted, I wheel the cart around the desk, preparing to put the books back into their proper places.

  “So, what’s your story?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had access to my full bio at your fingertips. So, what about you? Give a little. Make it even.”

  Adjusting his position in the chair, Foster leans an elbow on the desk. “Foster Blake. Senior. Chemical engineering major, business minor. Four-point-oh average. Honor roll for every year in attendance. Chemistry scholarship. Howard Medal Award Winner, two years in a row. American Institute of Chemical Engineers member and student treasurer. Member of the American Chemical Society, Engineers Without Borders, and the Investment Club. I also play recreational soccer and golf and volunteer tutor once a month at an after-school program for middle-schoolers.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yeah, I had to drop a recreational ping-pong league to make sure I would have time to work on my thesis. Sometimes, we have to make sacrifices.”

  “I hope you know I was just kidding. You’ve got more action going on than a whore at a bachelor party. With a schedule like that, do you even have time for restroom breaks, or did you just opt for a catheter?”

  He pushes the bridge of his glasses up with his forefinger. “What days do you work?”

  “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights. Why?”

  “Same as me.”

  Foster focuses back on the monitor to continue his work. As he’s jotting down notes in a notebook, I quickly glance at the unfamiliar scrawl. The symbols are completely foreign, leading me to believe he’s no longer going through the request list. For all I know he could be translating an obscure nerdy creature language from some fantasy novel.

  “I’m going to take these books back to the shelves and familiarize myself with the library layout.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be here all night.”

  It’s about half an hour before closing time, and Foster wasn’t kidding about the pace of students on a Friday night. I’ve completed most of the assignments that I planned to address over the weekend, including a research for a paper on Picasso’s Black Period, which is grossly underrated. All that remains is my human study, and I don’t happen to travel with charcoal.

  A female student approaches the information desk while I’m flipping through a fashion magazine, and Foster is immersed in a book, probably on geek world domination.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the wooden surface.

  “Actually…” She flicks a glance toward Foster. “Um…Foster?”

  He closes his book and scratches the side of his head. “Hi, Maggie. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you could help me find some information on thermodynamics?” Maggie asks, her fingers twiddling with the ends of her ebony hair.

  “Have you already done a web search?”

  “A little, but there’s just a lot to go through. I don’t know where to start.”

  It’s a good thing she’s talking to him because I don’t know where to start either. I’d likely lead her toward the thermal underwear section at the mall.

  “Thermodynamics is a pretty wide topic,” Foster states, strumming his fingers. “I know the information can be a little overwhelming. Are you looking for anything specific?”

  “Not really. Just the basics for an economics paper I’m working on, and I need to learn a little more about the science behind the business.”

  “Sounds simple enough. There are a lot of books with the basic science business model information available, but we don’t generally keep many of them here. Let me take a look for you though.”

  Foster scoots forward to the monitor, bringing the screen to life, as Maggie bends over the desk, tilting her head toward his, focusing on the illuminated screen. She edges closer…and closer…and closer, pushing her breasts together with her upper arms, letting him know the girls are ready and waiting.

  Classic peacock move.

  Maggie is overtly interested in everything Foster Blake—so much so, I wonder if she would even comprehend science or business at this time. She’s like a puppy waiting for attention. He, on the other hand, is completely unfazed by her presence, which is weird since I sense her pheromones from over here.

  “It looks like we only have one in right now,” Foster states, grabbing a small pink square of paper and a pencil from the bin between our two stations. He scribbles down the information and hands the slip to Maggie’s reluctant hand. “Here you go.”

  She licks her bottom lip. “Do you think you could show me where it is? I’m not really familiar with this library.”

  “Sure.” Remaining in his seat, he points toward the bottom of the staircase. “Just take the steps to the top and make a left. The section you’re looking for is three rows down and on the right.”

  Maggie tightens her mouth, looks at the slip, and then peeks over her shoulder at the set of steps. “At the top of the steps?”

  “Yep. It’s all in numerical order. One, two, three…you get it.”

  “I’ll show you,” I offer, rising and rescuing the poor girl from the obvious idiotic moment that Foster is going through.

  “Um, thanks,” she says.

  I round the corner of the desk and take the slip from her to see what we’re looking for. “No problem. Right this way.”

  I lead Maggie up the staircase and down the aisle to the third row, just as Foster instructed. Together, we scan the numbers until finding the book she’s looking for. Pulling it out, I hand it to her waiting hand.

  “If you have a
ny other questions, feel free to ask,” I tell her.

  “Thanks.”

  Leaving her among the shelves of books where she pretends to view other volumes in the stacks, I descend back to the first floor and take a seat once again next to Foster where he’s lazily flipping through a science periodical from the shelves.

  He’s an enigma.

  He’s geeky in some ways, yet there’s something else. Maggie saw something. He definitely has some really strong and striking features underneath the obvious nerd thing. With his underlying subtleties—strong chin, good hair, bright eyes, defined lips, and firm hands that turn each page with dexterous fingers—I can see how a girl could be attracted to that. Along with his sinewy forearms leading up to firm biceps that—

  “Do you have X-ray vision?” he asks, startling me from my observations of him.

  “Maybe.” I shuffle through my bag, pulling out the first book my hand finds. Great. French Baroque Artists. Blech. So gaudy.

  “See anything you like?”

  “Not really.” I open to a random page. “You’re not exactly my type, so don’t even think—”

  “Don’t worry. I wasn’t.” He laughs. “You’re not really my type either.”

  “Is anyone your type? Or are you oblivious to all women?”

  “Huh?”

  I shut the book and lean forward. “Are you gay? Because, if you are, we need to talk about your sense of style. You do not fit the stereotype at all—unless you’re going for that whole superhero-at-night, geek-by-day thing.”

  “Um…” He places the magazine next to the keyboard and turns in the seat to face me. “I’m not gay.”

  “So, you’re just oblivious to all women?”

  “No. Why would you say that?”

  I gesture toward the steps. “You didn’t even notice that girl drooling all over you. She was totally into you. She was practically handing her boobs to your mouth.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” He adjusts his black-framed glasses. “I’m just not interested.”

  “Why not? She’s cute.”

  He leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

  “You thought she was cute, right?” I ask, pressing.

  “Sure. I’m just not interested.”

  “Yeah, you said that. But why? Is she some stalker psychopath from your past? C’mon, Fozzie…”

  He raises his brows, like a warning about the nickname. “Yes, Evelyn?”

  “Girl-talk with me. She’s a crazy loony who slept with your best friend or something, right?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “You’re way off. Maggie’s nice. She and I had a lab together last year, but I don’t need the hassle right now.”

  “Hassle?”

  “Yeah.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Dating. It’s a time suck, and I’m too busy for all of it.”

  “Too busy to go out with a girl? Man, Foster, you might want to think about dropping another extracurricular besides ping-pong, so you could have a social life. There’s more to life than studying.”

  “Hey, I have a social life, and I go out, but—”

  “But?” I drawl.

  “I’m too…occupied for dating right now.”

  “What is this? Some trendy asexual thing? You do masturbate, right?”

  “Do you know no boundaries in a conversation?”

  “Not really.”

  “Fine.” He sighs and then scratches the back of his head. “Since we’re going to be working together for who-knows-how-long, let’s just get this out of the way. I don’t date because you girls are complicated.”

  “How could taking a girl to dinner be complicated? It’s ordering food and then consuming it. Or do engineers do it differently?”

  He squints. “We eat the same, and it’s not just dinner. There’s texting and phone calls and meeting up with each other for meals and defending yourself if you talk to other girls and all that bullshit about love and feelings you girls throw our way. Not to mention, every girl, in the back of her mind, is always thinking about marriage.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s my experience, and I don’t have time for that kind of commitment or the emotional roller coaster right now.”

  “Ah,” I singsong, “I get it. She dumped you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your ex-girlfriend. Don’t worry. I understand. I just had a bad breakup, too. Stupid prickwad was screwing someone else. He couldn’t handle all of my awesomeness anymore.”

  “Or maybe it was your colorful personality?” he says sarcastically.

  “Again, my awesomeness.”

  DEAR E,

  I HOPE THAT THE MIDWEST AND SCHOOL ARE TREATING YOU WELL. YOUR OLD MAN MISSES YOU DEARLY, AND I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AT THANKSGIVING IN A FEW WEEKS. DON’T FORGET TO BOOK YOUR FLIGHT. LET US KNOW IF YOU NEED ANY HELP WITH THE APPLICATIONS. WE ARE JUST A PHONE CALL AWAY. YOUR SISTER, BARBARA, AND HER HUSBAND SEND THEIR LOVE. SO DO YOUR MOTHER AND I. TELL CHANDRA WE SAID HELLO.

  LOVE ALWAYS,

  YOUR FATHER

  Sipping on a cup of coffee at the breakfast bar, I sift through the package that arrived from my family’s New York home yesterday. It’s filled with a stack of applications to four Ivy League universities even though I could have easily filled them out online. I’m sure the hard copies were my parents’ way of forcing my hand even more. Much of the basic information has already been filled in, including my name, address, previous schooling, and other data that qualify me as a human being. All that’s left for me to do is write the appropriate essays and request my transcripts to be sent to each place of higher learning.

  I would consider not filling them out at all since I don’t see earning an MBA in my future, but the personal note from my father has me feeling a guilt-ridden sense of duty, especially since he was the one who had backed my case to attend the school I’m at now for my undergraduate degree. It doesn’t help that Barbara, my older and only sister, set such a perfect daughter example—graduating at the top of her class, being accepted to Columbia, and receiving an MBA from Yale. She went to work for my father right after graduation and recently married a fellow employee, a rising star, over the summer.

  She’s a show-off and an overachiever, which makes trailblazing my own path even more difficult. If only she had screwed up one thing in her life, my life would be simpler.

  Pulling out the first application, I read the requirements for the graduate program and make notes on a small notepad. Deadlines are approaching fast, and I don’t want to miss them because I’d never hear the end of it. My mother would nag the hell out of me for every remaining second of my life. Being responsible—or at least at a level that is acceptable by my parents—is my only saving grace right now. All my life, my mother has expressed the importance of outer presences, so I do my best to appear to be the fine young lady my parents desire. I play their game right back at them. The distance helps, too.

  “Morning,” Chandra says, her dark ponytail swinging behind her, as she enters the chilly kitchen. She zips up her hoodie and goes straight for the French press, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Hey, there.” I smile briefly. “Morning.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Looking at applications.” I pile them back together and shove the papers into the large envelope.

  “For?”

  “Grad school. My father sent them.”

  “Ah,” she says, understanding. She takes a long sip of savory caffeine before moaning heavily.

  “That good?”

  “So good. Like liquid pleasure.”

  I tighten my lips. “I think I’ll leave that one alone. You enjoy your liquid pleasure.”

  “I sure will.” She leans a hip against the counter. “So, what’s on tap for you today—besides the evil applications?”

  “It’s Wednesday.” I wrap my recently touched up platinum locks into a makeshift bun. “Photography at ten, and then I plan
on spending much of the afternoon in the studio until I meet with my advisor at four to chat about my senior project.”

  “How’s your project coming along so far?”

  “It’s pretty easy really. It’s just a lot of writing and citing my work. Right now, I’m ahead of schedule for turning it in.” I rise from my seat and place my empty cereal bowl in the sink. “How about you? Any big plans?”

  “Today is an all-day studio day, and tonight”—she smiles—“Jeremy is taking me out to see a play and then to dinner.”

  “Oh, sounds fancy.”

  “It should be,” Jeremy says as he enters our small kitchen, surprising me. “Everyone has been raving about the restaurant and the show.”

  Chandra and Jeremy have been dating for a few weeks. She’s been extremely optimistic about the world in general since spending more time with him. If I’m being honest, it’s kind of obnoxious. I’m completely happy for her, and I want her to be happy as well. But what is it about women and new relationships? We all turn into delirious little girls who blow bubbles and skip from place to place.

  “Morning, EJ,” Jeremy continues as he sidles up to Chandra and slips a hand onto her lower back. He places his lips near my roommate’s ear. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll call you later.”

  “Looking forward to it,” she remarks.

  I might have just thrown up in my mouth a little from all the sweetness in the air.

  Jeremy kisses her on the cheek, and then he leaves out the door. I load my dish into the dishwasher and then lazily sip the rest of my coffee while Chandra prepares her own breakfast.

  “So, he’s sleeping over now?” I ask, placing my mug on the counter.

  “Yeah.” She closes the refrigerator. “I’m sorry. I should have asked if it was okay first.”

  “Why?” I chuckle. “Do you need a chaperone in the bedroom?”

  “No.” She guffaws. “Because this is your place, too.”

  “We’ve lived together for three years. I’ve had guys stay the night before, and so have you. You don’t need my permission. Why would you even think that you needed to ask?”