Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Have you been to the Talbot Library yet?” Amelia asks as the teaching assistant walks the aisle handing out the syllabus.
“No, not yet. I heard it’s extraordinary.”
The Talbot Library remains one of my primary motivations for attending Pembridge. Since I was little, I’ve adored libraries. My babysitters as a kid, who stayed with me when Dad was touring, would take me to reading camps and book fairs at the local public library. Later, I’d take sightseeing trips just for an especially unusual or historic one, begging my dad for detours on trips together to investigate another library I’d read about online. The one here at Pembridge, while architecturally and aesthetically typical of its era, is notable for its collections in art, history, and primary sources.
“There’s a nook on the third floor, near the entrance to the special collections wing. It gets great light,” Amelia tells me, and I make a mental note of it.
She and I exchange phone numbers at the end of class, after which I find a bench in the concrete courtyard to sit and call my dad. I know if he doesn’t get regular updates, there isn’t much that will stop him from getting on a plane and showing up at my front door.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“How’s the first day going?”
“Good. I just sent you a picture of the building. It’s incredible up close. Built in 1854 and dedicated by Prince Albert.”
“I ever tell you about the time I played a gig at Royal Albert Hall? Our guys showed up to load in the same day another crew was loading out, so there’s a major traffic jam at the loading dock. I’m on the bus because we’ve got a short turnaround and need to get a sound check in before lunch, and I see our roadie Rusty outside looking like he’s about to kick the hell out of some driver.”
My life is measured not in years but in my father’s anecdotes. He’s got a story for every occasion. Once he gets going, there’s no interrupting the memory train.
“Anyway, I go inside to have a look around, and they’re telling me I can’t go to the stage because John Mayer’s out there. He’s got his guitar and he’s playing, getting some footage or something. But when Rusty gets up there to snatch the guitar out of Mayer’s hand and tell him to move along, turns out it isn’t him. Just some dude off the street with a thin, patchy beard who somehow snuck into the venue,” Dad finishes with a laugh.
“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for John Mayer impersonators,” I reply as my phone beeps in my ear.
It’s a text from Lee. He’s on campus and wants to meet up for lunch by the flower box building. Then he drops me a pin to his location. I study the screen—he’s a couple blocks from me.
I hop off the bench and walk and talk until I find Lee looking dapper in another vest and bow tie ensemble, a brown leather messenger bag slung across his chest.
“You finding your way around okay?” Dad is asking in my ear.
“Yep,” I answer, then mouth to Lee it’s my dad on the line.
Lee grins and waves at the phone in greeting.
“Lee says hi, by the way. We’re grabbing a bite before my next class.”
“You two going to have any classes together?”
“Not likely. She’s in her last year and majoring in biochemistry.”
Lee brushes his hand over his head to mime sweeping his hair back. “I rock a savage lab coat.”
I shush him for fear my father will hear him. Rolling his eyes, Lee animates locking his lips shut.
“Gotta run, Dad. Give you a call tomorrow.”
“Be careful,” he tells me as a matter of ritual. “Love you, kid.”
Lee links his arm through mine and guides me to an Egyptian café a few doors down. The owners are a young married couple who greet him with waves from the kitchen behind the counter. The three of them converse in Arabic, and I catch the word American as Lee nods toward me. Before I can reach for a menu from the stack on the counter, Lee waves my hand away and orders for me.
“Trust me,” he says as we take a seat at a table outside. “You’ll like it.”
“I’ll try just about anything.” And I’m starving. A pastry and some coffee hardly seem sufficient to tide me over for the morning after that walk to campus.
The girl at the register comes out with two glasses of water and our utensils. She also puts down a plate of flatbread with various ramekins of dips.
“Are they friends of yours?” I ask once she’s gone.
“Friends of the family, from back in the old neighborhood. This place got me through my first year at uni,” Lee says. “They gave me a job washing dishes and bussing tables, then line cook. Hager would be in late most nights roasting lamb for the next day. I’d pop over after the library closed at night, and she’d meet me around back with a plate to take home. Took care of me, being my first time living away from home.”