Page 23 of The Black Table
He nods, and taps a a sign in front of the register. “Got an answer? No one’s gotten it yet. Fabulous prizes are on the line.”
I look down, to whereTRIVIA QUESTION OF THE DAYis chalked on a small board.
What book of the Bible is included in the Catholic Vulgate, Dead Sea Scrolls, and Septuagint, but NOT the Masoretic texts or Protestant Bible?
Dear God. Obscure much? Even for a coffee shop located in a divinity school, that’s a deep cut.
“Any guesses?” He hums theJeopardytheme song, and points a little lower on the chalkboard. “There’s even a hint.”
So there is:Hint: It contains the verse “It is good to guard the secret of a king, but glorious to reveal the works of God.”
Wait. I might actually know this. I screw up my face in concentration, rack my brain, to the term paper I wrote for Theology in junior year…
“Tobit,” I say. “The book of Tobit. Is that right?”
“Hell yeah!” The barista offers me a high five, which I awkwardly return. “Congratulations. You’ve won our fabulous prize.”
He hands it to me: a cake pop. On a stick. Decorated like…a unicorn.
“Wow,” I say. “Um…thanks. I guess I’ll…” I have no interest in eating this, but it seems rude to refuse. “…take it to go.”
He grins. “You got it.”
Coffee procured and cake pop in a tiny brown bag, I find an armchair and I sip my drink as slowly as possible. With nothing else handy, I read my French poetry anthology to kill time, until people have gradually trickled out and the staff is starting to sweep up.
Finally, at 10 p.m., I give in and head back.
Broceliande is mostly quiet, with just the occasional snatch of music and light seeping out from a closed door, a random peal of laughter and chatter as I scale the staircases, one, two, three. When I reach 326, though, the room seems dark, and I twist my key, eagerly anticipating my faceplant into my bed and the bliss of being alone.
But I’mnotalone.
“Christ!”
Morgan’s sitting at her desk, the overhead lights off and just a makeup mirror illuminating the space. She’s dressed entirely differently than I’ve seen her before: a glittering, one-shouldered black top with a sleeve that billows to her wrist and a miniskirtthat’s dark and viscous-looking as an oil slick. Not a quiet night in, I suppose.
She presses a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say.Just…living here, I think.As I’ve been assigned. I shrug my bag onto the bed and slowly settle next to it, gritting my teeth against the frustration ofnotbeing alone.
A flick of an apologetic smile and Morgan resumes her mascara-swiping. I preoccupy myself with taking everything out of my bag: textbooks, notebook, scarf, the paper bag with the stupid little cake pop. With that accomplished, there’s nothing really for me to do but study my hands and avoid staring at Morgan.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t help but notice. Do you have beef with Elena Shalott?”
I blink, give my head a little shake.
“What?” I frown. “I mean…no. I don’t even know her.”
“But she doesn’t likeyou,” Morgan presses. She’s turned around in her seat now, makeup abandoned, her eyes trained on me like she’s working something out.
“I…guess not,” I say. “We had French together this morning.” I consider, for a half-second, going into more depth, the group discussion and Lanz and her glaringly obvious crush on the guy, but I think better of it. Veering too near to gossip that I don’t want to get myself entangled in. The whole point of college is to focus on school, not popularity contests. I don’t need that here.
“Hmm.” Morgan presses her lips together. “Interesting.” But she nods, like she’s approving of the state of things.
The back of my neck prickles. “How so?”
“Oh, just…” She gives a dismissive wave. “Kind of an…enemy of my enemy thing, let’s just say.” She tips her head, and flicks her gaze just briefly over my sad little collection of bag contents, before going back to her mirror.
An impulse takes over me. My hand grabs the folded paper bag, holds it out to her. “Do you want this?”
