Page 15 of Stay Close
“Someone must have recognized you as we came in.” He pulls me to my feet. “It looks like we’ve got a student protest.”
Professor Zwist rolls her eyes. “I swear some of them are majoring in it.” She lifts an apologetic hand. “Arnhuis students are passionate about conservation. I’ll call campus security,” she says as Lucas dips me out of the room.
“Stay close,” Lucas reminds me, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. He holds me behind him, one hand around my wrist. “They cut off the exits.”
I peek over his shoulder to see a dense knot of young people congregating at the far end of the hall, rows of desks and lamps between us. At first, it doesn’t look like much of anything—just slouchy students tapping on their phones—but they keep looking our way.
“Another group is covering the back doors, and there are scouts ranging through the stacks,” he murmurs.
What are they teaching in this school? Tactics of guerilla warfare? Even as my anxiety rises, I recognize that for Lucas, this is all just information. I can’t detect a sliver of panic in his tone.
“I’m not famous,” I insist.
He must hear the worry in my voice because a low laugh rolls through his chest. I can feel it because I’ve plastered myself against his back. “You’ve got to stop saying that.”
He’ll keep me safe, I think, repeating the phrase in my mind. Whatever happens, whatever lemon pie gauntlet I have to run to get out of here, he’ll keep me safe.
“Now,” he commands, walking forward, maintaining a good speed and trajectory. He hopes to crash through them before they’ve thought out a plan of attack. Ten more seconds.
A movement comes from our left. “We’re being intercepted,” he says, breaking right, grabbing my hand and dashing into the stacks.
As soon as we abandon any pretense of normalcy, noise erupts from the students, ringing through the hall, chasing us down the curving alleyways. “Leave Sove to the Sea! Leave Sove to the sea!”
I crouch, running in his wake, the bag of books dragging against my arm. I can hear the students behind us, noisy as elephants crashing through the bush. I’m going to miss this coat when they destroy it. “It’s just pie.” I grit out the words.
He drags me up a spiral staircase, urging me onward even when my feet slither off the treads. “We can’t assume it’s pie. They’ve got cameras, and they outnumber us. I’m not going to let them put you on the internet. Not again.”
My breathing becomes more labored, and we arrive at a dead end. “Lucas,” I whisper, but he propels me down another row of books, wedging us into a tight alcove right up against the exterior wall. The light is dim here, seeping with watery perseverance through the stained-glass windows, the reflections against his skin rippling in reds and blues as we catch our breath.
He gathers me in, dropping the bag of books on our feet, scooping my coat out of the aisleway. I don’t need to be told to be quiet, and as I hear the thunder of footsteps and the coordinated shouts, my breathing feels as loud.
He tucks my head against his chest. “Shhh.”
Will they drag us out of here? How long will the video be? How far will it reach? How humiliating? Knickerbocker, Gouss & Astor wouldn’t let themselves get trapped like this. I’ve never seen them on a screen without an accompanying podiumand microphone or a swagger down some courthouse steps as a journalist attempts to keep pace.
I look up, meeting Lucas’s eyes, and time stills. The deafening noise recedes. He dips his head and whispers against my ear, “They don’t know we’re here. We’ll wait them out.” His hands settle on my waist. I’m distracted by his cologne, his proximity, and the solid wall of muscle a fraction of an inch from my cheek.
For the next hour, the noise comes in waves as students search through the stacks. I hold my breath. Lucas reassures me with a glance.It’s going to be okay. I’ve got this.
Campus police arrive, driving a few of the students from the library. Someone shouts in Sondish, and there seems to be a conference, after which most of the students depart, their place in a flash mob of ecological protestors surrendered, I assume, for the mundane realities of classes and hang-outs.
My toes tingle, and I shift. So much for a relaxing day off. I roll my neck while Lucas leans down again. Our lips brush and we freeze. His jaw—I can’t look any higher—works.
“Do you have something I can throw?” he asks, clearing his throat. “A pen, anything that will make a noise?”
I shift in his arms, awkwardly brushing his chest, and reach into my pocket, already knowing what I’m going to find. “Will this do?” I raise a lipstick between us.
He lifts a hand but I shake my head. “Give me a second.”
It’s just a lipstick. I know it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t allowed to let any of this stuff matter from the time I got my first trainingbra. Smart girls—the kind of girl I was—didn’t need these kinds of things to achieve big dreams. But then, eventually, I looked up from my books and realized that a 14-year-old Pixy influencer had a better idea of how to present herself professionally than I did.
I’ve come to appreciate what an encompassing hobby looking good on a regular basis is for the people who practice it. None of it comes naturally, but I know how to learn new things. I have spreadsheets and ThumTac boards full of ideas.
He reaches for the lipstick, but with shaking hands, I uncap it, look sadly on the barely used tube, and apply a final swipe. As I press and roll my lips together, I make a promise. I’m never coming back to Sondmark. Never, ever.
I look up and place it in his palm. He mimes the action.I’ll throw it in that direction, we’ll run in the other direction.I nod, and he kisses the gold tube for luck, stepping into the row. Waiting for a break in the chant, he chucks it with an overhand throw, lobbing the small missile across the library.
We’re lucky. It clatters against a metal grating and drops, step by step, the sound of it ringing through the hall.
