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I’ve been working with the school’s library system for the past two years, having gotten the job to earn my own money. It was a solution to a problem—or a way to hide my hobby, as my father calls it.
My parents’ emphasis on academics is a bit overbearing, and to say they aren’t happy about my studies is an understatement. They only acquiesced to my major in art history once I assured them that the research could be of value to my family’s prominent advertising company in the future, which according to my mother is barely more admirable than slaving away with the vagrant trash in the art world. However, she let it be known that she wouldn’t be as lenient when it came to me selecting a focus for my master’s degree. My entire family has an MBA from an Ivy League school. Yale is the preference, and the same is expected of me.
However, art is my life and my official minor while at the university. I bleed my struggles onto the canvas, into my sculptures, and through my drawings. I create compulsively. It’s my therapy and my way to make all the complexities right within my mind.
My family does not embrace my form of creativity.
They shun it.
Opening the door to the old library building, I proceed down the hall and hook a left at the bust of Edward Charles Howard—the first noted chemical engineer, as shown on the placard—heading straight to the front desk. I drop my bag in what I glean to be the staff section and then venture to the check-out station to get started.
The library position is simple enough, cataloging items and assisting students to find the information they need for various research projects. Last year, I was assigned to the main library, and I started this quarter there as well, but I have been transferred to the engineering library today. Apparently, they are short-staffed. The change of pace in the smaller building should be nice in comparison to the workload from the never-ending stacks at the main library.
Approaching the desk, I wait patiently for the gentleman attending the counter to finish answering the question from a fellow student. Once the redhead, who appears to be a freshman, leaves toward the area directed, I close the gap to introduce myself.
“Hi,” I say as he focuses on the screen. “I’m EJ. I was just transferred here from the main—”
“The main what?” he asks, clacking away at the keyboard.
“The main library. I’m scheduled to work tonight, and it’s my first time here. Am I supposed to check in with you?”
“Likely.” He hits a few keys and moves the mouse. “Hang on. Let me check something.”
I lean my hip against the wooden counter while he finishes his investigation.
“Found you,” he announces. “Yep. You’re in the system. I must have missed the notice while helping a student.” He clicks the mouse. “Evelyn Jane Cunning. Goes by EJ. Art history major. Fine arts minor. Senior. Off-campus living. Three-point-nine GPA. Honor student.”
“That’s me.”
“Great.” He swivels around in the chair, peering up at me.
Total geek chicis the first thing that comes to mind as I evaluate his plain khakis and comic book character T-shirt, the hipster-vintage kind. Honey-brown hair tops his handsomely stubbled face framed in a pair of Buddy Holly–type glasses. Behind the lenses, his dark blue eyes give me a once-over, up and down.
“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.
