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1
HANNAH
These slow-as-hellsorority girls need to get out of my way before I mow them down. If you want to stop and chat with your friends, go ahead, but not in the middle of the walking path. I have to sidestep into the grass to dodge around their giggling group. Once clear of them, I push my legs to the highest level of speed that can still be considered walking.
I’m going to be late.
Why did my professor think it was okay to lecture five minutes past the end of class? Doesn’t he know some of us have places to be?
My heavy backpack smacks against my spine as I power-walk across campus.
If I wasn’t in such a rush, I might take a moment to enjoy the warm spring day. The groundhog was wrong because it’s only mid-March, and the temperature is kissing upper sixties. I actually took the extra five minutes needed in the shower to shave my legs this morning, so I could pull out a set of my favorite tweed shorts. The sun soaks deep into my skin, baking my bones.
This is one of the reasons I decided to come South for college. Not that Virginia is tropical or anything, but the winters run away sooner than in the frozen hell of Rochester. It is most definitelynotshorts weather there right now. Mom is probably digging her car out of a foot of snow at this exact moment.
So, normally, I would be strolling along, breathing in the thick, humid air carrying the sweet scent of newly blooming flowers and the pungent tang of freshly spread mulch. I’d smile up at the sky, where wisps of clouds did little to block out the great expanse of rich blue.
But it’s Tuesday afternoon, which means there’s no time for dawdling.
The library looms up tall before me, built in an almost Gothic style with its heavy gray bricks and rounded corners. Inside though, it’s a lot like other university libraries. Computer stations everywhere, colorful furniture, front desk staffed with helpful student workers.
I blow past them. Well into my second year here, I know exactly where I’m headed.
The elevator decides to work in slow motion, rudely ignoring my insistent pressing of the Door Close button. Finally, the silver doors slide shut, and I ascend at a crawl.
“Come on. Come on,” I mutter to myself, a silent prayer that I’m not too late.
My shoulders ache from the weight of my backpack, a physical reminder of all the homework I need to get done before my eight a.m. class tomorrow. Each semester, the workload grows heavier, as if the professors enjoy the idea of me struggling to maintain my academic scholarship.
I haven’t let them break me—yet. All I need is a quiet, comfortable place to focus. Give me that, and I’ll scale the mountain of work like the badass I am.
A chime sounds, and the doors inch open. I don’t wait for them to finish before shoving through and jogging forward, no one around to judge me. At least, that’s what I hope.
But when I turn the corner, I find all my speedy efforts were in vain.
Across the way, sitting in a casual slouch like he owns the place, is my nemesis. The sight of him there—his long fingers fiddling with a lock of his disheveled brown hair; his disinterested, round eyes tripping over the words in the textbook propped in his lap—brings on a wave of anger that slides from my now-hot cheeks down to my purple-painted toes.
The gall of him to show up here again and take what should be mine.
The Chair.
Search this entire library, the whole campus even, and no study spot will compare to The Chair. It’s an old leather piece with a wide, single cushion and low, rounded armrests. So many options exist for sitting in it. All of them perfect in their own way. Study late into the night, and you’ll never get an achy back or sore neck because you can shift and turn and lounge in all positions.
But this study spot does not dominate all others based on The Chair alone. The placement also needs to be taken into account. With the seat pushed up against a wide window, the sitter can unlatch a section to enjoy a refreshing breeze. The clear panes of glass let in plenty of natural sunlight, making it easy to read over notes during the day. But don’t worry if the sun sets because a tall lamp stands just behind The Chair. Pull its little dangling chain, and the perfect amount of light spills out from under the shade.
Anxious about where to place all your excess books? Don’t let that bother you another minute. Sitting at the exact right distance in front of The Chair is a heavy wooden coffee table, its surface happy to support bags, books, and snacks.
And apparently, feet, which my nemesis has propped up at the moment.
With him looking so cozy, my guess is, he won’t be packing up anytime soon. Still, I don’t want to miss my chance if he does. So, I settle for a spot at a table that’s within eyeline of The Chair.
Sitting down on the wooden seat is like expecting to get handed an ice cream cone but instead realizing you’re clutching a head of raw broccoli.
I can feel the disappointed grimace twisting my lips. So much for studying in comfort.
As my butt complains, I shoot another withering glare at my nemesis. That’s how I refer to him in my head—partly because he is, but also largely because I don’t know his actual name.
At the very end of my freshman year, I discovered The Chair. Coming back in the fall, I decided to take up residence in the newfound study haven as often as possible.
