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I unlocked the Camry and pulled open the driver’s-side door, waiting until he’d settled into the passenger seat before saying, “What doesthatmean? If you need more time before we head out, just say so. Or I can make the trip myself—it’s not like Ineedyou to come.”
He laughed a little. “It’s something my dad says. If you ask if he’s ready, no matter what, he’ll answer,As I’ll ever be. I didn’t even realize it came out of my mouth.”
“Oh.”
My dad had had those, too. Little sayings or punch lines he used in certain situations—I guessed there was a reason dad jokes were a thing. Like if you said you were hungry, he’d say, “Hi, Hungry, I’m John,” or if you said you were going to jump on the computer he’d say, “Please, don’t jump.” When I thought of my dad, it was as a quiet, serious man, prone to bouts of rage, but he’d actually had a pretty dry sense of humor. He could be silly,too. If he found a frog in the house—and it was Florida, frogs were always getting into the house somehow—he’d capture it in a glass and release it outside. “If you love something, let it go,” he’d say with exaggerated somberness. “Only I hope you don’t come back to us, my frog friend, because all that’s here for you is toilet water.”
“I’m glad you asked me to come with you to the library,” Sam said now. “I’ll return these early for once.”
“Yeah, I need to renew mine.” Which I could’ve easily done online, but I hoped he wouldn’t point that out.
“Do you mind?” Sam asked instead, his hand hovering over my tote bag, and I shook my head. He pulled out the Sunrise Slayer’s daughter’s book, flipping it over to read the back.
I braced myself for the inevitable comment on how dark the subject matter was, how fucked up it would be to find out your dad was a serial killer. But Sam just made an ambiguous sound in the back of his throat, leaving the book on his lap as he looked out the window.
“Your dissertation is about the relationship between author and subject in true crime,” Sam said finally. “Is that right?”
“In a nutshell.”
“So why this subject for you? What’s your relationship to it?” His voice was curious, not accusatory, but I still felt an immediate resistance to the questions. It was a knee-jerk reaction after a lifetime of being an incredibly private person. Sam must’ve seen some of that cross my face, because he hastened to add, “Sorry. If that’s something you don’t want to talk about, you don’t have to.”
“No,” I said, the word coming out slow, like I was stillconsidering it. “It’s okay. It’s a fair question. They’ll probably ask it at my defense.”
“That’s where you present your work in front of your professors?”
“My committee, yeah,” I said. This had been my entire world for so long, sometimes it was hard to remember what parts of it would be known by people outside of academia, and which esoteric details would be lost without explanation. “Basically, that’s my main advisor and three other professors. I present all my research in front of them and anyone else who wants to attend, and anyone in the audience can ask me questions. Then the audience leaves and it’s just me and the committee, and they can ask me anything they want—not just about my dissertation, but about anything I’ve studied the last five and a half years.”
“Whoa. That sounds intense.”
“A couple years ago, a guy started crying because they asked him all this stuff about the French Revolution and he’d taken one class on French literature his second year. I think that professor was being a dick, though—usually they’re not trying to trick you. At least, I hope not.”
Sam was running one finger along the pages of the book, the soft rustling sound oddly soothing. “So then after that you’re a doctor?”
“Technically, not until after graduation,” I said. “But the defense is a bigger milestone for sure. Once you pass it, you mostly only have logistical stuff to worry about like the final formatting and making sure you’re all paid up on any parking fines.”
Last year, I’d attended as many defenses as I could, trying toget an idea of what mine might look like. I’d been intimidated by the comprehensive exams I had to take a couple years ago, but I was actually looking forward to my defense. It was nerve-wracking, the idea of all this time and effort and work culminating in two hours of sink or swim, but I loved talking about true crime and how its genre conventions had shifted over the last century. I felt ready.
In fact, if I could skip to that part without having to actually finish the dissertation itself...
I realized I’d never answered Sam’s original question about why I was drawn to the subject, but I also didn’t have a satisfying hard-boiled answer. I switched on the radio to the local alternative station, turning the volume down so we could still easily talk. “What made you become a music teacher?”
“My grandmother taught piano,” Sam said. “She gave all us kids lessons, but I was the only one who stuck with it. And then I did orchestra in middle school, playing the violin, before switching to band in high school as a drummer. Music was the most constant thing in my life, you know? Grades were good, grades were bad, I had friends, I didn’t have friends, it didn’t matter. I always had music.”
I snuck a glance at him. He’d stopped ruffling the book’s pages but was gripping it so tight his knuckles were white. I liked the way he got when he talked about music, how much he obviously cared.
“Hard to believe you ever lacked for friends,” I said. If Sam the kid was anything like Sam the adult, it was difficult to imagine anyone not getting along with him.
“In sixth grade, I still woreveryshort shorts,” he said. “Mymom set out all my outfits for me on my bed every morning. I was oblivious. My favorite T-shirt was from theTitanicmuseum.”
I bit back a smile. “In third grade, I told the whole class I was dead.”
“So you were a ghost? Or was it more aWeekend at Bernie’ssituation?”
“I don’t even remember. I just wanted kids to leave me alone.”
The spot I’d parked in last time I came to the library was open, but I parked a few spaces down, because I had random bursts of superstition that made me believe in bad luck. Once I’d been wearing a new skirt on the day I got into a minor fender bender, and I’d never worn the skirt again.
“Your lights are off?” Sam said, apparently thinking about the last time we’d been here, too.
