15. Petra
PETRA
If you ask most people at St. Anselm Hall, “Where can I find Petra Valentine?” they’ll reply, “Who?”
And when you describe me to them, the handful who might finally recognize me would probably say something along the lines of “Oh, that weird goth chick? Check the library, I guess.”
All this is to say that when I’m not sitting through endless lectures on logistics and supply chain management (“practical” classes mandated by my parents) or stealing away to meet popular playboys in the gardener’s shed, I can be found browsing the shelves of the library.
Like any posh school worth its (old) money, St. Anselm Hall has an exquisitely laid out colosseum of books.
Standing tall to the north of campus, it’s a multi-columned structure built along Art Deco lines.
Inside, you will find shelves of leatherbound first editions as well as the newest texts on almost all subjects.
Antique sconce lighting is interspersed with LED-lined wall paneling to create the optimum visibility and reading conditions.
The scent of old books and polished mahogany fills the air—a welcome respite from the stuffy classroom I have just left behind. Walking down the numbered rows, I glide my fingers along the spines of the books and feel rooted, sure of my steps and thoughts.
But even in this safe space, troubling thoughts trail me. While walking to the far corner of the second floor where books on art and art history are stored, my thoughts rise and ebb like churning tides.
I think about my first class with Ms. Matthews and how much more eventful my life has become since then, as if that were even possible given my you-know-what condition.
Add to that Sin’s see-sawing disposition: sunny and soft one instant and broody and intense the next, his smiles disarming and also somewhat . . . darker. And now I have to team up with him on a project that makes up half my grade in my favorite class.
It’s all so overwhelming that I find a secluded table by an arched window overlooking the courtyard and slide into the upholstered chair beside it, trying to sink into the cushiony seat and hide away, just for a little while.
The afternoon light filtering through the stained glass casts patches of colors onto the table. Watching them slide across the wooden grain is a strangely soporific pastime. I let my head empty out, and pretty soon, my eyes are fluttering against the heavy press of sleep.
The library is mostly empty, and the silence is occasionally punctuated by the soft rustling of pages turning, distant footsteps, and muffled conversations.
Sounds like these can sometimes make St. Anselm Hall feel like an ancient cathedral: a space where time slows, congeals, grows sticky with daytime reveries and half-baked recollections . . .
“Do you need help?” A soft voice pulls me out of encroaching sleep. It’s Mr. Langdon, the turtle-necked librarian. His kind eyes peer at me over round, thin-rimmed spectacles.
“Oh, Mr. Langdon, thank you,” I say hastily while simultaneously checking if I had started drooling over my book during my almost-nap. “I was just working on a project.” And when he keeps smiling at me in that mild, well-meaning way, I continue, “For Ms. Matthews’s class.”
“Ah! You are one of the lucky few,” he exclaims politely.
“Might want to check out rows 700 through 708; we recently received a sizable consignment from one of the most well-curated private collections in America, maybe even the world . . .” He realizes that my eyes have that glazed look people get whenever he starts drifting onto tangents.
“Anyways, check out the books in 704, as well. Some rare books there. Very rare indeed,” he finishes with a nod.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say in a feeble voice as he walks away, still nodding absent-mindedly.
The numbers he has given me lead me to the back of the art section.
Quite a few of the books here appear to be single-edition tomes on obscure topics: occult geometry, Bergsonian layouts that mixed temporal and spatial planes in dizzying diagrams, an actual copy of the Codex Seraphinianus by Luigi Serafini.
That last book actually arrests my attention for a few minutes, Serafini being one of my favorite surrealist artists from the late 70s.
Finally, I manage to lose myself in the animal-plant phantasms that fill the Codex, its mystical anti-language drawing my imagination to the shifting boundaries between perception and illusion and the memory of both—
“Fuck!” I yell out suddenly, having stubbed my toe against the iron claws of a large pot shaped like a gnome. “What the fuck?” I shout again as searing pain blooms through my foot, and I stumble back a couple of steps.
Before I can reel out more expletives, strong hands have grasped my arms and steadied me.
Thinking it’s the nice librarian, I say, “Thanks, Mr. Langdon. Would you mind terribly if I set that thing on fire?”
But when I turn around, it’s not Mr. Langdon. Instead, I’m looking into the amused face of a guy my age. A medium-built dark-haired guy with eyes the color of stormy clouds, a brilliant satiny grey that immediately gets etched in my memory.
“Are you okay?” the boy’s asking me in warm, honeyed tones.
My foot is still throbbing, but it’s a dull ache now, and I shake my leg instinctively, trying to encourage more blood flow to that poor appendage.
“You walked right into it before I could stop you,” the boy continues with a friendly chuckle.
“Yup!” I say with a brittle chirpiness I don’t feel. “Walking into things is my specialty!”
“And so is Italian surrealism?” he asks, motioning to the book in my hand. “I wanted to have a look at the Codex as well,” he continues, “but you beat me to it.”
His face has the open, honest expression I always look for in people and never find. A well-used but obviously expensive leather bag is slung over his shoulder, and pinned to it is a rainbow-colored badge that says “ALLY.”
His sleeves are rolled up, as are the hems of his pants, and his Oxfords are stylishly scuffed.
“I’m Harry, by the way.”
“Petra,” I reply, offering a small smile as I place the Codex back on the shelf and half-limp, half-stagger to a nearby chair.
As I flex my toes and rub my foot, Harry inspects me from a polite distance, as if waiting to see if I need any assistance.
“Thanks . . . erm, for helping me back there,” I continue in an awkward tone.
“Yeah, about that . . . I was actually saving myself from being stepped on by a pretty girl with her nose buried in a book,” Harry says with a poker face. “You won’t believe how often that happens to me these days,” he continues in a shocked tone, “what with all these educated women everywhere.”
And I can’t help it anymore, so I finally do laugh at his artless but innocent jokes.
“Sorry about that, Harry. It’s just . . . I haven’t been able to focus on work for a while, so I got carried away when I found the Codex . . .”
“That’s cool!” Harry replies with a twinkle in his eyes. “What are you working on?”
“Art History project,” I reply in an easy tone. “I’m thinking of exploring the liminal perspective in contemporary design for my mid-term assignment.”
“Cool, cool, liminal perspective and whatnot, we all know what that is,” Harry replies with a self-effacing smile that again puts me at ease.
“Oh, you’ll pick it up soon enough. The concepts are really interesting.”
The conversation has been such an easeful one that I have completely forgotten about the pain in my toe.
“What brings you to St. Anselm Hall, Harry? Yale aspirant?” I ask with genuine interest.
Harry laughs softly and says, “We have relatives in town. I’ve heard only great things about St. Anselm Hall, though.”
He looks around, taking in the long rows of tables intercut with slanted beams of dusk light streaming through the windows, the neat steps of Mr. Langdon doing his last rounds before the library closes for the day, the huddled groups of teenagers working away on their sleek iPads, and then looks back at me, a subtle unrest in his eyes.
“Really?” I quirk my brow.
“It’s cool . . . in a way.” He shrugs.
I give him an empathetic nod before replying carefully, “Yeah, it has its moments. It can be a pretty lonely place for a newcomer, right?”
“Yes!” Harry cries out, as if thrilled to be understood.
Sigh, welcome to the club, I think glumly before saying out loud, “Well, if you need help finding your way around, let me know. I need to make up for almost stepping on you.”
My openness is surprising but not completely unexpected. Something about Harry feels . . . safe.
“Thanks, Petra. I might take you up on that,” he says, his smile widening. “Any chance I could bribe you for a quick tour now? Maybe show me where the best study spots are?”
Too late for that, I think as I realize that it’s almost five. “I’d love to, but I actually have to be somewhere right now. Maybe another time?”
“Sure thing,” Harry says in the same easy and understanding tone. “But hey, thanks for the offer. And . . . I’ll see you around?”
“Definitely,” I respond, heading toward the exit. “Good luck, Harry.”
“Thanks, Petra. You, too.”
The conversation felt nice. Refreshing. But there’s no time to dwell on that now.
The shadows are lengthening, and the air is growing cooler. And I must make my way to the gardener’s shed. Sin is waiting, and I need to face what’s coming.
Dusk is the loveliest time at St. Anselm Hall. The elm groves wear haloes of remnant daylight while around them, evening spreads its inky black lace. I reach the gardener’s shed just as the last hints of sunshine disappear under this twilight veil.
The large oak looming over the shed casts shadows over the sprawling structure, adding to the overall eeriness that I find so endearing and romantic.
Usually.
Right now, I am much too bundled with nerves to appreciate the stunning interplay of light and dark. I’m further flustered when I see Sin leaning against the entrance, his taut yet muscular figure outlined against the cobwebbed beams supporting his weight.
Something feels different about him today—there’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw.
He watches me approach, and instantly I am struck by the difference between his and Harry’s body language. “Petra,” he says offhandedly, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Thanks for coming.”
I nod sedately, trying to read his expression. “Of course. We-we need to get started on the project.”
Sin puts on a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sure, we can do that. Or—and hear me out before you say ‘no’—how about we ditch the shed tonight? Let’s go out.”
“Out? Where?” I ask without thinking.
“Dinner, silly!” he replies with a dazzling smile, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Why don’t we discuss the project over some good food? No distractions, no interruptions.”
I hesitate, feeling that familiar wariness creep in. “Sin, we have a lot of work. I’m not sure if—”
“Come on, Petra,” he cuts in smoothly, stepping closer in the same fluid movement. His voice softens. Now it’s beguiling, coaxing, caramel-sweet as he says, “We’ll have plenty of time to go over everything. Besides, you could use a break.”
He is right, you know, my inner voice notes. We need a break. And you need to chill.
“What the hell, let’s go,” I reply with a shrug.
How bad can it be?