I push open the door. Julian is reading at the desk.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Fine. I took a bunch of photos and Faye made a thousand notes about somet
hing. Possibly about a breech cloth,” I say, shrugging at Julian’s confused expression. “I don’t even know. We’ll have it ready for the group tomorrow.”
Julian closes the book and opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing. His eyes drop back to the page. I start to gather my things for a shower, even though I’ll be trapped in steaming dishwater for half the evening, but before I leave the room, Julian looks up again.
“What?” I prompt him to spit it out, not in the mood to explain my hallway conversation with Jeremy.
“What was she like?”
I frown. “Who?”
“Faye.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Never mind.”
“Oh.” I lean against the door. “She’s alright. A little weird, sometimes I can’t even understand what she’s saying, but she’s funny as hell. Why?”
He shifts on the bed, looks down at his book. “Just checking. You know, to make sure everything is going smoothly. For the project and everything.”
I nod, opening the door and stepping out into the hall, making no effort to understand what’s on this kid’s mind. Hard time prepared me for many things, but playing research assistant to a flock of nerds wasn’t one of them.
8.
Mind
Any hope of an air conditioned reprieve in the liberal arts building is burnt to ash the minute I step through the heavy wood doorway. Dr. Anders’ office is three floors up and my deodorant fails me by the time I find the right hallway. The lights are off, but the door is partially open; I clatter my fingernails on the nameplate, and wish I’d remembered to spit out my chewing gum.
“Miss Erikssen, come in.” He half stands from behind his not-so-large desk. The oak surface is piled high with papers, a leather briefcase, and an opened laptop. “How are you this afternoon?”
I ignore his mess of a tie and his shaggy disaster hair. I should be happy to have a professor who is so relaxed and hip, but his appearance is so grubby I’m afraid to breathe through my nose. As I take the seat he’s offering, I lecture myself for being judgmental, especially since I’d called my brother an ‘obsessive-compulsive whiner’ less than an hour ago. “I’m fine, thank you. Just dealing with this heat.”
“It’s oppressive, isn’t it?” He leans back in his chair, reaches out to the metal box fan—which is doing nothing to the air but making noise—and tilts it toward me. “How goes the project?”
“We’re still trying to get organized. There’s so much information out there that we’ve had a hard time settling into a direction.” I scan the room, taking in the sloppy stacks of books, a laptop with broken hinges balanced precariously on the top of the desk computer, the overflowing trash can; my eyes land on an ornate, wrought-iron bird cage behind his desk.
A black bird sits inside.
I swallow my gum.
“Do you have a thing for crows?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
The bird’s beady eye fixes in my direction. In the shaft of light through the window, its feathers shine with the same iridescence of a black pearl. My latest dream flashes in my mind, desperate claustrophobic images, and the teacher’s office now seems cold, despite the sun.
Dr. Anders glances over his shoulder and smiles. “Corvus brachyrhynchos.”
“So why not parrots, or blue jays? Or doves?”
“Jays are actually a form of corvidae, did you know that? They’re magnificent creatures, crows and ravens, with a full history, as I’m sure you’ll come to realize in the upcoming weeks.” I do know that, but I say nothing. “I’m excited to see where your co-op project will go, this summer. Maybe you’ll become as fascinated as I am,” he says.
My shirt sticks to my back, clammy and gross. The crow blinks, clacks its beak at a bar and I’m overwhelmed with the need to flee the room and take the bird with me. “Why did you choose us? Our group for the crows?” My voice is a croak in my throat.
“Frankly, because of you, Miss Erikssen.” Dr. Anders turns to a stack of files, rummages through them. Several spill out onto the floor. He turns back, a familiar, glossy red folder in his hand. “While most of the group topics were random, I admit I did choose yours. Largely because of this.” He opens my portfolio and turns to the back, to the final page in my creative writing sample, and holds up the illustrated page. “This is a lovely drawing. Corvus ossifragus, the fisher crow. Is your original sketch this size?”
“Oh!” Absurd relief bubbles out of my mouth as laughter. “No, it’s about twice that. We were on a wetlands field trip when I saw him. He was funny. His feathers puffed out when he squawked.”
The bird in the cage makes a noise of contempt, beak in the air, feathers remaining smooth. Dr. Anders and I grin at each other. “Now. About your project.” He sits down. “Your group is still defining your statement?”