1
It’s Friday night, and I’m hungry. A littletoohungry.
I ignore the cold sweat forming on my upper lip. “Here’s the spreadsheet printout you wanted,” I say at the threshold of Dr. Kelleher’s office, forcing a smile.
I don’t want to go in. Kelleher, the head of the Office of Alumni Records and Engagement, is the queen of “Great, thanks. Oh, one more thing…” Last month, when we were working with the campus redevelopment committee on the big historical display for the union, it took me an average of four attempts to successfully exit the building.
Tonight, I just need to drop these papers off and ghost out of here—no good night, no “see you Monday”—before she “one more things” me to death.
Well, notmydeath.
Behind the desk, Dr. Kelleher flips over another page in a file folder, turning a red Sharpie between her elegant fingers, before looking up at me. “Oh, Jo,” she says, sounding vaguely surprised.As if she and I aren’t the only ones left in the building, more than an hour after closing.
After tucking a loose strand of silvery blond hair behind her ear, she waves me forward, a leisurely gesture, as if she has all the time in the world. She does not.
I shake my head at myself.Get a grip, Jo.I’ve put off feeding for too long this time. I can tell when I start thinking like that. Sometimes it feels like my whole life centers around that act—feeding or not feeding, minimizing my need, trying not to hurt people.
With Kelleher waiting, I cross to her desk and hand her the manila folder, virtually identical to all the others stacked neatly on her desk. She adds it to the pile nearest her, aligning the edges with a deliberate snap that speaks to exactness.
But experience tells me she will never be able to find that folder again. I’ll have to print it out for her at least twice more, even though it’s on the shared drive. Which she refuses to learn how to use. I shouldn’t complain—it’s because of her organized disorganization and anti-tech attitude that I got this work study job to begin with. The first couple of years I worked in the union cafeteria and that was rough. One word: hairnets.
On this particular evening, though, I might have traded the relatively cushy office setting for the precision operation of food service on a college campus. Hairnets aside, I was never late getting out of there.
Dr. Kelleher returns her attention to the open folder in front of her, and I start backing out of the office, sweat trickling down my spine under my sweatshirt and pooling at the waistband of my jeans.
I am never waiting this long again. It’s just… last week, Fridaydinner hadn’t worked because it was Halloween. And the week before, it was midterms. I already feel guilty enough—screwing up someone else’s grades because they were too tired or hazy to perform well just seemed additionally cruel.
My boot touches the thicker carpet of the hallway behind me, and I almost let out a breath of relief. Almost.
But then Kelleher looks up, as if she’s sensed my escape. “Oh, Jo. Wait. One more thing.”
Damnit.If I didn’t need this job…
“Do you know where we left off with the class of 1970? I have the summary here somewhere, don’t I?” She frowns at the piles of neatly labeled folders, surrounding her like castle crenellations, protecting the vulnerable interior.
Vulnerable. Yes. But the glow of life in her is strong still. I can sense it, like the warmth of sunlight playing over my face. She’s in her later forties but she still rows crew with a group of alums on weekends, and she runs. Marathons. For fun.
It would be so easy to just…pull. To drag a little of that life out of her and inhale it like a monster bag of cheesy puffs.
A moment of disorientation, a few more silver hairs, maybe a month or two off her lifespan. I could probably stop myself before I went too far.
Probably.
That thought jolts me back to myself with an accompanying burst of horror. I have to get out of here. Now.
Kelleher frowns. “Jo? Are you all right? You don’t look well.”
“I’m just—” My stomach interrupts with a loud rumble, despite the peanut butter and crackers I managed to force down twenty minutes ago. Sometimes real food can hold off the hunger for a while. But not this time. Not when it’s been so long.
“Oh my goodness.” Kelleher tsks her disapproval. “You girls and skipping meals.”
We could certainly fix that, a little voice in my head coos.Right now.
Kelleher looks at her watch. “It’s only a little past six. But I suppose you can go if you—”
I don’t wait for her to finish, just in case there’s a task at the end of that sentence.
Grabbing my coat and backpack from the reception area at the end of the hall, I’m down the stairs and out the door in less than a minute. The sky is dark when I push out the front door of Hayes, the administration building, but central campus is well-lit with high-powered street lamps at regular intervals along the sidewalks. On the edge of the purplish-white artificial brightness, Hayes is cast in shadow, a stacked brick-and-column structure with bare ivy strands turned into grasping tentacles. A single crow chitters a complaint as it settles into the branches of a nearby tree, but I ignore it.
