I don’t know how it got to a point where I can’t function properly because of some student, some woman. I don’t do messy. I do rules. I should just stop thinking about her.
“Listen,” I tell myself when the nasty vibration finally stops. “She was absent before. It’s her MO. She’s probably just having the best time of her life, not giving you a thought, and you’re sitting here like an idiot thinking about her. Get a grip on yourself. You’re Jane McKenzie, you’ve better things to do than get distracted by a girl sixteen years younger than you.”
And with that, I get up and go home.
But whatever I told myself, my body has other opinions. It leaves me no rest. Not knowing is the worst.
When Thursday morning comes, I cannot wait to get to campus and the lecture to start.
But when I enter the room, she isn’t there. It is the moment I get restless. I am worried. So worried that I ask the other students if anyone has heard of her. I disguised the request because she missed an appointment with me.
Interestingly enough, no one has. They all see her as the outsider who feels above everyone else, only hanging out with the banker girl from Economics.Banker girl. I assume that’s the blonde girl I met.
One of them tells me that the banker girl is the daughter of a finance mogul, and they hang out all the time; no one else is allowed in their circle.
It is interesting information how differently Amelie seems to interact with the other students.
I thank them and store the information in my mind. Adding a little note to myself, that I now started lying because of her—something that doesn’t go unnoticed by me.
The entire day, I am restless. And at 6 pm, I decide to call her again.
It rings.
My heart beats faster as I count the times it rings.
Nothing.
I sigh as I grab my bag.
I walk to the subway and get on the C train as usual. But when I reach my station, I just stay seated. I might be the biggest idiot for doing it, but I need to know. It’s my responsibility as a professor to take care of my students. At least I tell myself that.
I get off the train at Canal Street. I grew up in Manhattan, so I know every last corner of the city, and Walker Street is a three-minute walk from the station.
The city is bathed in a beautiful sunset orange when I come to a halt in front of a building with the numbers 55-57 on it. To its left is 57, to its right 51, but no 53. A fact that doesn’t help my already strange gut feeling.
There is a door without a number in between, with just a camera following my movements as I walk past it several times. As I glance around, the only thing that catches my eye is a black Range Rover, but I don’t see anyone inside.
“Hm,” I say and stop in front of the door. I look up the building, it’s a newer 7-story sandstone building with huge windows.
Suddenly, the door buzzes, and I am close to getting a heart attack.
Could it be that she?—
I glance at the camera.
Push the door.
And enter.
I follow a corridor that leads to an open elevator. A very tight elevator.
It has only a single button to press.
This might be the stupidest thing I have ever done.
I should get back, get back home?—
She must be alright. She must be living here. Why would the door have opened if not for her seeing and recognizing me?
