Page 53 of Sinister

As he walks away, leaving me alone in the classroom, the words loop around my head. A strange day made stranger still.

15

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.