Page 54 of Sinister

“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.”