The Autumn Prince

45. Lost In the Wake

Professor Kelly Barnes lost no time in getting back to me, but her email said only that she wanted to discuss my work. I wrote back and suggested a meeting the following day after her last class. She agreed.

I needed to figure out how to make up several weeks worth of laboratory time without encountering another student, and hopefully convince the professor to help me with my side project. I had no idea if I'd be able to develop a cure for the girls, I barely knew where to start, but my chances increased exponentially with Miss Barnes on my team.

In contrast to the days immediately following Stewart Hall, the girls had begun to avoid me apart from the affection required to keep them sane. I understood why Katherine might need some time to herself. I had mishandled our last encounter badly, and she was the kind of person who needed to process things in private before opening herself up to group therapy. Becca remained lost in the Glim, which I understood, but I didn't know why Rachel went out of her way to avoid spending time in my company. I could only guess that she couldn't face me, that she believed I was responsible for what happened to Gloria. I couldn't argue with that—so did I.

By the time Friday evening arrived, along with my appointment with Miss Barnes, I was looking forward to getting away from the quiet loneliness of the island. I pulled into the parking lot thirty minutes after her last class, marched past Tory Hall's huge glass doors, and into a world that had grown unfamiliar. I'd become accustomed to the loamy smells of earth and green, growing things, cold stone, natural wood, and warm, flickering lights. The lab's shining metal and glass seemed exotic by comparison.

Professor Barnes sat behind her desk as usual, wearing a business shirt and jacket under her lab coat, and looked up when I knocked on the door frame.

"Come in, Mister Corwen," she said automatically, scanning the document in her hand one more time before setting it aside, "Take a seat." She indicated a lab stool in front of her desk.

"Thanks for meeting with me, Professor" I said, trying to sound conciliatory. She tented her fingers and peered over them, cutting straight to the point.

"As of today, you are more than forty hours behind in your laboratory work."

"I know."

"There are only five weeks remaining—"

"Seven," I corrected without thinking, "I have no plans for the winter break." I blushed as her eyebrows shot up.

"And does that mean you expect me to forego my plans so you can make up your time?"

"N—no, that's not what I meant."

"Five weeks," she said again, "and I'm not confident even a model student can pull that off."

The disappointment in her voice cut deep, but I tried to steer the conversation toward my prefered solution. "I'm hoping..."

"You're going to ask me, again, if I'll stay late and allow you to work in the evenings." It wasn't a question, but I nodded. "Forty hours, and another fifty before the end of the semester, unless you miraculously begin to show up in class. That's nearly three hours every weeknight and every Saturday for more than a month. What makes you think I'd be willing to donate that much of my time?"

"I only need the lab for the equipment," I pleaded, "If I come prepared, I can cut that in half."

She almost smiled, but her eyes remained stoic behind her tortoiseshell frames, "That still commits me to nine hours a week."

"I could—"

"This isn't a negotiation, Tom." Vague lights began to swirl, faintly tinged with red. She smelled like apples. I brushed those impressions aside.