Remembrandt Read online

  I stared down at the outdoor walkway on my way to the Barus-Holley Building. If I didn’t hurry, I would be late for Physics. Arms and elbows jostled me as I swam through the sea of students. I glanced at a few of the faces around me. I recognized every one I saw, though none of the students knew me.

  The large, brick columned buildings towered over my five-and-a-half-foot frame. Brown was certainly a step up from Eastmont High School with regards to education and campus. It seemed like years had passed since I had walked the cracked-pavement sidewalks of EHS and squeezed into buildings stitched together with each new expansion.

  As I walked down the crowded corridor on my way to my next class, I tried not to think about my morning faux pas or last night’s escapade. That was hard to do with slide shows and movies constantly playing in my head. At times like this when I needed a distraction, I tried to picture the ocean. There was something soothing about the rush of the waves.

  I could see the scene in my head in perfect detail, right down to the chipped hot-pink nail polish on my toes. It was the yearly family trek to Cannon Beach. I stood right where the salty water washed up to my ankles. The sand around my feet began to fade away as the cool water rushed back from the beach. Tanner stood up shore about fifty feet away, wearing his WSU sweatshirt. My brother loved the university and always wore that old, baggy gray thing. He smiled at me before football-sprinting into the freezing-cold water. Then he dove in, fully clothed, and the faded cougar on the back of his sweatshirt disappeared under a wave. He resurfaced and tried to outrun the waves back to shore.

  I glanced behind me at my mom and dad, who were reclining on their beach chairs. Their laughter seemed to harmonize with the waves. I’m sure my dad was relating something Benjamin Franklin had said, and my mom was enjoying his historical humor. My eyes again focused on the Pacific Ocean. It may not have been the clearest water or the whitest sand, but the Cannon Beach waves had to be the greatest sound on earth. I closed my eyes, took a deep, ocean-laced breath . . . and slammed right into the person in front of me.

  “Ow!” I heard as I tumbled right on top of another student in the middle of the Barus-Holley corridor. The maple hardwood echoed as we collided with the floor. More accurately, the person hit the floor, and I landed on his back. Luckily, he was much larger than me and broke the brunt of my fall. We were only a few feet from the door to my class.

  “I’m so sorry!” I frantically pushed myself off the stranger. When I reached out my hand to help pull him up, he turned around. And he was . . . smiling? Or should I say smirking.

  “I’m just glad I could catch your fall.” He reached out to grab my extended hand. He was much taller than me, but I did my best to help him up. His shoulder bag lay at his feet. He picked it up and inspected his clothes. Still smiling, he tucked his dress shirt back into his khaki pants and dusted off his vest. “It’s not every day you get knocked off your feet by someone.” He laughed and brushed some of his wavy brown hair out of his eyes.

  I don’t think my face could have flushed any harder. I tried to smooth down my hair. Once I was assured it wasn’t sticking up funny and that my skirt and shirt were still presentable, I looked up. The student still had a grin on his face. His gaze focused on me for several seconds—really focused on me like he actually cared who I was and what I was thinking. After weeks of passing by thousands of students who hardly noticed me, his deep blue eyes felt like the refreshing waves of the ocean.

  The noise of footsteps and chatter broke the moment. All eyes in the hallway were fixed on us. I turned toward the wall to hide my face and darted into my class. I took the first empty desk I could find. A few people in class had seen my collision and were quietly laughing to themselves. I was beginning to wish my father had been hired by a university with larger classes, or that I hadn’t inherited his clumsiness, when the professor began speaking in his monotone voice.

  “Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.” A few snickers erupted from the back of the room. Apparently, I was a perfect example of Newton’s First Law of Motion. Exhausted by all this negative attention, I put my head down in my arms and wished I could make myself invisible as easily as I could be socially awkward.

  As usual, I had read the chapter and done my assignment, so when I raised my head at the end of class, I knew I hadn’t missed anything. The professor’s drawings on the board weren’t as good as the ones I already had in my brain from the textbook. At least there was something about this day to smile about.

  After a long day of classes, I rushed back to the dorm. The Wayland House didn’t have the five-star accommodations I had hoped for in an Ivy League school, but I had made the small space my own with items from home. Photos of my parents and brother dotted the wall by my bed—a skiing trip in the Cascades, the Apple Blossom 5K race where I had beaten my brother, my sweet-sixteen birthday party with the lopsided cake my mom had made. The ugly yet comfy forest-green fur blanket my grandmother had given me covered my bed.

  Despite the fact that I had a lot of homework, I threw my bag on the twin bed and changed into my running clothes. I laced my Sauconys tightly and pulled my long strands of ash-blond hair up in a high ponytail at the back of my head.

  The bedroom door swung open just as I reached out for the knob. I halted before I collided with my roommate, Casey. She stood in the doorway with her hands on her tiny hips and a smile that lit up her almond-shaped eyes. She was one of those people you just had to like. I was glad campus rules required me to live my first six semesters on campus and not with my dad. Casey was the best thing that had happened to me since moving three thousand miles across the country. She was the older sister I always wanted.

  “Hey, girl! Where you off to this late?” She tossed her shiny black hair. It smoothly fell back into place below her earlobes. Her eyes surveyed my clothing choice. She raised one eyebrow. Her own outfit reflected her quirky style. Hanging from her ears were a pair of her famous handmade hoop earrings. She had layered a black fur-like vest over a turquoise tunic and black leggings. The outfit was accented by a five-inch-wide leather belt, accentuating her slender waist. A vintage necklace hung from Casey’s neck, tying the whole outfit together. A twinge of jealousy ran through me. Why had I been given the fashion sense of a five-year-old?

  I stared down at my old, baggy T-shirt and ragged running shorts and sighed. Even though I was going running, back home this would have been my usual attire.

  “Just going on a run.”

  “It’s going to be dark soon. Want me to join you?”

  We had run a few times together, and while she meant well, I didn’t want to go on a stroll, stopping and chatting with friends and cute boys. I had to run.

  “Thanks, Case, but I need to clear my head.”

  “Rough day, huh?”

  When I didn’t respond, she just gave me a quick hug and plopped down on her unmade bed. That was one thing about her that I loved. She had this uncanny ability to know when words couldn’t help and when to give someone her space.

  “I won’t be gone long,” I said at the door.

  “Good, ’cause we have to talk about last night. The whole campus is buzzing. If they only knew—”

  I waved her off. “Be back soon.” The door swung shut and I walked down the hallway, letting my hand trace along the cinder-block walls. I tried to ignore the girls and guys loitering in the lobby as I headed outside.

  My feet began to pound the pavement at an easy pace until I reached the edge of campus. I ran north along Hope Street. Hope. The irony of it all hit me hard. I could see the Webster’s Dictionary page in my mind: “hope hōp n. a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.”

  The tears started to come, blurring the road in front of me. With each foot strike to the ground another teardrop fell.

  What is wrong with me? Was the reprimand by Golkov or the crash in the hallway really that devastating? Am I fee
ling guilty about last night? Deep down I knew that wasn’t my real problem.

  The definition from good ol’ Webster came back to me. Rhode Island and Brown were supposed to be a new start for me. I had hoped coming here would make me feel like I fit in somewhere. Something needed to happen. I longed to find the missing piece to fill the void inside me. I’d almost felt it the night before as the adrenalin laced through my veins, but it had disappeared just as easily in the morning.

  I ran faster. The trees and bushes at my side faded along with the pictures in my head. All that mattered was that I get there sooner. Where? Honestly, I didn’t really know or care. I just kept going. I must have passed by cars and pedestrians, but with my teary-eyed vision and speed, I barely saw the asphalt beneath my feet.

  I didn’t remember turning around, but as the sky darkened, I realized I had already begun sprinting back to Brown alongside the bay. I took a mental picture of the pinks and oranges reflecting in the water from the sky—I needed beautiful distractions in my catalog of memories.

  As I neared Blackstone Park, the echo of my footsteps traveled across the pavement. The sky seemed to turn black all at once, with only the streetlights showing the way. Somewhere in my hazy brain, it occurred to me that something was off. A shudder ran through me. It wasn’t an echo I was hearing. The other footsteps were not mine. Someone was following me.

  2

  Roman Hot Pink

  Flashes went through my mind of the horrible rape and murder of teenage girls I’d heard about on TV. That is why I no longer watched dramas or anything with a rating worse than PG. Coming out for a run at dusk had not been such a good idea.

  My legs already moved at top speed, but I pushed them harder. I kept pushing until it felt like my toes barely skimmed the ground before they sprang forward again. My muscles burned and my stomach turned angrily inside me. I continued increasing my speed until the footsteps behind me faded in the distance. I didn’t stop.

  When I reached the edge of the park, I looped back toward Brown. With the university in my view, I finally slowed to a jog until I saw one of my favorite places to think, a large, flat rock slightly off the trail, hidden behind some trees. I knew I should keep heading home, but my body called out for a rest. I dragged my exhausted legs to my secret hideaway, leaned over to rest my hands on my knees, and threw up in the bushes.

  After several moments of heaving more than just air, I sat on the rock and closed my eyes.

  I nearly forgot the darkness and almost being dragged away by a murderer, when a deep voice behind me said, “Did you win?”

  Goosebumps covered my skin. My mind flipped through all the self-defense moves I knew before I turned around.

  In the opening of the trees stood a young man in running shorts and a sweat-covered Brown T-shirt. My jaw dropped slightly as I recognized his face—the student I plowed down in the hallway. My proof of Newton’s Law. I just stared, the irony of this day cutting off my ability to speak.

  “The race. Did you win?” he asked again.

  “What?” I managed.

  “I was doing close to a seven-minute mile and still couldn’t keep up. You training for something?” He stepped closer. I tried to breathe calmly and hide the shock on my face.

  “I . . .” My voice wavered. I wiped at the sweat on my forehead. “I was just clearing my head.”

  “Man, if running that fast is clearing your head, maybe you should clear your head by running the Boston Marathon next year. Amazing!” Something about the tone of his voice and the sincerity in his eyes calmed me.

  I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I studied him as best I could in the dark. His curly hair, long since due for a trim, dripped in sweat across his forehead. He appeared taller than I remembered from the hallway, and his sweaty shirt stuck to his chest in places. He had a runner’s physique, with a thin torso and long, toned legs. His arms were muscular too, but not like a body builder.

  None of that held my attention, though. Okay, maybe a little of his physical makeup had my attention. What really caught my eye was that smirk on his face—one side slightly higher than the other. It showed confidence and innocence at the same time, like he was secretly amused.

  “Are you on the cross-country team? Because you would totally rock the course.”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t seen you out running before. Are you a freshman?”

  Although I was technically a junior when it came to credits, I didn’t want anyone at Brown to know that. I shrugged and said, “It’s my first year. I usually run in the morning before most of campus is awake.” I smiled at my admission. I couldn’t get anyone, including Casey, to wake up at six in the morning to get a run in before classes.

  Wait. Why am I telling him when I run? And what’s with the twenty questions? He could totally be a stalker or something. For some reason, though, I trusted him. Maybe it was the fact that he was a fellow student and runner. It also could have had something to do with his long, dark lashes and light blue eyes.

  “By the way, I’m William.” He reached out to offer a hand, hesitated, and then wiped his hand on his shorts. “Sorry. I guess trying to catch up to you really got me sweating.”

  “In all honesty, I kind of thought you were chasing me. I sped up because I thought you might be a serial killer or something,” I said, quickly averting my gaze.

  He started laughing. And he wouldn’t stop. Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting, especially after my teary-eyed run. I joined in and began laughing too, weakly at first, but William’s laugher melted away my fear and embarrassment. I was amazed at how easily he had broken down my normal defenses. It had taken my roommate, Casey, nearly two weeks to do what he had in a matter of minutes.

  “That was the fastest I have ever run in my life!” I said between laughs. “As soon as I stopped, I totally puked. You probably want to stay away from that bush over there.” I pointed to where the contents of my dinner had fertilized a nearby shrub. That got the guy laughing even more, and pretty soon we both had tears coming from our eyes—the happy kind this time.

  “I would say you deserved that after trampling me in the hallway today,” he blurted out, “but I’m really sorry I wasn’t Jack the Ripper like you were expecting.”

  In my head, I flashed back to the hallway scene from earlier that day. Suddenly, I realized it was the first time I’d had a photo moment for at least thirty minutes. I tried to hide the embarrassment of our first “meeting” by sitting on the rock to retie my shoes.

  “No worries,” he said, “It was the highlight of my day.” His sly smile was back.

  I studied his face. The shadow on his jawline showed he hadn’t shaved in a few days, cluing me in that he was older than I was. After all, most seventeen-year-old boys I knew only pretended to need to shave. I realized he was examining me too and looked down to double-knot my laces. I cleared my throat. “I’d better get back. My roommate will be wondering what happened to me. She’s probably on the verge of calling 911 by now. What time is it, anyway?”

  He looked at his watch. “It’s after ten.”

  Oh my gosh! I’ve been running for two and a half hours.

  “My GPS says I tried to catch you for at least five miles,” he admitted.

  “I really have to get back.”

  “Let me walk you,” he insisted. “You never know who might be out this time of night.” He grinned and led me from my rock and grove of trees. I bit the inside of my cheek, remembering I had just been out the night before, even later than this. My dorm was more than a mile away, though, and I was glad I wasn’t going back alone.

  We started down the sidewalk. “I can’t believe how long I was gone,” I said. “I haven’t run that long since Hood to Coast last year, and that was spread over twenty-four hours.”

  “Hood to Coast? That’s the relay run by Mt. Hood, right? I’ve always wanted to do that. What were you doing there?” William hopped over a crack in the sidewalk. A childhood memory of me do
ing the same thing burst into my mind, making me smile.

  “Yeah, I love the Northwest,” I said, almost with a sigh. Home would probably always carry a reverence with it, no matter how long I’d been gone. “I’m from there. Well, actually I’m from Washington State, but I have an uncle in Portland, and he convinced me to run it last year.”

  William and I continued talking about races and running—he had already run three marathons and was training for one in the spring—until we began crossing the courtyard toward Wayland House.

  Halfway up the grassy hill, he stopped abruptly. “Can you believe that?”

  “What?” I looked up from the grass. I should have known where we were, but somehow our easy conversation had distracted me from our location on campus. Wriston Quad. I glanced at the row of rhododendron bushes that lined the courtyard and had hidden me so well in the dark the night before.

  “I know they do pranks all the time, but this one sure beats them all,” William said with a hint of envy in his voice. He diverted his course straight across the quad, heading in the direction of his interest.

  I finally let my eyes go to where I knew he was headed. The moon shone down on the bronze statue, giving the metal an iridescent glow. William stopped in front of the concrete base that now had yellow crime-scene tape wrapped around it several times. He ran his fingers through his hair as if in thought. His still-damp curls fell back across his forehead, and a few streaks of lighter brown stood out against the rest of his dark locks. I stopped just a few feet to his right.

  He rose up onto his toes. “Is that pink duct tape?” Though I already knew the answer, I couldn’t help analyze my addition to the statue. Or, I should say, the addition Casey and a few other girls on our floor had spent weeks creating. Caesar Augustus’s bronze right arm had fallen off years before, but he was no longer missing an appendage. A perfect near-replica of his missing arm now graced the statue.