‘Morning, Loot.’
‘Hey, Loot.’
Early in the summer, talking about how she’d come to study Archeology, she’d mentioned her military service. Someone had asked her rank, and since then no one had uttered her name.
‘Morning.’ Harper smiled and dropped into her seat, holding her lukewarm chai to her forehead, concentrating on the weak swirl of warm air from the fan.
‘We’re melting, Loot. Puddles of protoplasm.’
Grumbling about the heat continued as Harper dabbed her neck with a limp tissue and scanned the room, taking attendance.
Pamela, her hair sun-bleached almost white, was talking to Jeremy about going out on her Hobie Cat.
Preppies Dustin and Jason, in summer school to amass credits for double majors, were as usual razzing Monique. ‘So, what can we infer from your obsession with pink? Do you fear other colors?’
Jason smirked. ‘Like yellow – what’s wrong with yellow?’
Monique scoffed. ‘Deal with it. Pink’s my comfort zone.’ Her sundress, book bag, flip-flops, lips, nails, bracelets – her entire ensemble was, as always, pink. Harper didn’t comment. She understood comfort zones of color; hers were neutral, tans and grays, nothing that would draw attention. Camouflage tones.
As usual, Anna sat at the back of the room, alone, separated by rows of empty chairs. Anna’s thick black hair had frizzed with the humidity; her face was hidden behind a book. She didn’t look up when Harper called her name.
Terence, by contrast, flashed a smile and a thumbs-up. A tight end for Big Red football, he was retaking the course so his C average wouldn’t cut him from the team.
Behind him was redhead Gwen, a transfer student making up credits. Straight A pre-Law students Dustin and Jason sat together, still cramming for the quiz. Kevin and his long amber dreadlocks sprawled beside the window, mellow as always. English major Cathy sat posture perfect, blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, muscles taut as if about to begin a sprint. Larry from Brooklyn and Esoso from Nigeria reclined like mirror images, legs extended, and Shaundra, a drama major, sat by the door, munching a bear’s claw. Finally, Graham anchored the middle of the room, his tangled curls emerging above the other heads like a rose on a too-long stem.
Harper scanned her group, wondering how this course in Archeology would affect them. None was majoring in the field; each was taking the class to fill an electives requirement. Still, when she’d been their age – just seven or eight years earlier – she’d had no idea what interested her; she’d been in ROTC with no clue that she’d pursue a PhD, let alone in Archeology. Maybe this introductory course would inspire someone to continue. She pictured it: huge Terence lumbering around fragile relics on a dig. Or Shaundra, emoting like Lady Macbeth while carbon dating—
‘Loot?’ Esoso had his hand up. ‘Take pity on us. It’s too hot for a quiz.’
Jeremy agreed. ‘It’s like the core of a molten volcano—’
‘No, more like Hades itself,’ Shaundra feigned anguish, swaying for effect.
‘This isn’t hot,’ Harper smiled. ‘Try lugging eighty pounds of gear in a hundred and ten degrees. You guys are soft.’ She put check marks beside the names of the absent students – Kelsey and Greg – and took the quizzes out of her big leather sack. ‘Try not to melt on your answer sheets.’
As Harper distributed the papers, Graham Reynolds’ skinny arm went up.
‘Loot, can I open that?’ He pointed to the window closest to her desk. It was raised only halfway. Of course he could open it. Not that it would help.
Graham stood, and Harper blinked at his selection of wardrobe: fiery orange madras shorts, heavy construction boots and a red sleeveless T-shirt labeled ‘LIFEGUARD’. Were his clothes some kind of anti-fashion, anti-conformity statement? Or just a random compilation of garments? Who would have put those pieces together? And, good God, why? Harper shook her head, amused. Cornell was a far cry from the military with its inspections of spit-shined shoes and pressed uniforms. Maybe Graham was just a free spirit. Or maybe he was color-blind.
Slowly, Graham moved past his classmates to the front of the room, stepping around desks and over book bags. Thin and some inches over six-feet tall, he was delicate featured, almost pretty, yet he tackled the window with surprising aggression, shoving too hard, forcing the pane up only an inch or so before jamming it and engaging it in battle, attacking with his full body.
Harper didn’t watch him. She settled into her chair by the fan, waving her grade book to stir the heavy air. Noticing, not for the first time, that Anna appeared to have dozed off. What was with that girl?
Dustin raised his hand, asking if they could go outside since, seriously, no one could take a quiz effectively in this heat. Larry, Monique and Shaundra chimed in with a chorus of ‘Please, Loot’. Maybe Graham heard, maybe not; he’d finally unjammed the window and raised it as high as it could go.
Harper was thinking that it was a good idea, going outside. She wasn’t paying attention to Graham. So she didn’t notice him lifting one leg, then the other over the sill, didn’t look his way until she saw her students’ gaping mouths and disbelieving eyes and followed their gazes just in time to see Graham purposefully lower himself over the ledge. His tangled curls dropped out of sight until all that was visible were his fingertips on the window frame.
Instantly, Harper was out of her chair, bolting to the window, leaning out and grabbing his wrists. She reacted reflexively, with precision and dexterity, calling for assistance. Graham hung there, gazing up at her with hazy green eyes. For a few endless seconds, Harper strained to hold on, tightening her grip, tugging at his thin, slippery arms, but she couldn’t get leverage to pull him up, didn’t have the body mass. Larry, Terence and Esoso joined her at the window, crowding her, reaching out, yanking at Graham’s forearms.
‘Graham,’ Harper ordered, ‘grab hold of my hand.’
But Graham didn’t even try. Without a word, his eyes still fixed on Harper’s, he let go of the windowsill and pushed off of the wall with his legs. His wrists slipped from her hands and, silently, he dropped four stories to the ground.
For a moment, nobody moved. Everyone was silent. Stunned. Then chaos erupted. Shrill screams. People running in circles, yelping, making frantic calls on cell phones. Shaundra stared at the window, strangling her bear claw; Gwen bent over, holding her belly, yipping, her voice drowned out by Monique’s.
The room around Harper became fuzzy; she smelled gunfire, heard explosions. Oh God, she thought. Not now. She couldn’t allow a flashback now. Grabbing a pencil from a nearby desk, she dug its point into her palm, using pain to ground herself in the moment. She concentrated on the present, on panicked cries, on the commotion of chairs scraping the old wooden floor. Her students needed her. She pulled away from the open window and, as trained, left the dead in order to protect the living.
‘Listen up, everyone. Hey!’
No one listened. They continued shouting, moving in a dance of confusion.
‘OK, then,’ she muttered. Drawing a breath, Harper let out a shrill, ear-bending whistle.
Instantly, the room was silent. Fourteen pairs of eyes turned to her, lost and childlike. Reflexively, Harper shouted orders. ‘Get your belongings. We’re moving out.’ Scanning the room, she saw that, amazingly, despite the havoc, Anna still slept in her seat.
‘Anna!’ Harper called to her. ‘Somebody – Jeremy – wake her up.’
Jeremy looked at Anna, muttered, ‘Jesus Christ,’ and rolled his eyes in annoyance as he jostled her shoulder. She didn’t wake up. Didn’t react at all.
‘Come on, Anna.’ Jeremy shook his head, impatient. Finally, he leaned over and bellowed into her ear. ‘WAKE UP!’
Anna didn’t budge. Didn’t move.
OK. Never mind. Harper would come back for her.
The class stood at the door, staring at Anna, asking what was wrong with that girl? Wasn’t she strange? Tsks of disapproval among the panic.
Harper kept them moving. She called out names: Jeremy. Cathy, Shaundra. Gwen, Kevin, Larry. Pam. One at a time, touching each on the arm, she guided her students to the staircase; from there, she ushered them down the four flights to the door.
‘Everyone stays here.’ She put Jason in charge. ‘Nobody moves. Nobody goes near Graham or even glances at him until I get back.’ She hurried to the side of the building where a mere glance told her that Graham was beyond help. Then, ignoring the pain in her leg, she climbed the steps again to the classroom to get her remaining student.
Anna looked around in confusion. ‘Loot? Where is everyone?’
‘Outside.’ Gently, Harper took her arm. ‘Come with me.’
Anna resisted, pulled away. ‘I heard shouting.’
‘There’s been an accident. I’ll explain—’
‘Why was everyone shouting?’ Anna refused to move. ‘What happened?’
Harper was getting annoyed; Anna was taking too much time and attention, shouldn’t have been sleeping in class to begin with. ‘Graham fell. Now let’s move.’ She started for the door.
Anna followed, asking questions. ‘He fell? Where? How? Is he OK?’
Harper didn’t answer; she ushered Anna down the stairs to the spot where her classmates huddled, flustered and shaken. Anna remained apart, tagging along as the group moved silently on to the landscaped quadrangle. When they came to the mangled body in orange madras shorts and a red tank top, the silence shattered with a scream.
‘Whoa—’ Kevin reached to catch her, but too late. Anna had already collapsed, out cold.
Students blinked at her and looked away, disapproving. Shaking their heads.
Harper hurried to her, feeling at fault. Granted, Anna was different. Always by herself. Often asleep in class. Even so, Harper shouldn’t have been so abrupt, should have better prepared her for seeing Graham’s body. Now the girl had fainted. Harper knelt, checked her pulse. Lying on the grass, Anna resembled an overstuffed doll, her torso cushiony and pillow-like. She seemed unhurt, but her skin felt clammy, and she remained disturbingly still, eyes closed, not responding to her name or Harper’s touch.
‘She’ll be all right,’ Harper assured herself as much as the others. Then, although several students had already done so, she used Jeremy’s cell to call the police. Bystanders gathered, gawking and asking questions, but the class clustered around Graham, listening for sirens, protecting their freshly dead classmate, unsure what else to do.
Harper watched over them, struggling to process what had happened. One moment, Graham had been taking a quiz; the next, he’d jumped to his death. Poof. No warning. Unless she’d missed something. She replayed the morning. The students in their seats, the suffocating heat. The weak buzzing fan. She’d given out the quizzes, and Graham had asked to open the window. Had there been any desperation in his voice? Any anger? Or sadness? She tried, but recalled nothing of note. Harper could still see Graham’s unwavering eyes, feel his slick skin slipping from her grip. She also heard distant explosions, a low rumble of gunfire. No, she insisted. Not now.
‘OK, everybody. Listen up.’ She refocused, looking each student in the eyes, one at a time. ‘I don’t know what the hell happened to Graham. Why he did this. But we’re going to be OK. All of us. The police are on the way. For now, stay together. And stay strong.’
Nods. Tear-filled eyes. Hugs. Sniffles and whimpers. Students stood arm in arm or sat leaning against each other, except for Anna, who lay beside them on the grass. Despite the heat, Harper shivered as she paced in circles around them, guarding her pack, touching Gwen’s shoulder or patting Cathy’s head. Her students depended on her, so she remained in control, fending off the flash of explosives, the flames nipping at her belly, the bullets whizzing past her ears. She pressed the pencil point into her palm, hoping that pain would hold her in the moment. Or that Graham’s broken body would magically mend itself and stand, revealing a tasteless practical joke. Or an acrobatics trick. Or some reason, however misguided, for his death.
Finally, an endless few minutes after Graham crashed on to the quad, lights flashed and sirens blared. Campus cops, Ithaca police, firemen and an ambulance arrived, closely followed by local news, the dean, a cadre of university officials and even more curious onlookers.
‘Attention, everyone.’ Detective Charlene Rivers’ voice blared into a megaphone, even though it was hardly necessary; people could easily hear her without amplification. Fortyish, broad-shouldered and dark-skinned, she’d assessed the scene quickly and taken over. ‘Paramedics are here to check you out and see if anyone needs attention. Meantime –’ her voice jolted to a stop, interrupted by a blare of feedback – ‘nobody go anywhere; we need to talk to each of you, individually. Who’s first?’ She eyed the group, waiting for a volunteer.
Jason raised his hand; officers escorted him to a nearby bench.
Harper wandered after them, intending to eavesdrop. It wouldn’t be easy to hear their conversation, not with machine guns firing in her head, but she was determined to find out why Graham had killed himself. What her students knew. Inconspicuously, she sat on the grass not far from the bench, listening.
‘Loot – our instructor – she tried to stop him. But there was no time – nobody could do anything.’ Jason’s voice was flat, emotionless. ‘He just climbed out, hung on for a few seconds and let go.’
Dustin was next. ‘Threaten? You mean to kill himself? Never. Well, not that I know of.’
Gwen called Graham a comedian. ‘I met him freshman year. He had a droll sense of humor. Real wry. When I saw him going out the window, I thought it was a joke.’
Pam sniffled. ‘He seemed a tad eccentric. But not destructive or dangerous. Just in his own world.’
Terence shrugged. ‘I didn’t know the dude. No disrespect intended; it’s just we never, you know, actually hung out.’
Monique fumed. ‘Sorry, but I’m furious at Graham – selfish bastard. Did he think about anybody but himself? His family? His friends? Was his life so unbearable that he had to do this?’