The Illinois Academy of Art campus was no more than a few dozen classrooms, computer labs and offices crammed in the rear of The Apparel Center, which in the days before its takeover and subsequent makeover at the hands of the Chicago Sun-Times was still a just a big box covered in drab burlap, an architectural blight doubly deplorable in light of its contiguity to the venerable tradition known as The Merchandise Mart, a broad and bold, long and low-lying structure that stood out in appealing contrast to the tall and lean steel towers that dominated the famous Chicago skyline. The Illinois Academy of Art part-time faculty office space was no more than a small room with two malfunctioning and virus-laden computers, an erratic printer and an unsteady coat rack, all meant to be shared by dozens of individuals. Part-time English Instructor Stu Hanagan’s discomfort with his office space was not indicative of a picky nature; he happily shared a small office with a few other part-timers at the other school he was employed, the Illinois State College at Chicago, and was generally content to work in all sorts of peculiar and even public places. Used to many fully understood and mutually respected unwritten rules at his ISUC office, a habitual planner like Stu found the IAA office’s lack of reliability no small disadvantage—on any given day, he could not count on having a seat, a computer or even access to a stapler, making it hard to plan in advance to accomplish many specific tasks.
Only once during the entire course of the fall term was the instructor visited by an actual student during his formal office hour, when an assertive freshman quick to point out she was a former professional basketball dancer/cheerleader, specifically an Indiana Pacermate, lobbied unsuccessfully for a grade change on a rather unorganized essay arguing for the legalization of marijuana. Stu noted that pro-pot essays were often scattered and disorganized. The lack of office hour activity was not an altogether fortunate turn, however, as it left the instructor free to stew, incapable of getting much accomplished yet equally incapable of relaxing or enjoying himself. Seeking a situation more conducive to productivity, Stu drifted to the IAA staff lounge, which hosted faculty and staff mailboxes, a few tables, a microwave, a fridge and a sink, only to find it a bustling bevy of fashionable young full-time staffers carrying on about their drinking stamina and dating success. The constant barrage of dicey details proved too tantalizing, the pace too exhausting.
Stu’s next settled-for spot was the Merchandise Mart food court, a spacious seating atrium surrounded by an assortment of fast food joints. While a few awkward encounters with current and former students proved somewhat daunting—even the pro-pot Pacermate, one eager to ask of his time in other settings, would snub him here—ultimately, the crowded food court was a bit too hectic. Tables were hard to come by at certain hours, and amongst such a crush of flesh, the many conversations to which he suddenly had access, be they involving businessmen, office workers, Chicago Transit Authority staff, building crew or college students, proved too tempting for someone who took particular pleasure in eavesdropping. There were so many different voices in his head that he couldn’t keep track of the one that mattered.
Running out of options, the former collegiate library circulation clerk finally decided upon the mostly quiet and virtually unoccupied IAA library. Like a bud that failed to blossom, the library seemed somehow incomplete, altogether too small, even for its humble operations, even smaller than a modest neighborhood branch of the Chicago Public Library. Located on the end opposite the entrance, blocking the library’s only exterior window, a mere six shelves comprised the stacks, and they were placed so near the library’s only two tables that they seemed to cast a pall over the room the way massive skyscrapers create shadows in the regions directly below them. There were no secrets within such cramped quarters, and what is a library without its nooks and crannies, places to escape? If a student was searching for a book, everyone present knew it. If a conversation was occurring, everyone present was privy to it. In addition to its impractical and undistinguished design, IAA’s was a university library possessing no official name, having never been dedicated to any particular titular honoree memorialized via classy bronze plaque. Some faculty would joke that the library went undedicated since nobody who would desire to be forever linked with the lackluster library. Stu, however, felt immidiately comfortable within its quiet confines. While it was difficult to quantify, there was a certain type of imperfection that made a place appealing to him, that put him at ease, which is why he had for years been one of the few loyal denizens of an odd little neighborhood café run by Grimy Gary, who managed to juggle a full-time job as a mechanic with early morning and late evening shifts at his coffee house, even if it meant occassionally wearing dirty overalls behind the counter. While Stu could never pinpoint just what made somewhere like Gary’s or the IAA Library satisfactory, it was usually the flaw that made Stu’s eccentric Edens least appealing to everyone else.
From 9:30 am through 6pm, save a thirty minute lunch break spent uncomfortably at the staff lounge, which she derisively dubbed “Da Club,” librarian Penny McBride staffed the reference desk, a glorified office cubicle, only double the size and turned to greet the public. As a result, Penny felt as if she were on permanent display. The library’s only other full-time employee was her boss Kathy, a matronly IAA veteran, a fixture since the library, alas, the school had opened its doors, as if they had built the library around her while she sat at her desk. The physical barriers between Kathy and Penny seemed an obstacle to whatever kinship might have otherwise existed between the them. Kathy remained insulated in her private office a few dozen feet behind of the circulation desk, which was located to the left of the front entrance, just inside the security gates that beeped piercingly when materials that were not checked out passed between its invisible sensors. Both Michelle, her part-timer helper, and the student workers who attended to the circulation desk provided another line of defense between Kathy and the patrons. Penny, meanwhile, enjoyed no such buffer.
Penny fielded a few actual research questions per day, often assisting fashion design students she found particularly annoying, but she spent most of her shift distributing the log-in password for printing service in the little computer lab located in a small room just past her desk. Thinking back to the stringest old shusher she so despised back in junior high, the quintessential prudish librarian, Penny fretted over having to be such a grumpy Gladys at an early age. Unfortunately, socializing was not uncommon at the two long tables that sat just before her desk, and space was tight enough that any conversation at normal volume could easily be heard throughout the library. By late afternoon, she found herself so hypersensitive to the library’s bio-rhythms, that even the most faint noise, such as a hiss, a scratch, or a sigh, could easily preoccupy her attention, prompting the urge to shush to well within in her bosom, pushing so hard upon it, she might just blurt out an obscenity-laced reprimand at the next student who dare take a deep breath.
Armed with his usual arsenal of bags and with his trusty trenchcoat draped over his left arm, Stu tromped through the library’s unadorned entrance at 4:03pm, first checking the wall clock above the door. He made a point of nodding in Penny’s general direction, smiling sheepishly as he made his way to an empty seat near the end of the one of the two long tables. Penny’s bright red hair and equally colorful homemade blouse drew his gaze, as would a bright orange tiger lilly growing in an urban alleyway, a surprising and refreshing burst of zest amidst a dreary landscape. Stu struggled to concentrate as he scanned the notes he had prepared for his upcoming lecture on logical fallacies in argument, even failing to remember a well-established laugh line corresponding with a fun everyday example of equivocation. He remained unaware of the cause of his faltering focus until he caught himself bopping about his chair, fidgety beyond his normally frantic standards, drawing dirty looks as he drummed on one of his bags with a pen, leading to the realization that he was thoroughly over-caffeinated. Desperately drowsy after a morning course at ISUC and an early afternoon spent conducting an online course for Ashland College, Stu found he required an emergency pick up. Unfortunately, options were few at the Mart; a sugary soda from one of the fast food joints or coffee from a national café chain franchise in the basement level appeared his only alternatives. While this particular corporate powerhouse had a store in Stu’s neighborhood, Albany Park, as regular at Grimy Gary’s funky little café down the street, he had never sampled their wares. Upon his entrance into the store, Stu was quickly overwhelmed by the rush of stimuli, the robust aromas, the many signs advertising specials, and neatly-arranged displays featuring coffee-related paraphernalia, not to mention the generally overwhelming hustle and bustle of the place: the store had more customers at the time of Stu’s arrival than Grimy Gary would be lucky to serve all day. He froze as he neared the front of the lengthy line and ordered “the biggest coffee you have.” The barista, a woman in her twenties, displayed patience with his awkwardness and unfamiliarity with the ways of the franchise, a gentle gesture Stu greatly appreciated; the same could not be said for the impatient pack in line behind him, who did not hesitate to groan in disapproval.
His delicate system proved unprepared for the abundant level of caffeine in even their average beverage, yet alone the wallop packed by a ‘Vente.’ Less than a half hour after consuming only two-thirds of his beverage, staring blankly at his page of notes, he realized the folly of his decision. In this frazzled state, he was acutely aware of his surroundings and the potential distraction of countless social cues, from interaction with Penny to the heavy-breathing student sitting two chairs away. Stu’s antennae wriggled about until fixed upon an increasingly heated conversation at the library’s circulation desk. As both the volume and animosity of the disagreement amplified, he finally admitted defeat and raised his eyes from the sheet of paper. A tall and thin male student with slightly shaggy but carefully sculpted black hair disputed a fine. Behind the counter, a tall and slightly husky female with strong shoulders befitting an athlete wore a thick, rugged gray sweatshirt with the words ‘Warren Central High School Girls’ Track and Field” in green letters across the chest. The sweatshirt looked like it had more than a few miles on it. She kept her long brownish-blond hair wrapped in a tight ponytail, like she might before a big meet. Her eyes possessed the smoldering intensity of a competitor, even during quiet moments. A pair of student workers sat at a table ten feet behind the front desk, pretending to be doing homework while listening intently to every word of the discussion, periodically looking up from their books to make eye contact with one another, barely able to hold back outbursts of laughter as the argument escalated. The first worker, Rex, a chubby brown-haired male with a plump, bearded face, wore a blue sweater and sat facing the front. The second, named Emily, a shorter and more typically feminine blond wearing a fashionable red hooded sweatshirt and black sweatpants with the word “SPICY” across the posterior, faced away from the counter and hid her head under a baseball cap bearing the logo of a clothing company. Emily’s face was soft, framed by wide, high cheeks, but her eyes were large and swollen, portraying a hint of helplessness.
“I can only follow what the records say,” explained Tracy, the athletic student clerk, pointing to the computer terminal atop the counter. “And it says the book is three months overdue.”
Sloan, the student owing the fine, dressed in name-brand casual clothing—designer jeans and a white long-sleeve shirt decorated with an intricate screen print pattern dominated by irregular swirls and dramatic jags. It is said that clothes make the man, but in Sloan’s case it is perhaps better said that they typified him, someone who worked quite hard to look so casual. “I told you that I returned it at the end of the last quarter,” he reiterated.
“And I told you that we’ve checked the stacks and the book isn’t there.”
“Can’t you make an exception?”
“Do I look like I run this place?” Tiring of his protests, Tracy ceased to engage him in eye contact, directing her attention back to the terminal.
“No, but I like your eyes,” he commented, gently leaning his right elbow on the counter to project comfort and intimacy.
“My what?” she scoffed, raising her head away from the screen and taking a step away from the counter. He certainly regained her attention.
Sloan flashed his deep brown eyes, which were unique to the point of strange, if not actually buggy, but provided the illusion of a deep, piercing glance even when such a look was not his intent. This odd phenomenon was consistent with a theme; Sloan was one of a small class of people whose strangest characteristics somehow made them oddly more appealing. If Sloan were a library, Stu would most certainly spend his time there. “Your eyes,” Sloan finessed the clerk. “Has anyone told you you have lovely blue eyes?”
“They’re really more green than blue,” Tracy debunked. Laughter broke out from table behind her.
“OK, is there anyone I can speak to,” Sloan asked, removing his elbow from the counter, “a manager or something?”
“The head librarian left at 4. You just missed her. She’s the only one with the authority to clear fines. She’ll be back tomorrow morning when we open at 8.”
“How much would it cost me to clear things up?”
Tracy diddled with the keyboard, then replied, “$72. You have to pay to replace the book and take care of the fine.”
“I tell you what,” Sloan said, reaching into his back pants pocket for his billfold, “Here’s a crisp $20 bill to make this all go away.” he pulled on its ends, snapping it twice for emphasis.
“You’re bribing me? What is this?”
“Oh, come on? Can’t you take a joke?”
The clerked rolled her eyes and sighed, struggling mightily to maintain her composure. Taking a deep breath and another step away from the counter, she looked back to the table, hoping her co-workers would offer some sort of assistance or even the most minute amount of moral support that a sympathetic glance imparts, but both were determined to avoid her gaze and remain out of the fray. Not that either dared look up to witness, but the dismayed Tracy angrily stared them down. “Where is she?” she huffed. Shaking her head in frustration towards all who contributed to her misery, it suddenly dawned on her that the reference librarian was still available. While fines were not in her domain, Penny, a professional with an advanced degree offered the appearance of credibility a fellow student could not match.
Penny found it hard to rebuff Tracy’s request given that she wasn’t exactly properly occupied; she had three windows open on her computer screen when the student approached: her e-mail, a solitary game and craigslist job listings. More compellingly, the exasperated student was needy, at her wits end. Intensely aware of the strain a difficult patron can inflict upon the psyche of one trapped behind the desk, Penny relented, “I’m happy to help, but there’s nothing I can do about fines.”
“I know that, and I’ve told him the same thing, but coming from you . . . maybe he’ll listen.”
“OK, then,” Penny acquiesced, flipping the small folded sheet of paper fashioned into a “BE RIGHT BACK” sign into its readable position. Tracy escorted her through the swinging waist-high gate that opened into the area behind the circulation desk. “Hello,” Penny started, smiling pleasantly, hoping to quell tension with the calm approach of an accommodating hotel clerk.
Sloan caught her off guard by not opening with another plea for the fine’s clearance, rather starting off with flattery. “Hey, that’s an interesting top. Quite unique. I bet you got that at some funky store up on Belmont.”
“Actually, I made it,” she quickly replied. His carefully cultivated advertising major instincts were dead on; he had cleverly hit her soft spot. She was no school girl, though, and the compliment wasn’t about to soften her approach; it was, however, successful in throwing her out of her comfort zone. “What can I do for you?”
“I really need you to take care of this fine,” Sloan pressed with the same intensity as before.
“I’m sorry, but none of us have any authority to do that. You should take it up with Kathy, the head librarian, when she returns in the morning. I can leave a note for her to contact you first thing.” Penny clutched a pen, hovering it over a slip of paper as if to promote the viability of her offer.
“But I need to deal with this now.” As he completed the phrase, his neck twitched in swift, jerky manner, a tick that, though wholly unintentional, looked like an affectation meant to present a certain self-assured image.
Penny took note and quickly reacted by turning the screws on Sloan, “You could always pay the fine. Is that an option? If the book turns up, you’ll be refunded for the replacement charge.”
This suggestion was greeted with a seriously unhappy look accompanied by silence, as if he were disappointed in Penny. Sloan turned his back to her, resting his hips against the counter. Penny swallowed hard but maintained her smile. As Tracy did before her, she turned to seek the comfort of her cohorts. Lacking answers, Penny and Tracy shrugged their shoulders in unison.
Stu couldn’t help himself. As a former circulation clerk, he felt he had some insight into the inner workings of the mind of the fined, and he wasn’t about to get any work done with the Sloan saga unfolding a dozen feet away. “Young man,” he called, approaching the circulation desk. Glancing over his shoulder at the oncoming academic, Sloan greeted Stu with a dubious smirk. “Hi, I’m an instructor here at IAA. I have a few questions that might help clarify matters, if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever,” Sloan sighed. While he was bothered by the instructor’s intrusion and more generally by all the interest the matter was generating, he was quite aware of the importance of appearances and of which appearance he was selling. Above all else, Sloan wished to present a cool, calm and collected front in the face of scrutiny.
“Why is this such a pressing issue?”
Sloan was momentarily taken aback by the wide-eyed and wired, caffiene-fueled intensity of Stu’s impromptu interrogation. He took a deep breath before responding tactfully, “I need to clear the hold on my account.”
“For what purpose?” Stu’s questions were rapid blasts that fired off the instant Sloan uttered his reply.
“Well, I have a big paper due and I can’t check out any books with a hold on my account. Even if I did the work, I’m not allowed print from IAA computers until things are cleared up.”
“Have you considered the public library? Harold Washington, the crown jewel of the Chicago Public Library, is just a short hop around the Loop away and endowed with many, and I might add, more bountiful stacks than the library here?”
“No,” Sloan dismissed, “that hadn’t really dawned on me.”
“Alright, then,” Stu sighed, sensing quickly that Sloan would be no convert to the cause. Stu, perhaps observing Sloan from a unique perspective, noted the strange look about Sloan’s eyes and the brisk jerk of his neck for what they were, odd, potentially nervous ticks. Alas, Sloan was not a library. “How did you return the book?”
“What do you mean how?”
“Literally speaking, where did you place it?”
“Right here,” he explained bluntly, if not sarcastically, losing his cool long enough to bristle at what he considered a pointless question, gesturing at the book return chute a matter of inches from where he was standing. “Where else?”
“Would you please tell us some more about the paper you are working on?”
“It’s about psychographic profiles. It’s a demographic thing.“ Before Sloan could elaborate, a minor ruckus broke out at the table behind the circulation desk. Emily clutched the phone receiver in her right hand, placing her left over the microphone and exchanging forced whispers with Rex.
Penny finally addressed them directly. “What is it?”
“Kathy on line two,” Emily reluctantly explained. Sloan’s eyes widened as he finally got a look at the the female under the baseball cap who kept her back to him throughout the controversy. She quickly averted her gaze.
Penny picked up the extension and caught Kathy up on the facts. As Penny’s voice grew still, she listened intently to Kathy’s response, offering confirmations, such as “uh huh” and “yes.” “OK,” she said as she hung up the phone. Exhaling before continuing, she explained, “Kathy says she’s spoken with you a few times in the past, Sloan.”
“What the hell?” Tracy complained.
“Sure, I’ve talked to her,” Sloan admitted, squirming a bit but hanging in there.
“Just go ahead and pay the fine already,” Tracy commented.
Not yet convinced, Stu persisted, “About that paper. Could you explain the concept of psychographic profiling?”
“It deals with charting the pleasure and pain impulses of demographic groups in certain situations.”
“Why are you wasting your time on this guy?” Tracy wondered, as she paced about the space behind the counter.
Stu noticed Penny’s attention had been drawn back to the workers’ table. Once again, Emily seemed preoccupied, this time frantically if not somewhat surreptitiously text messaging beneath the table, her thumbs displaying expert dexterity. Noticing the buzz Emily had attracted, Rex tried to tip her off by bumping the table, but by the time she caught on, Penny stood over her shoulder. Contemplating intervention, Penny felt like a narc, a no good shusher, but Emily and Rex had sat on juicy information before. “Any news?” she asked quietly and somewhat diplomatically.
“What?” Emily asked, surprised and somewhat confused. Emily struggled for a more certain answer, only to be rescued when Sloan smugly but directly addressed her. “Hello, Emily.” Given that Sloan had approached the other females with such calculated smoothness, this less flirtatious greeting struck Stu as notable.
“Um, hi, Sloan.”
“How are you?” he inquired, looking away before she had the chance to answer. Penny, also noting the curious dynamic between the two students, crinkled her nose.
“I’m fine,” Emily returned, barely perceptibly.
“Em, can I have a word?” Sloan’s tone was stern, as if it were more a demand than a request.
Emily approached the desk slowly, leaving her phone behind, continuing to stare Sloan down with big, wet eyes. They spoke in intense whispers, with each standing on either side of the counter. Tracy and Rex started to exchange notions over at the table. Tracy had no qualms insisting Sloan was guilty. Rex, though mostly in agreement, was unable to get a word in amidst Tracy’s adamant damnation. Meanwhile, on the far end of the circulation counter, Penny called Stu over and they began their own quiet consultation. Penny suspected that Emily had something to hide. “Guys like Sloan,” she theorized, “just love to get under your skin.”
Stu nodded “True, it’s reality show 101, or so I’ve learned from some of my students explanatory essays that offer dating tips. But the fascinating detail I’ve observed is that he has a different strategy for different women. With Tracy and even with you, he used finesse and charm, at least at first, but with Emily, he’s brutal, right off the bat, almost giving orders.”
Penny confirmed, “It’s all part of the game.”
“But what game?” Stu’s eyes lit up. “Psychographics! He’s using the approach he feels best fits his demographic taget!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Penny, pausing to wonder what precisely put her in whatever demographic Sloan had apparently placed her.
The hushed hub-bubs eventually broke free from their restraints as tempers flared between Sloan and Emily. The other conversations halted when the typically soft-spoken Emily was heard to complain, “Then why didn’t you call? Not once over break . . .” Aware of the attention her comments inspired, Emily’s cheeks reddened to hues nearly matching her sweatshirt. She threw her arms into the air and retreated to the table, her hands trembling as she clutched the empty chair and attempted to regain her seat. Feigning indifference, Sloan once again turned his back to the circulation desk.
Penny gently took a seat at the table next to Emily and addressed her somberly. “Do you know anything about this?”
Possessing the somber yet defiant resolve of a martyr, Emily remained silent.
“What are you insinuating?” defended an increasingly angry Tracy, who hovered above the table. Penny was momentarily distracted by Tracy’s intimidating presence before returning her focus to Emily, staring sympathetically but intently into her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” was all Emily could muster.
Sloan faced the fray yet again. “Is that the best you can do?” Sloan’s needling of Emily confirmed Stu’s suspicion that he was antagonizing her as a tactic, but he was uncertain what end Sloan pursued.
Tracy’s frustrations finally exploded on Sloan. “This is all your fault! Why don’t you take responsibility and pay your fine?” Penny stood, stepping away from the rage-filled student, whose long arms flailed about as Tracy continued, “People like you always give us grief, and it always turns out that you’re full of it!”
A short, thin raven-haired student dressed in a long navy blue pea coat entered the library with the brisk gait of one navigating familiar terrain. She appeared initially oblivious to the drama unfolding at the circulation desk. Head down, her eyes attentively scanned the screen of her telephone device. When she looked up to see Sloan and several others gathered around him, she abruptly pivoted, turning as if to exit.
“Mad-i-son,” Sloan called, employing a slow, sing-song tone one might use when teasing another. His greeting effectively halted her escape.
“Hi, Madison. You’re late,” Tracy complained, offering an even chillier reception.
“Sorry, I know,” Madison offered Tracy, ignoring Sloan while whisking her way behind the counter. Madison removed her coat to reveal a long gray skirt and sleek black blouse with strangely-cut collars, both items designed and assembled by the wearer. Her clothing couldn’t have been more different than Penny’s homemade threads, a fact Penny certainly realized. Having overheard many a conversation between Madison and Emily about fashion design, Penny knew they were theoretical opponents, to say the least. The younger designers were intent on following contemporary trends, were Penny was determined to please her own tastes and whims.
Emily’s shift had technically ended at 4pm, when Madison, her oft-late friend, was to relieve her. Madison gave the signal, and Emily automatically raised from her seat to switch places. The two friends performed the ritual with silent precision, as if executing a practiced routine. Once seated, Madison gave Emily a cold, dead stare, her sharp green eyes opened wide. She whispering, “Why didn’t you text me?”
“I tried,” Emily mouthed without speaking audibly. “I tried.”
“How’s fashion design?” Sloan inquired of Madison.
“How’s advertising?” she snapped. “Oh, that’s right, not well since you can’t check out a book.”
Recognizing the tension between Sloan and Madison, Penny turned to subtly ask Rex, “What’s the story there?”
Reluctantly, he admitted, “They used to date.”
“Madison and Sloan?” a puzzled Penny asked.
Stu, who had been charting Sloan’s words and actions to see how they might fit into his psychographic scheme, seized the opportunity to once again engage him in interview. “Who was working when you returned the book?”
“Let’s see. Madison, for sure,” he paused. “Emily was there too, and so was Rex. I stopped by the library to return the book and ask Madison out.” He gazed tauntingly at Madison, mocking her with a broad grin.
“And you went out?”
“A few times. Before I went back to Michigan for the holidays.” The comment incited audible groans from behind the counter.
“And after that?”
“Nah,” Sloan grinned. With this quip, the groans grew into more pronounced denouncements. Penny and Tracy once again made eye contract, this time shaking their heads in tandem.
“During my stint as a college library circulation clerk,” Stu continued, addressing the entire group in the voice he used when conducting a class. “I noticed that my co-workers would not hesitate to manipulate patrons’ records, be it to their advantage or merely to the disadvantage of those they may wish to harm. With computer technology, this damage can be inflicted with the mere click of a mouse.” He took a deep breath and turned his attention to Madison, who sat with her back to him. “Madison, you were not happy with Sloan, which frankly, is pretty easy to imagine, and you seized the opportunity to take a measure of revenge.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You saw Sloan return his book and purposely failed to clear it.”
“That’s not true!”
“It’s not? He certainly provided you with plenty of motivation.”
Another whisper fit erupted between Madison and Emily, this one more severe than the others. As the conflict ceased, it was Madison with her head held high and firm, while Emily drooped her head submissively.
“You probably asked Emily to do it for you,” Penny advanced, speaking the moment the thought struck her. “Emily, is that true?” All eyes set, yet again, on Emily and Madison, jumping from one to the other to see who would react first. Madison’s bold green eyes instructed Emily to act, but she was too overwhelmed and confused to follow through.
“Rex?” Penny probed.
“Leave me out of this,” he urged, standing up and slowly backing away from the table.
Madison sighed and admitted, “I asked her to do it, OK. I saw him drop off the book. It was my idea to not scan and return it. He had it coming.”
“Is that true, Emily?” Penny asked. Emily, helpless and utterly dejected, placed her hands before her mouth and simply nodded. A slow but steady stream of tears flowed from her eyes.
Several eyes now settled on Sloan, who was uncharacteristically quiet. Most expected him to mock, taunt, or otherwise torment the women who had technically wronged him. “Madison . . . Emily,” he began, speaking with a formality and grace one associates with a speech or a toast. “I just want you to know that I forgive you.”
“Give me a break,” Tracy doubted.
“Please,” he pleaded. “I mean it. I could make a big deal out of this, but that wouldn’t be Sloan. It’s just not my style. I forgive you both, and I’d like to make things right. Would either of you do me the honor of hanging out later tonight?”
“I don’t think so!” Madison roared.
“Emily?” Sloan’s eyes spoke volumes, but Emily merely shook her head without bothering to raise her head to make eye contact.
“You’re a jerk, Sloan,” scolded Tracy.
“I’m a jerk with no fine to pay,” he cracked. Facing Penny, he inquired. “Am I cleared?”
“Sure,” Penny assented. “I’ll talk to Kathy tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll be leaving, then. So long folks.” Sloan punctuated his farewell with an obnoxious wave.
Madison nudged Emily, and the two began to conference. Breaking their huddle, Emily spoke shakily, addressing Stu and Penny. “You’re not going to tell on us, are you?”
“I can’t see anything good coming of that,” Stu mused.
“Are you sure about this?” Penny worried.
“If we tell Kathy,” a resolute Tracy argued, “Sloan wins.”
“I guess you’re right,” Penny conceded. “We’ll have to deal with this all tonight, before Kathy returns in the morning. You’ll need to set things right, though. Can you produce the book?”
“Yeah,” the pair rang.
“Once it is cleared, he’ll be freed of the missing book fee but still owe the lateness fines. Can you pay them?”
“I guess,” replied Madison.
“I’ll go get the book right now,” Emily agreed. She and her ‘SPICY’ sweatpants quickly skittered out of the library and down the hallway.
Stu asked, “You didn’t deface it, did you?”
“No,” Madison replied. “We just hid it in a sock drawer.”
“I would have tossed it in the river,” Tracy added.
“Keeping the book allows the possibility of blackmail,” Rex quipped, earning some questionable looks from Madison and Penny. “I’m just saying,” he defended.
Stu glanced at the big clock above the door, realizing it was time to depart and feeling flustered by the recognition that he was not completely prepared for his class, which was set to begin in a few minutes. He backtracked to gather his bags and coat before excusing himself awkwardly and exiting the library.
“Who was that guy again?” Tracy asked.
“I don’t know,” said Rex, “but he really likes the library.”
