this is normal. Could she have heard us talking in the parking lot? That thought makes me feel uncomfortable.
“And I’ll give you a ride to the transit station,” Mr. Bryce says. “Or I’ll be late for work myself.”
I did not know that he did not drive to work every day. It is kind of him to give me a ride. He is acting like a friend. “Thank you, Mr. Bryce,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I told you before: call me Danny, Lou. We’re neighbors.”
“Thank you, Danny,” I say.
He smiles at me, gives a quick nod, and unlocks the doors of his car. His car is very clean inside, like mine but without the fleece on the seat. He turns on his sound system; it is loud and bumpy and makes my insides quiver. I do not like it, but I like not having to walk to the transit station.
The station and the shuttle are both crowded and noisy. It is hard to stay calm and focus enough to read the signs that tell me what ticket to buy and at which gate to stand in line.
Chapter Eight
IT FEELS VERY STRANGE TO SEE THE CAMPUS FROM THE transit station and not the drive and parking lot. Instead of showing my ID tag to the guard at the car entrance, I show it to a guard at the station exit. Most people on this shift are already at work; the guard glares at me before he jerks his head telling me to go through. Wide sidewalks edged with flower beds lead to the administration building. The flowers are orange and yellow with puffy-looking blossoms; the color seems to shimmer in the sunlight.
At the administration building, I have to show my ID to another guard.
“Why didn’t you park where you’re supposed to?” he asks. He sounds angry.
“Someone slashed my tires,” I say.
“Bummer,” he says. His face sags; his eyes go back to his desk. I think maybe he is disappointed that he has nothing to be angry about.
“What is the shortest way from here to Building Twenty-one?” I ask.
“Through this building, angle right around the end of Fifteen, then past the fountain with the naked woman on a horse. You can see your parking lot from there.” He does not even look up.
I go through Administration, with its ugly green marble floor and its unpleasantly strong lemon smell, and out again into the bright sun. It is already much hotter than it was earlier. Sunlight glares off the walks.
Here there are no flower beds; grass comes right up to the pavement.
I am sweating by the time I get to our building and put my ID in the door lock. I can smell myself. It is not a good smell. Inside the building, it is cool and dim and I can relax. The soft color of the walls, the steady glow of old-fashioned lighting, the nonscent of the cool air— all this soothes me. I go directly to my office and turn the AC fan up to high.
My office machine is on, as usual, with a blinking message icon. I turn on one of the whirlies, and my music—Bach, an orchestral version of “Sheep May Safely Graze”—before bringing up the message: Call as soon as you arrive. [Signed] Mr. Crenshaw, Extension 2313.
I reach for the office phone, but it buzzes before I can pick it up.
“I told you to call as soon as you got to the office,” Mr. Crenshaw’s voice says.
“I just got here,” I say.
“You checked through the main gate twenty minutes ago,” he says. He sounds very angry. “It shouldn’t take even you twenty minutes to walk that far.”
I should say I am sorry, but I am not sorry. I do not know how long it took me to walk from the gate, and I do not know how fast I could have walked if I had tried to walk faster. It was too hot to hurry. I do not know how much more I could do than what I have done. I feel my neck getting tight and hot.
“I did not stop,” I say.
“And what’s this about a flat tire? Can’t you change a tire? You’re over two hours late.”
“Four tires,” I say. “Someone slashed all four tires.”
“Four! I suppose you reported it to the police,” he says.
“Yes,” I say.
“You could have waited until after work,” he says. “Or called from work.”