Author's Note: I'm onto my latest endeavor. This might be a little hard to follow at first because I'm toying with anagrams (it'll become clearer in the next chapter, I promise), so the part in the parentheses will let you know what the solution to the chapter title is. The title, too, will be explained shortly. Enjoy and review so I know how you like.

Bawdy Elf Stirrers

Era Strength (The Stranger)

August 22, 2008

When the girls with their big smiles and ribboned hair asked me to sign up for information about studying abroad, I had only wanted to squirrel past them to get to my KC Box and find my phone bill to see what damage I had done texting my ex-boyfriend the past few drunken nights, trying to pick a fight. But they relentlessly blocked my view of my box, insisting I at least give them my email, and so I relented, glaring as they finally let me sneak behind them, slide my key into my box, and retreat toward the philosophy building. The Keller Center (formerly the "Student Activities Center," or SAC, until the faculty got sick of all the simple-minded innuendos) only had one working entrance while they fixed the leaking roof at the opposite end, and so these girls had found a very strategic way of funneling students into their trap. I had gone for the cheese.

But, as it turned out, the more I read into Chestwick University the more I loved the idea of escaping my stiflingly small college and discovering some newfound, international freedom. I had gone in for my interview by the end of the semester, been approved by the board, signed up for classes, paid off more than half my dues, and gotten my classes signed off on so I could return to Grosch my senior year and finish my undergraduate degree on home turf. It felt good to know I was taking a step back from the constant smothering of familiar ground.

I soon discovered, however, that the feeling of elation fades quickly as the date of departure draws nearer. My mother, a workaholic who never really got to do what she wanted with her life after she settled into a relatively normal career of television advertising, wholeheartedly supported my venture. My father, on the other hand, was reluctant to see his little girl go overseas where his watchful eye couldn't peek in whenever necessary. He isn't overbearing—I give him a lot of credit for letting me, his youngest daughter, go to school over six hours from home without much fuss. It was either Grosch or Tulane, though, and the prospect of over eighteen hours in a car compared to six was a rather stellar compromise.

Still, as my plane descended through the murky fog surrounding the English airport in which I was about to land, I couldn't help but feel I'd made a terrible mistake. This was an entire year of my life I had eagerly sacrificed. I had friends back at Grosch, even back in Quail Lake, who I had depended on to get me through my first two years away from home and adjusting to the flow of life. Now Ted, Marcy, and many more were probably back at their apartments, houses, dorm rooms, and parties forgetting I was about to step off my plane and into a world totally foreign to me.

Chestwick University was located somewhere between Bath and London—I hadn't cared much about the geography so much as the academics. The philosophy program was superb—one of the most consistently rated schools in the English-speaking world, and since I couldn't learn to count to five in Spanish, there was no chance I was willing to drop everything I had in my second level philosophy and political science classes to pick up Swedish, French, or German.

So, narrowing my criteria to English-speaking schools, I had found myself inexplicably drawn to Chestwick even before I read into their philosophy program. Finally, my heart having settled on the little brick-and-ivy building in all the brochures and packets, I filled out my paperwork and got all my recommendations and transcripts in order.

The wheels of the plane touched down on the tarmac and I was jolted from my memories of Ted's most recent keg-stand—mostly I was smiling, thinking fondly of the black eye that had come with the escapade. But then passengers were standing, muttering to one another, readying themselves for the rush of people toward the terminal, and I hung back, content to be the last one off the last piece of America I had with me. It wasn't that I wasn't excited, it was my sad, sad sense of sentimentality. I was tempted to steal an airsick bag, just to have something that said "American Airlines" on it.

As I followed the mass of people from the plane to the terminal, I kept my eyes peeled for the dean of residents who would be taking me to my living space as soon as my bags were located. He was a short, portly man with Buddy Holly glasses and a salt and pepper beard that reminded me of an actor I couldn't remember at the moment. Whistling quietly, I edged around the slower-moving tourists and found my way to the moving walkways and back toward the baggage claim.

"Astrid Shanahan?" A pleasant British voiced asked, and I spun so fast I nearly clocked the poor guy behind me with my ponytail, but he deftly moved out of the way and clutched my forearm, chuckling warmly as my eyes widened in surprise.

"I'm Richard Parker—the dean of residents for Chestwick University." He shook my hand formally with a lopsided smile. "You must be Astrid Shanahan. Can I help you with your bags?"

Sheepish, I pushed my backpack up on my shoulder and adjusted my laptop bag. "I have quite a few, but if you want to help, I guess it'd make it a little easier for both of us."

As we lugged my two enormous suitcases full of sneakers, jeans, heavy shirts, sweaters, and tank tops toward the parking lot where his college-issue van was parked, I couldn't help but start thinking frantically about the coming week. I would unpack, arrange the furniture in the "flat" they were renting to me, buy my books, meet with professors, get class lists, find my "mentor," who was going to be my helper in the transition, and start my journal to get international credit at my home college. The whirlwind of information had me itching to go to the school store and find one of those cheap planners to pour my unending list of tasks into.

"Astrid?"

"Hm?" I turned sharply, realizing I hadn't been listening to a word Dr. Parker had been saying. "Sorry, it must be jet-lag."

"I was saying your mentor, Cynthia Powell, will be checking in you later tonight, and very well may offer to take you to supper in London. I advise you to accept her invitation—Cyn is quite the little firestarter when she wants to be and she won't take kindly to a declination."

I stared straight out the front of the car, having a mild heart-attack as my brain adjusted to the sight of cars driving on the opposite side of the road, and then remembered my tongue too late. "Cynthia Powell? Is that some kind of joke?"

"Oh, you know her?" Dr. Parker asked in an amused voice.

Smiling devilishly at him, I blinked slowly. "No, but if she's the one who married John Lennon, I've heard of her. Who names a child after the first wife of one of the Beatles?"

"I highly doubt she was named after the poor girl, but she is from the Liverpool area, so it is very possible." He turned toward a long winding path lined with blue and white flowers. "Here we are, Miss Shanahan. Your flat is the one on the ground floor, west side." He extracted a key pass for the front electronic lock and a regular metal key for the door lock. "Number 113."

"Thanks, Dr. Parker." I replied in a chipper voice and took the keys from him, thinking carefully about how I would go about not losing this set—back at Grosch I was notorious for losing keys to just about anything. My room, my dorm, my car, my locker in the music building, my key to the research library in the philosophy building—if it had any importance to it, I would lose it.

"This is the international building." Dr. Parker went on to explain as he helped me get my numerous bags from the van. "There are three other tenants—all from different countries this year. It's extremely rare to only have one from Germany, but the new dean wanted some variety. So, we have an American," he smiled at her as he extended his hand with my laptop bag dangling from it, "a German boy, a Swedish boy, and a fellow from Japan."

"Are there other international students?" I asked politely.

"Just the four. We only take the four every year." Dr. Parker responded in a curiously light voice. "It's a fairly small school, Chestwick. Just under 1,500 students."

"That's smaller than Grosch!" I exclaimed.

Shrugging helplessly, Dr. Parker simply stacked my smaller duffel bag on top of my second rolling suitcase. "It's a very specialized school. We offer degrees in almost anything, but there are only a handful of students who don't major in philosophy, criminology, or psychology. It's just what we're known for."

I opened my mouth, daring to ask more questions, but Dr. Parker turned a little away from me, letting me know there was something behind me I ought to see, and I put my laptop bag down next to my suitcase, turning as a six foot and some inches tall behemoth with short red hair and a smile so blindingly white I actually squinted in response bent and picked up my suitcase filled sneakers and other non-clothing items as easily as if it were full of feathers.

"Let me guess," my mouth moved effortlessly, about to put me into hot water for sure, "you're Sven, from Svee-den?"

He laughed loudly, biting his lip. "Johan, for sure. I am Johan. This make you Mary Sue, from America?"

"Astrid." I offered my hand to his free one and he gripped it painfully, not noticing my agony as he grinned like a little boy.

"But this is Swedish name!" Johan sounded delighted. "Is family Swedish?"

Shaking my head with a bit of a blush, I apologetically replied, "I'm Irish through and through. My grandfather was the first member of my family who wasn't born in Ireland, actually."

"This is okay." Johan offered brightly, not looking dampened in the least. "Pretty girl is pretty girl."

Dr. Parker cleared his throat noisily and looked at his watch, probably wondering whether or not he should leave to gather another student or visit his office to let us young kids have our cake and eat it, too, but he delayed just long enough for Johan to pick up the other suitcase just as effortlessly as the first and barge inside, asking me loudly which flat was mine. I hoped to God he was in the floor above me so I wouldn't hear his booming voice at all hours, but something told me it was mostly the excitement controlling the volume now.

"113!" I shouted in reply, grabbing what I could of my other bags, thanking Dr. Parker as he grabbed the last two duffels and followed me in. I slid the key in the lock of the door, pressing my hip against the nearest wall to hold my books and DVDs while I couldn't cradle them.

"You'll need a different DVD player to play those." Dr. Parker commented as I struggled not to lose my box in the struggle to open the tired lock.

"I brought one." I grunted in reply and finally the door oozed open. I couldn't help but laugh. It was yellow. Every surface, every curtain, every ounce of furniture was yellow, and not a spring yellow or cream color, but that neon-colored piss-after-too-many-B12-vitamins yellow.

"You're allowed to decorate your quarters as you see fit." Dr. Parker replied in a flat voice, hiding his laugh very well. "It'll be at your own expense, unfortunately, but I think it should probably be done."

"The furniture?" I asked in disbelief, realizing with a sigh of relief the yellow couch and recliner were adorned with homemade slip-covers to hide the original paisley print.

Johan took the two suitcases to the bedroom and deposited them on the bed, a modest queen-sized affair with a solid wood headboard. Sighing happily, I thanked Johan for his help and he mentioned he lived across the hall. Promising to visit as soon as I was settled in, I escorted him and Dr. Parker to the door, said my goodbyes, and locked the door.

I slid posters from my suitcases first, laying them on the kitchenette floor with books on the corners to get them into shape for the walls. I set up my home-entertainment and unpacked the dishes I'd brought. I put sheets on the bed, hid the slip-covers, and filled the tiny bathroom with every possible amenity I could think of. I was just getting around to alphabetizing my collection of books when a knock sounded on my door and I rushed to answer it, thinking it might be another one of the international students ready to greet me. Despite my rush to get Johan out of the flat earlier, I was ready to show anyone willing to look my bright and shiny face.

Throwing open the door, I saw a figure that might have been cut directly from a magazine for preparatory school fashion. She was a thin redhead with a model's physique, was wearing the typical plaid pleated skirt, knee-socks and Mary Jane shoes. Her blazer was unbuttoned, and inside she wore a plain white blouse capped off with a blue and white striped tie. Underneath the white blouse she had a baby blue girl's shirt reading "Smirking Poppies" in all lowercase letters, plain font. Her smile burst abruptly over her pale, empty cheeks.

"You must be my American bird." She ran her tongue over her lip in what I guessed would be a nervous tic, and I noticed she had one of those upper-lip piercings—a Marilyn Monroe. It suited her face, I thought reluctantly.

"I'm Cynthia." The girl thrust her hand toward me, oblivious to the fact I was staring at her.

"I'm Astrid." I replied in a peppy tone and shook her hand. "Come on in."

"Thank God you offered!" Cynthia released a heavy breath and brandished a bottle of very nice Merlot. "I wanted to make sure I got to welcome you properly. Me brother was supposed to come with me, but he had to travel north to play a show with his band."

"Ooh, his band?" I shot her a quick grin. "Is it a good one, at least?"

Cynthia rolled her eyes as she sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. "Hardly. This is only their second gig. They play blues music. Only blues music."

"Not a fan?" I asked carefully.

"It's all right in passing, but a three-hour set of the stuff will grate on any girl's ears." She spun in the chair and looked around the apartment in disbelief. "You gonna paint this place?"

"I was planning on it, yeah." I grinned at her and put my elbows on the table. "I think the guy across the hall might even help me."

"Yeah? Where's he from?" She peered at the door curiously and then, before letting me answer, explained, "All the international students are going to be staying here. You're here a little early to get used to Chestwick, and I'm here because next year I'm planning on going abroad. So, all the students who are planning on going abroad will be staying in this building or the attached ones behind." She reached for the wine and pulled a wine opener from her purse as if this were no big deal.

I thought carefully before asking, "Then your brother...?"

"He's a bloody tagalong, that's all. And a girl-monger. He thought if you weren't one of those depressing, fat American girls he might try to give you a pull."

I very suddenly wasn't all that impressed with Cynthia's brother. "Really?"

"I'm probably simplifying it, but that's basically all he's good for. The little shit is a philosophy major—he's in the graduate school here for God's sake." She took a deep breath and exhaled noisily to show she was going to let the topic go. "Maybe he'll teach, he said. Maybe. When he gets patience, sure. He can teach. Until then, he'll play in his band, smoke the ganja, and piss me right off."

I smiled wryly. "I bet you two spend all sorts of time together."

"Too much." Cynthia agreed and looked around my kitchen in a frenzy. "You have wine glasses? How about an ashtray?"

"I don't want the place smelling like smoke, but there is a little patio out back we could go stand on. You mind letting me bum one? I didn't buy any before I left the States." I eyed her bottomless purse hungrily. When busy, one could forget an addiction, but it only came back stronger than ever when provoked.

"Let's open this wine first." She twisted the cork, found glasses, and told me all about the university with an unlit cigarette taunting me from the corner of her mouth. We drank the wine slowly, enjoying the aged taste while she explained the process of things and the usual routine. I told the "truth" about American fraternities and parties and she listened with slitted, eager eyes. Johan, stepping out onto the community porch to chew tobacco and call home gave us both a big grin and sat down, chattering in his native language with his parents.

"I need to get an international phone so I can call home without the phone card." I sighed longingly. "It's such a pain in the ass to dial a hundred numbers just to get through. And even then the connection is terrible!"

Cynthia, who didn't seem to find this conversation all that riveting, widened her eyes at me with an excited laugh. "Before you fill up your calendar, you have to mark down the annual kegger in November. This year my family isn't going to be at our family cottage in Kintyre, so we're going to be up there."

"In Scotland?" I asked in surprise. "You have property there?"

Nodding, Cynthia lit a cigarette and then offered me one. I took it and snatched her lighter away while she went on and on about her family's money and how they pretty much whittled away the inheritance buying worthless property in all the rural parts of the UK.

"You live anywhere near Paul McCartney, then? Doesn't he have a place up there?" I gave her a sly look.

She rolled her eyes. "You and my mother would have a hoot. She still thinks if he stopped by on the weekend she would leave my father."

"Hell, I might drop what I'm doing even if he's--"

"Ew, you can stop right there!" Cynthia made a face and looked over as Johan hung up his phone and pocketed it, spitting over the railing into the garden. "Hey, where are you from, Gigantor?"

"I am from Sweden!" Johan reported back in a far too trusting tone and then rubbed the back of his head. "There is only field hockey here?"

"Yeah, sorry." Cynthia shrugged without looking too upset. "Do you play?"

"I just watch. I more play football." He motioned a soccer kick and I sheepishly reminded myself that the lexicon was different here. A flutter in my stomach made me want to say my goodnights and turn in early, but Cynthia was way ahead of me.

She waved to Johan as he departed and then turned, tossing red hair from her eyes. "I have a party to make an appearance at, but I have to be back here tomorrow at noon to show you around campus. Be ready then, yeah?"

"Sure, I can do that." I agreed, a little overwhelmed by it all. "Goodnight, Cynthia."

She waved and jumped the railing of the my little porch and disappeared toward the student apartments.

***

August 25, 2008

I was already running five minutes late for my first class ever at Chestwick, and it wasn't a good feeling. I was, to be perfectly honestly, hungover from my proper welcome into the university community the night before at the local pub where I think I paid a grand total of fifty cents for my pints of lager—everyone insisted I shouldn't pay for myself my first night out in the city. Hildenborough was a beautifully designed little thing, but there was just the one pub, and everyone who was everyone was there. I met professors while completely tanked.

I burst into my philosophy class, out of breath, sticky from practically sprinting from the international building to the philosophy building. The professor, a thirty-ish young man with square-framed glasses and what looked like three days' beard on his face turned and smiled at me. I suddenly remembered dancing my way over to the bar the night before and introducing myself. I don't think I got much farther before Cynthia pulled me away.

"You look how I feel." He quipped and held a hand out, offering me the seat closest to his lectern. Groaning aloud, not caring who heard, I collapsed into the seat and pulled out a fresh folder and a pen, wondering if I would need to take notes on the first day of class.

A couple of students had sniggered, but I refused to turn around and examine the class. I could tell they were all staring at me even so, and practically had to steel myself against the inevitability he would have me introduce myself to the class, being one of four study-abroad students.

"Astrid Shanahan?" He peered around, squinting even through his glasses, and I sighed, raising my hand with a begging look.

He smiled pointedly and gestured for me to stand up. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is our American exchange student. Where are you from, dear?"

"I'm from a small town in mid-Michigan and I'm going to a school even smaller than Chestwick in southeast Michigan." I smiled at the class, wishing I had sunglasses, and saw a few of the people in the back sit up a little to get a proper look at me. There were a handful of redheads, blondes, and darker heads floating around, but I was drawn to the three brunettes in the room, aware I was actually a minority here with gray eyes and brown hair. I met eyes with a boy with auburn hair and dark green eyes who had half a smile on his face as he stared up at me through his eyelashes. Shaking his head a little, he glanced down and I looked over at the professor expectantly.

"What's the name of this university?"

"It's a college." I replied automatically. "Grosch College—it's a little liberal arts school in nowhere, Michigan."

A blonde boy spoke up, asking, "Why'd you come to Chestwick then, eh?"

I shrugged a little and then smiled at the professor. "I heard this is the second best school for philosophy in the UK. I couldn't resist."

The professor, Dr. Bentham, smiled at me again, propping his elbow up on the lectern. "And what will you be doing with your degree?"

"Ideally I'd like to practice law—I'm fulfilling some international political science credits while I'm here, too." But the recent feelings I'd been having about not pursuing a law degree haunted me. "But I'm open to teaching, too. At the collegiate level."

The interrogation was over shortly and he continued roll. I only pulled myself from my slump when I heard the auburn-haired boy from the back who's smiled at me corrected the professor, saying loudly, "I go by Jude, Dr. Bentham." The professor responded by handing out our syllabus. We went over it carefully and he answered questions. With all that being done, my first class was let out about ten minutes early and I wandered over to the cafeteria to get lunch before my second class met.

While wandering in the lower part of the eatery, I came across a station with hot dogs. My eyes widened and I eagerly went for the junk food before I felt a big hand slide across my waist and rest on my hip. I almost screamed and dropped my plate (Chestwick had gone green and no longer used trays, which I both liked and loathed for the environment and my convenience respectively), but noticed at the last moment it was Johan from the apartments.

"Oh, hi!" I put a hand to my fluttering heart. "You surprised me. Where are you sitting?"

"Right over there." He pointed and I saw a trio of other guys and a girl sitting at a round table with two spots open. "You should come, yes?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Just let me grab something to drink--"

"I will get this for you." Johan reluctantly released my hip. "What for you?"

I glanced up at his red hair, sort of squashed into a shape from sleeping heavily the night before, I figured, and then into his eyes. "I dunno, a cola of some kind. I feel like a pop."

Johan paused, clearly puzzled. "Maybe...I take plate for you instead?"

I held it out to him with a weary sigh. "Thanks, Johan. You're sweet."

He beamed at me, forgetting at first to move toward the table, and then he quickly moved around me and toward the table, sitting between the young woman and the dark-haired boy who was looking over a syllabus with a frown.

I got myself a glass of soda from the fountain machine in the back area of the cafeteria and wandered over to a dessert case where I spied strawberry shortcake. Unable to resist, I took a small serving plate and a slice of strawberry shortcake, quickly hurrying over to join Johan and his new friends at their table.

Johan stood up when I got close and smiled brilliantly, pulling out the free chair for me. As I sat, my cheeks hot from all this attention, he started introductions.

"This is Aria, she is in sports anatomy with me. And these three are on football team with me—Eric, John, and Luke." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Everyone, this is my friend, Astrid. She live in international apartment across the hall from me!"

"And where are you from?" Aria asked curiously, adjusting her chunky-knit beret as she chewed on her lip ring.

I took my fork and jabbed my dessert. "I'm from Michigan."

"Detroit?" One of the men, I couldn't remember names or faces and wasn't sure Johan had bothered to make sure I knew which face was which name.

I shook my head with an apologetic smile. "No, but I have a lot of family there. I spent quite a bit of my childhood visiting, actually."

Johan, who had brightened up at the mention of Detroit, had slouched a little, but was once again beaming. "Do you like to watch hockey, Astrid? Like to see Red Wings games?"

Impressed, I nodded. "Sure, I've been to a few games. You must know them because of all the Swedes on the team, right?"

"Nicklas Lidstrom visited my hockey rink back home! He signed my jersey." Johan puffed his chest proudly. "I only play football now because I know I will never achieve spot on American hockey team."

"Who knows, you might!" I frowned a little at him and reached for my disgusting lunch.

The guys started to grill us both about this sport, the one that had never really taken off in England, and we did our best to explain its appeal, but by the end of it I had committed myself to going to all the home football games to "learn the better sport." I made no promises to change my mind, and Johan looked secretly pleased with me.

"Where is next class?" Johan asked me as he followed me from the cafeteria. I hung back a little to let him catch up to me, and felt him take my backpack, which was all tangled up in straps and unnecessary buckles.

I pointed vaguely toward the opposite side of campus, which was just about five hundred yards away at best. "At the law building over there. Where are you going?"

"I have nothing until tonight." He sounded chipper and I smiled helplessly, wondering when exactly I had decided his boyish idiocy was cute. "May I walk you, Astrid?"

"Walk me?" I gave a little bit of a start. "To class?"

"If it is all right." He slowed a little as he untangled the strap from the frontmost zippered compartment and zipped it shut. I reached for it, but he didn't seem to notice and swung it to his shoulder, walking beside me with a shy smile.

"Sure, it's fine." I smiled over at him, feeling naked without my backpack, but Johan only had a folder and a textbook of his own, so he didn't look too terribly overburdened. I tucked some hair behind my ear with an awkward smile. This was always the hardest part. If he would ask me out and I could be certain he wasn't just an overly affectionate Swede, I would actually be more likely to relax and enjoy myself around him. But he was wholesomely carrying my books. What was that? Who still did that?

Johan caught a rogue Frisbee thrown from somewhere in the rolling green pasture between all the buildings, and threw a perfect forehand back towards the sweater-vested boys who'd thrown toward us.

"You play?" I indicated the flying disc as it went over our heads to a second group of boys on the opposite side of the sidewalk.

He nodded and bounced a little, happy. "We play like it is American football for Frisbee."

"My friends and I played, too. In America it's called Ultimate Frisbee." I grinned at him and felt myself relax a little.

We walked in comfortable silence a little longer and I heard someone yell, "Heads up, Powell!" Craning my neck, wondering if I'd see Cynthia in there with the boys, I only saw two heads snap up at the same time, the shorter of the two answered the call got to the flying Frisbee first.

My stomach gave a horrible twist as we got close to the building and I regretted the sugar and fatty foods. Rubbing my belly pathetically, I accepted my backpack from Johan's waiting hand and told him I'd see him later on that night, when I went back to my apartment for dinner..

"For sure, Astrid." Johan rubbed the back of his neck.

I paused, almost feeling sorry for him, and winked, whirling into the building with a hidden smile.

***

August 30, 2008

I woke up when I heard a frantic pounding on my porch door. Looking at the clock on my nightstand blearily, not quite believing the time, I rolled to my feet, shouting for silence on the glass sliding door leading to the porch. As I drew back the blinds, I blinked in surprise at Cynthia, who appeared to be drunk beyond words, grinning at me, cat-like, from the railing of my porch. She let go of the door and balanced on the railing, whooping, and toppled backwards into the grass. I let out a little gasp and rushed outside, checking that she was all right, and saw some of her friends, ones I had hung out with at the pub my first night, standing around her.

Cynthia sat up a little "C'mon, Astrid! Bobby Riggs says he can beat you at table tennis!"

I closed the door and hurried over to the edge of the porch, hoping she hadn't woken my neighbors—the Japanese guy had only showed up tonight at eleven o' clock after much difficulty with his student visa and other things of that ilk. He didn't need to be woken up by my drunken campus liaison.

"Come on where, exactly?" I whisper-shouted down to the huddled group of girls sitting on the grass beside my raised porch.

"To the upper-class student dorms!" A curly-haired girl called back with a big grin. "We have two quarts of absinthe..."

My eyes widened. "Where the hell do you get absinthe?"

"It's not so hard here. Just America." Cynthia hiccuped at me. "Are you coming or not?"

While it was a Saturday night and I had no significant amount of homework from my first week of classes, the idea of going over to Cynthia's on-campus apartment, partaking in an alcohol which was highly illegal in its original form back home was not appealing. I shook my head apologetically and shushed them all when they groaned in utter loathing.

"I have to stop in tomorrow to work on my thesis. The philosophy building is only open from nine to noon and I need the library in there. It's..." I looked at my watch and heaved a sigh. "Five thirty in the morning now. I only went to bed three hours ago, Cynthia."

She made a noise and struggled to pull herself to her feet. "Aw, you're no fun, Yankee!"

Sighing again, I nodded. "I know, I'm a real Debbie Downer. Now, could you lovely ladies go so you don't wake up my Japanese neighbor?"

They cat-called me and I accepted the punishment with a tight smile until they had departed and I went back inside, grumbling under my breath, giving a start when a knock came at my door. Padding over silently, I slid the chain on the lock and undid the deadbolt, peering out the crack I opened the door to see Johan yawning, standing in basketball shorts and a plain black t-shirt. I opened the door the rest of the way.

"I hear yelling." Johan said through a second yawn.

"My campus liaison dropped in. She was...drunk." I gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Johan. I didn't mean to wake you up."

"It's all right. I think I will watch sunrise." He peered past me toward my kitchenette window where the outside world was still dark, but the horizon was turning pink. "I must go to the track for running in two hours anyway."

I leaned against my door, exhausted. "I'm going to catch up on some more sleep before I have to go work on my essay."

Johan nodded and I felt this weird recognition in him, as if he were finally willing to accept that I was not going to be some sort of link between him and the things he missed about home. I was not a sports fanatic like he was, even though he was an intelligent and sweet guy. He was not the book-type, no matter how great a grade he got on the preliminary essay on the book assigned to all four international students.

We blinked at each other and Johan released a sad sigh before smiling and patting my shoulder. I waved with a soft word of farewell, and closed the door. I crawled back to bed, but didn't really fall asleep until just before my alarm went off and I got up to shower and get ready to face the day.

Chestwick's campus really was a beautiful sight, but I was in a foul sort of mood by the time I was walking to the philosophy building. It was Saturday, the lab and library were only open for three hours, and I had a thesis to write. It wasn't due until my senior year, but they didn't give me any extra time just because I was spending a year in England. So, I was picking apart thirty articles by twenty-three authors regarding politics, physicalism, and feminism.

Sliding my electronic key into the lock at the philosophy building, I was granted access by the little green light. Stifling a yawn, I bounded up the steps and found the library entrance. I swiped my key yet again and the door swung open and the auburn-haired boy from my class stepped back in a hurry.

"Sorry!" He sounded dead tired as he held an arm out. "Ladies first."

"How'd you get in here before nine?" I asked suspiciously as I came in and shrugged off my backpack, looking for an empty computer where I could load my thesis from my flash drive.

The boy scratched the back of his neck and wiped the dark space under his eyes. "I never left last night. I'm been going right mad tryin' to get this first quarter of my thesis done, but I just can't seem to do it and keep my sanity. I'm a cynical bastard!"

I smiled and sat down at the only free computer of the two, the one right next to his. "Were you just leaving?"

"I was going for a coffee run. I figure I have time to grab some java if the building will be unlocked." He sized me up. "Did you need some?"

"I could give you some cutter, sure." I reached for my backpack and I saw him grinning from the corner of my eye. "What?" I handed him a fiver.

"Cutter. That's not your kind of word."

"Coffee's not your kind of drink." I raised my eyebrows.

The boy's face seemed to sober up, get a little older, and remind me I was in way over my head. "What's your name again?"

"Astrid. You?"

"Jude." He nodded toward the door. "I'll be right back with that coffee. Plain black all right?"

"Unless they have Bailey's at the ready, that'll be fine." I smiled at his laugh as he exited the library and bounced down the steps toward the entrance.

I pulled up the folder on my flash drive and extracted articles, pieces of essays, and the actual thesis file itself, taking some ten minutes to figure out my train of thought from where I had left off. I was thirty pages into this monster, but all my advisors expected it to be around seventy when it was ready for revision. Heaving a great big sigh, I cracked my knuckles and was just about to start writing when I heard a voice come up the stairwell to the library. Jude reentered, on his cell phone, cup of coffee in each hand, steaming.

"No, Karen, I can't just drop everything to come see you. I'm busy. Well, I want to graduate, don't I? No, I'm not graduating early! Look, I have to go, can you keep the crazy contained until I can stop by?"

I smiled into the keyboard of my computer, but was now unable to concentrate at all. I accepted my cup, suspicious there was no change, and then took a sip of the drink, gasping at the mild bite of alcohol I tasted in the Columbian brew. Jude winked at me as he turned, once more trying to persuade his lady caller to get off the phone with him, and I looked at his back pocket where a flask was wedged between his wallet and student ID.

"Oh, Christ!" I laughed, and took another sip of my coffee, putting the paper cup down and tilting my head, cracking my neck. Suddenly I got to work, my fingers flying with practiced ease across the keys of a state-of-the-art Mac desktop computer.

Finally Jude had hung up the phone with a disgusted sigh. He sat down at the computer on the lab station next to me and cracked open an enormous dusty volume, sneezing shortly after. I stifled a laugh and he cursed, thumbing through and finding a passage in Latin that he scribbled down and began to translate from memory, squinting at the ceiling to remember verb forms. I was in awe.

We worked for a while in silence, but now and then I would find enough bravery to ask him a question—he had taken more logic classes than I had—I was in love with ethics where he was more into epistemology. Under the suggestion of my advisor, I had chosen to write my thesis on politics and epistemology, and I was paying for it now. Luckily, Jude was writing his thesis, too, and to put him outside his comfort zone, his advisors had signed off only on an ethics and psychological testing proposal. I came swooping to the rescue gladly.

At three o' clock, well after the building had been locked back up for the day, I finally decided enough was enough and started to pack up, noticing Jude turning off his computer too. Hiding a smile, I started for the stairs and paused when he turned off the lights.

"Oy, help me finish this off, would you?" He nudged me with his flask and I took it, poised in the doorway of the philosophy library. Giving him a smile that said I wasn't usually like this, I took a big gulp, leaving him a little, and he finished it off, shaking his head briskly as he tossed the flask into his messenger bag. I rubbed my throat to ward off the burning that followed a swallow of liquer made for coffee.

"You must live in the international building, eh?" Jude asked, and privately I was thrilled he had started this conversation.

I nodded, feeling the burning sensation fade away slowly. "Yeah, across from a Swede and next to a Japanese guy. I'm the only incoming female this year, I heard."

"That's not so bad. Two of the four last year were girls, and they both went home pregnant. I s'pose they're thinking they could cut that statistic by some if there's only one girl to fuck it up."

I sniggered carefully and then stopped short at the doorway where my philosophy professor, Dr. Bentham, was putting his all-access key into the slider to gain access. I quickly pushed open the door for him and blinked owlishly at me from behind his spectacles.

"Miss Shanahan! What a pleasant surprise. How's your first week been?"

"Pretty good. Just checking out the facilities." I glanced backward at Jude, forgetting for a moment my breath probably smelled like caramel-flavored alcohol.

Bentham smiled and winked jovially. "And with no better of a tour guide than Mr. Powell, huh?"

"I take it you talked to Christiansen and Marks." Jude sighed, and I started making connections. Julian, who went by Jude, and whose last name was Powell. Could this be Cynthia's asshole brother? I prayed it wasn't—he was too cute and too kind to me for it to be so easy to find him repulsive. And, on top of that, the last thing I needed was a year-long romance coming off the nasty break-up back home. Maybe a fling or something casual, but certainly nothing like my romance-saturated brain was willing and able to concoct.

"Why only a three-year program this time?" Bentham asked curiously, and I shifted my weight, anxious.

"I have some pretty big commitments in the summer I can't put off any longer. And I'll be missing some serious class in January, so I figured I'd go easier on myself and shoot for the lower degree." Jude sighed loudly. "I'm almost done with the first quarter of my thesis, though, so it won't be too daunting of a task."

Nodding, Bentham took the door from me at last and propped it for me and Jude. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, folks. I've got to finish a dissertation by November and want to get editing while I don't have essays to mark."

Waving half-heartedly, I started down the steps and slowed in disappointment as Jude pulled a little farther from me and started in the opposite direction, toward the graduate school apartments—they were off-campus, much larger, and free of annoying campus safety check-ins.

"I'll see you around for sure, Astrid." Jude lifted an arm to wave, his hair turning a gorgeous shade of auburn in the fall sunlight. "Take it easy!"

"Bye!" I called back and turned, floating back to my apartment.

As I collapsed inside, too spent to consider doing my reading assignment for my European Politics class, I closed my eyes and kneaded my forehead with my fingertips, wanting to sleep for a few days. I could not afford such luxury, even this early in the school year, however, and quickly rolled to my feet, throwing some vegetables into a skillet with cooking oil and as many spices as I could find.

Nothing on my iPod seemed to be doing the trick so I turned on the radio I found attached to the underside of the kitchen cabinet and twisted the old-fashioned dials until they rested on the college music station. I wasn't surprised to hear a squeaky-voiced young kid enumerating the reasons to listen to the next band he was going to play, but I only had to suffer through a few minutes of him lauding the musical sensibilities of the group before he properly introduced the song.

"Once again, the group has leaked their entire album to the internet community and we came by this copy from a source which cannot be named. Publicity just keeps getting more and more intense as the mystery comes closer and closer to being unveiled!"

I leaned a little closer to the radio, frustrated, expecting him to get on with it.

"I've been watching Internet forums like a hawk, but all that's been discovered is the group consists of five members, all from England, all of them are men, and the lead singer is in hiding somewhere right now and won't come out until the tour officially begins in January and February."

"Come on!" I hit the side of the radio, having had enough of this tripe.

As if the DJ had felt my smack, he hastened to add, "Anyway, without further ado, here's the Smirking Poppies with 'Lovely Disaster.'"

I had half a mind to roll my eyes, but when the synthesizer, electric guitar, and bass came in, I was mesmerized. The song was about five minutes long, and while the lyrics didn't stick with me, the sound of the singer's voice was hauntingly familiar but impossible to place. The studio tricks on his voice made it echo in a horrible, ghost-like way that couldn't be ignored. And finally, when the synthesizer was the only one left, I snapped out of it and looked over at my door just as someone knocked.

I got up sluggishly, still feeling beat from my hours of research in the philosophy library, and when I opened the door to see Cynthia in yet another band t-shirt, Bob Dylan sunglasses, and a denim skirt that threatened to give away her only secret.

"You up for a little bit of a pub crawl?"

I hesitated. "I'm pretty tired, actually. I was working all day--"

"You need to have a night out, then. I'll make you some coffee at my apartment and then we'll go out to the bar." She clutched her hands tightly in front of her face. "Please, Astrid?"

"Did no one else want to go or something?" I asked, only half-expecting her to be blunt with her answer.

Her hands dropped and she had the sense to look a little embarrassed. "The thing is, my favorite band does these secret shows now and then. They never come out from behind the curtain, security is like mad around all the entrances to the backstage area, and they play like three songs and get out before the press can get there. No one knows where they'll play, when it'll be, or if it'll even happen." She bit her lip. "I drag my mates everywhere in case they're playing, and so far I've been a total bomb. Nothing. Tonight no one would play ball with me and I do have to spend so many hours with you a week to prove I'm being a mentor and all that jazz, so I thought I might as well invite you to spend time with me while I'm doing something I like."

Though I still held reservations about her genuine desire to spend time with me personally or have someone with her to make sure she wasn't taken advantage of when she ventured into these seedy bars, I figured it was a weekend and I didn't have anything to lose except regular sleep. So, sighing and waving her into the house, I went to my room and filled my purse with all the nighttime essentials and put on some sneakers, throwing my veggies into the fridge as I passed through the kitchen. After I locked my door and turned off the patio lights, I came out and Cynthia joyfully took my hand, squeezing it once before darting off to her car.