Page 43 of On His Mind

I have sixteen credits this semester. Architecture History II, which will be an easy A and a genuine pleasure, because I like knowing why buildings are the way they are. ArchitecturalDrawing II, which is the class I love the most. Building Systems II, which is the plumbing, the ductwork, and the honest guts of a place. Then I have Design Studio II, which is the whole reason for the rest of it. And a science requirement. Geology. Rocks.

I sit in Geology on Tuesday morning between two engineering students who are already asleep, and I look at a slide of a sedimentary layer, and I think I will get an A in this, and I will never think about it again for the rest of my life. That is the arrangement I have made with Camden, and we both understand each other.

But studio is different. Studio is the reason I’m here.

The first crit of the semester runs three hours, and I don’t feel a minute of it. The project is real this time — a two-story building on an actual corner lot, program, setbacks, and a client with requirements. I pin up drawings I stayed until midnight on. Adler walks the line and stops at mine longer than she stops at most and asks me why the entry sits back from the sidewalk instead of on it. I tell her why, and she says “good,” and moves on.

I walk out onto the quad with my tube of drawings under my arm and my hands smelling of graphite, and for a few blocks, I think about how I have one more semester, and then I’m halfway done with my degree. I can’t believe it.

I intern at Whitmore four afternoons a week this semester.

I arrive at one exactly and I leave at five exactly, and in between I do more work than they’ve asked me for, because competence is a wall you can build out of nothing.

I keep Lyla near me as much as possible without being obvious. I find reasons to be where she is — the plotter, the sample library, the corner where the interns eat — and when I can’t, I find somebody else.

I answer Oliver’s texts about work, during work hours, in complete sentences.

On Thursday, there’s a fresh roll of trace paper on my desk, the kind I mentioned liking in November when he asked what I preferred. On Monday, he stops by to ask how Studio II is going. He knows Adler teaches it. He’s kind about all of it. He has never once said a word out of line.

I use the pencil he gave me. It’s the best pencil I’ve ever owned, and it draws beautifully. He notices it in my hand and says something in passing about how it suits me.

The New Year’s list is folded into the back of my sketchbook. I look at it sometimes. Most of my goals are about architecture. One line, second from the bottom, is about my mother, in handwriting smaller than the rest. I have an idea for that, but it won’t happen right away.

“Party on Friday,” Ivory says, already scrolling for something to wear. “Hawthorne House. They’re back, and they’re feral.”

“I’m not going.”

She looks up. “Oh, no. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not going to any of them anymore.” I don’t look up from my drawing. It isn’t a declaration. It’s a thing I decided a while ago and haven’t had a chance to say out loud. “The drinks are bad. It’s beer and shots and whatever’s in the plastic handle. I have sixteen credits and a job.”

“You had sixteen credits last year. And your internship.”

“Yeah. It’s just not my scene. As you said, they’re feral.”

She studies me a moment, and I hold the line of my roof and let her look. There’s nothing to find. Everything I’ve said is true.

“Fine,” Ivory says. “Then I’ll bring it here.”

Bringing it here means Drew, and Drew means Theo, because Drew has never once gone anywhere alone.

“Do what you want. I’m done going to Hawthorne.”

That Friday, I shouldn’t be surprised that Ivory keeps her word. I’ve been at my drafting table for three hours, working thecountertop detail until the line does what I want, when the front door opens, and Ivory’s laugh fills the apartment.

Theo is as good-looking as he was in September. I’ve never pretended that was nothing. He crosses the living room the second he sees me and puts both hands flat on my drafting table, right on the sheet, the heel of his palm covering the corner I spent an hour on.

“What’s up, Penelope.”

I look up.

“How are you?”

“Busy.”

He doesn’t ask what I’m busy with. He looks past the drawing, out the window, and tells me they’ve got Northfield in two weeks, and then he tells me about it.

Down the hall, Ivory’s door slams. Theo laughs at the sound.