Chapitre 9: Chapter 9: Late Night Research

9: Late Night Research

Logan

I sit at the center table in the library with my mother’s eagle eyes trained on me from the counter to my right. My leg is shaking, and I run my fingers shakily through my hair. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just a school project. Nothing special. Right?

I have several books on supernatural occurrences and connections to the full Moon. I still think it’s strange to write about cultural connections for a biology class, but it beats studying the mating practices of the large Pine Weevil Beetle.

I shudder when I think of the three-week lecture dedicated to that particular subject. I had another partner then. Jimmy. But, as is to be expected, it was decided he was “too much of a distraction,” and he was moved to another class.

My heart warms when I think of my new lab partner, Anyra. Definitely a trade-up. The last guy had the tendency to skip class and do God knows what while I had to do all the work.

I bolt from my seat when I hear the familiar jangle signaling the front door's opening.

In strides, Amy comes in wearing a purple mini-skirt, a tank top that reveals WAY too much cleavage, and high heels. Her blond hair is done up in a tight ponytail, and her eyeshadow is done in such a way as to make her eyes pop.

My mother scowls when she sees her. Though she doesn’t know we ever dated, she seems to think every young woman is there to flirt with me, and she wasn’t about to have any of that.

Confidently, Amy walks up to the counter and speaks to my mother in a hushed tone. A minute later, my mother, unhappily, stands up and moves to the back of the library, presumably to find whatever Amy had asked for.

I frown when Amy walks over to me, her red lips smiling seductively. I have to admit, she IS attractive, and I find my pants tightening as she approaches, but that doesn’t mean anything.

She is, by far, the most selfish woman I have ever met, and I want nothing to do with her, no matter how precariously her large breasts bulge over her tight shirt.

“What do you want,” I spit.

Unphased by the venom in my voice, she answers in her high-pitched voice that reminds me of brakes that desperately need a change. “I’m here to see you,” she says as if that wasn’t obvious.

“Well, you’ve seen me. Now leave.”

She places a hand on her rounded hip. “Why? Are you afraid someone might see us?” She steps closer, her breasts inches away from me. “Are you supposed to meet someone here?” She twirls her fingers against my chest, tracing the muscles beneath like a skilled artist.

I gulp, sweat beginning to sprout on my forehead. Then, I hear the sound of someone clearing their voice. I turn, and my heart sinks like the Titanic. Anyra stands at the entrance, face pale and hands trembling.

“Anyra,” I croak.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amy smirk. Of course. This is why she’s here. She wanted Anyra to see us together. I sold myself for letting her get too close.

I step back from Amy just as my mother returns with a book in her hand. Oblivious to what has just transpired, she hands Amy the book.

“Traces of Agriculture in Myan Artifacts,” she says, and Amy takes the book with a smile on her face. “An odd book,” my mom remarks.

Amy shrugs and follows her to check out the book at the counter, eyeing Anyra the whole time, and even I feel the chill coming from the glare. When Amy leaves, my mom turns her attention to Anyra.

“You must be Logan’s lab partner,” she states as a fact and not a question, but Anyra nods anyway and walks over to me, her nervousness clearly visible on her face.

“Sorry about that,” I nearly blurt out. “Amy was just here to get a book.”

“Right.”

I think Anyra’s voice is tinged with sadness, but I’m not great with emotions, to be honest.

She sits down at the table where I have the books laid out, and I sit across from her. She pulls one of the books to her. “European Folklore," she reads aloud. She opens the cover and frowns at a picture of what looks like a werewolf howling at the Moon.

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, looking at the page.

“That’s not what they look like,” she states matter-of-factly.

I chuckle. “And how do you know that?”

She looks at me, brown eyes shining with all seriousness. “I just do,” she says and flips through a few more pages.

I clear my throat and say, “Well, I think that we should start when supernatural superstitions first began to be connected with the Full Moon. I found a lot of books with histories from as far back as the Middle Ages.”

She shakes her head disappointedly. “It’s simple. People take what they don’t understand and spin it into something they do. The Moon, clearly, has no ‘supernatural’ force.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “But we’re supposed to write about cultural connections to the Full Moon. What better way to do that than to research Full Moons and supernatural creatures, such as werewolves?”

She rolled her eyes, something that looks shockingly beautiful on her. “Werewolves aren’t real,” she says while glancing through the book.

“Obviously, but at some point, people believed they were. I say we write about that. It shouldn’t be too hard.”

She lets out a “pfft” and keeps reading.

This is going to be a long night. Then again, I find myself enjoying whatever time I’m able to spend with her. Just her presence sends goosebumps down my arms. I feel the heat rise in me, and, while she reads the text, I stare into her eyes, thinking how staggeringly beautiful she is.

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