6

My cotton coat absorbed most of the rain, but the moisture still bled through and checkered my shirt. I worked the lever on the paper towel dispenser, bunching up the paper and clamping it on my head like a recycled pulp crown. I shook my head, spattering the restroom mirror with a criss-cross of wet beads that etched lurched toward the ground. A few more towels helped, but it would still take a while to dry. Maybe, I thought, the fire will help.

Upstairs, the student center was nearly vacant. The fireplace crackled--encouraged by a student steadily feeding small pieces of pine into the furnace--and caused the ceiling and window shades to dance. The student was too entranced to see me, as were the three others seated around a table in the far corner. They looked to be studying, using both the flickering fireplace and retreating natural light to see their notes and textbooks. Several hallways led off to darkened corridors, but on--set in the right side of the student center--fed into the roomy student activities office. Strains of music came from the opened door. I walked to it.

The music came from a portable stereo to my left. I guessed someone loaded in a fortune worth of batteries to power it up. The rest of the room was in quiet disarray: several cardboard boxes were stacked in the middle of the floor; two clear plastic containers, once filled with markers, were up-ended onto the carpet; and the haphazard row of desks could barely contain their papers, CD cases, computers and A/V gear.

In the back of the room, lit by a flashlight propped on its side, a pair of eyes hovered a computer monitor. They watched as I stepped into the room.

"You can turn the volume down, if you want," she said, the voice attached to the eyes.

"Hmm?"

"The stereo. Turn it down, so we can talk." I reached over to the stereo and cut the volume. I looked back to the last desk, still couldn't see anything but a shadow, wisps of hair and blinking eyes.

"Who are you?" I stayed by the stereo, hoisting my jacket over my shoulder so it wouldn't drip on as much on the floor.

"Linda. I work here."

"What are you listening to, Linda?" A breathy male voice topped a layer cake of blues guitar riffs. The song had a tinny, warbly quality; it was probably recorded on the cheap.

She stood, still behind the desk. "We get a lot of music sent by up-and-coming bands, trying to get smaller colleges to book them. It's easier than booking clubs around the country."

"Probably cheaper, too."

Her outline reached for the flashlight. "It is. Too bad most of the bands will be lucky enough to record that one album in their friends garage; then it's back to serving ice cream cones for rent money."

"Isn't that harsh?"

She and the flashlight took a few steps toward me, the disc of light flashing across the room to bob with her step. She pointed it at the ground in front of me. "It's not harsh. It's truth." Her nose and lips pushes through the inky murk, a smirk edging her cheeks up. Her face--what I could see of it--was round, not chubby, a pie with sections cut out to form her features. Brown, willowy hair cried from the apex of her head, stopping short above her shoulders. She stood like the heroine from a '40s detective serial, wielding the flashlight in a way that implied grace and violence.

Matt once told me how first impressions--while not always accurate--would often underlie any further opinions you made about a person. You could strengthen a friendship and become close to someone, but if your initial impression was that person was a liar, asshole and cheat, there would be a part of you that always thought these things. And my first impression of Linda was a mixture of longing, wariness and tentative trust.

She raised the flashlight slowly, up my legs, past my thighs and stomach, to crawl onto my neck and head. It was like getting hit in the throat with a metal rod. "Tell me," she started, "why are you here?"

I felt water dribble down my lips as I flinched in the light. "I wanted to sign my group up for the battle of the bands contest." I felt childish, in light of the comments we traded moments ago.

Linda arced the light to her desk, the change in brightness leaving dancing globes in my field of vision. "You're wet. Sit by the fire and warm up while I get the paper work." I started for the door. "I'll be out in a minute," she finished.

I sat by the fire. The guy feeding wood into it was gone. It was still going strong, the smoke and resin from the pine sucked out of the flue, the moisture in the pine causing pops even minute or so that shook the teepee of logs and kindling. I shucked my shoes and wet socks, hanging the latter limply over a metal bar close to the fireplace. My jacket drooped on the other side from the head of a nail that someone never hammered fully into place.

Linda glided from the office to the bench. She held a pencil and several pieces of paper stapled together, which she placed between us as she sat. Her maroon sweater caught the light from the fire and held on for life.

"You'll need to fill these out."

I looked at the form. "Maybe my clothes will dry by the time I'm done."

"It's only a few pages. Are you in a band?" I nodded at this. "Usually several band members show up, so if you don't know all of the answers you can put down what you please and fill in the rest later."

The curve of her wrist hid behind the curl of cotton. "Maybe I'll take the time."

She smirked. "Well, suit yourself. Maybe the power will come back on by that time."

Her fingers, reed-thin, rested next to the pencil. The skin on the back of her hand hid several freckles. "Maybe."

She stood up. "I need to do a few things. Hand in the application when you're finished." She floated back to the office, shifting through the door and back to the black infesting the activities center. I turned to the papers. I felt funny, working things over in my mind that I probably shouldn't have been considering to begin with.

The form had three pages. There were the standard 'name(s) of band members' type questions, but it asked for more details on the second page that I had to pass over. I filled in as much as I could, mulled over a few that I probably knew, and actively avoided two: 'name of band' and 'style of music.' I folded the last page back in place and walked over to the office, the three students by the window paying no mind.

I looked in. The CD player was turned off, and though I couldn't see far into the room, I could tell no one was there. I carefully walked around, avoid the boxes and crates. Definitely empty. I set the form on the desk next to the one I originally saw Linda at, in a plastic bin labeled "Band Competition Forms." Ours was the first in.