Please read to chapter ten by Thursday.”

She watched as the girl-women col ected themselves and left the room—some alone, some chatting. Jeannie buzzed out in the wheelchair. A cel phone rang—one of the Rebeccas. She said, “Hel o? Yeah, I’m out.” As though she’d been in prison. Was it that bad? Had Brenda seemed anything like the person who’d taught last semester? Brenda was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn’t realize John Walsh was stil sitting. When she saw him, she jumped.

“Geez,” she said, and she laughed. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I was wondering,” he said. He was turning his pencil again. “Would you like to grab some lunch?”

“What?” Brenda said. She checked the room. Who else had heard? Just her and the Jackson Pol ock. Was John Walsh asking her on a date?

Her, the professor? The first day of class? “I’m sorry, what? ”

He didn’t look embarrassed, not even a little bit. “I don’t have another class until two,” he said. “And I don’t know anybody here. This is my first semester. I was kind of hoping there might be some people here my age. I went to the orientation for ‘nontraditional’ students, but . . . you know, there were a couple of fourteen-year-old whiz kids and a housewife in her forties and a guy even older than that who was some kind of tribal chief in Zaire. I’m looking to make some friends.”

“But I’m your professor,” Brenda said.

“So you can’t go get a slice of pizza?”

“Sorry,” Brenda said.

He sighed in an exaggerated way, and then he smiled. He was so attractive that Brenda didn’t even feel comfortable sitting in a room alone with him. She had to get out!

“There are al these sil y rules,” she said. She had stumbled across the lines in her Handbook of Employee Rules and Regulations when she’d paged through it on the crosstown bus after her orientation. Romantic or sexual relationships are forbidden between a faculty member and a student. Romantic or sexual comments, gestures, or innuendo are forbidden between a faculty member and a student and will result in disciplinary action. There are no exceptions made for tenured professors.

“I’m over eighteen,” he said. “It’s just pizza.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brenda said. “I’m sorry.”

Walsh slid his pencil behind his ear. “So I guess I’m eating alone again today. Ah, no worries. See you Thursday?”

“Yes.”

Brenda let him out ahead of her because she had to lock the door and reset the security code to ensure the safety of the painting. But Walsh lingered in the hal way, and they walked toward Mrs. Pencaldron’s desk together. Mrs. Pencaldron had her eyes trained on them al the way down the hal ; Brenda felt herself emitting guilt. But why? He had asked her to lunch, she said no.

John Walsh pushed through the door that separated the English Department from the rest of the drab university.

“Ta!” he said—to Brenda or Mrs. Pencaldron, Brenda wasn’t sure, nor was she sure what ta meant. She waved instinctively, relieved to see him go.

She handed the key to Mrs. Pencaldron. “He’s Australian,” she said.

“So I gathered.”

“We had a good class,” Brenda said. “Short. First day, you know. They hadn’t read anything. I went over my expectations for the class and the kids introduced themselves. That’s how I knew he was Australian.” Stop talking! Brenda told herself.

Mrs. Pencaldron tilted her head. “You reset the security code?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“He didn’t see you do it, did he?”

“Who?”

Mrs. Pencaldron smiled impatiently. “The Australian.”

“Uh . . . no,” Brenda said.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. He waited down the hal a bit. I shielded the keypad with my body.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Pencaldron said, though her voice sounded specifical y not-okay. She sounded like she suspected an international art theft ring.

“Giving the security code to a student is against the rules. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Brenda said. “And nobody brought cans or cups into the room, either. Or bottles. None whatsoever.”

“Oh, I know,” Mrs. Pencaldron said. “I saw to that myself.”

So many silly rules, Brenda thought as they approached the hospital’s soda machine.

She had sandwiched the note that said Call John Walsh! into her copy of The Innocent Impostor and then locked the book in its briefcase.

Brenda wasn’t sure why she was keeping the note. She couldn’t think about John Walsh and Fleming Trainor at the same time; that much had already been proven.

“Are we getting a Coke?” Blaine asked. “Real y, are we?”

“Real y we are.” If this was what it took, this was what it took, Brenda thought. It wasn’t like she was offering the kids cigarettes, or shots of Jägermeister. She filched five quarters out of Vicki’s bag and let Blaine careful y slip them into the slot, but she couldn’t find any more change, and the smal est bil in Vicki’s wal et was a twenty. Porter babbled. “Ba ba ba, da da da.” The nonsense a person said before the real nonsense began.

“Wouldn’t you know,” Brenda said. “We need more money.”

Blaine, panic-stricken, looked at Brenda as they walked back to the admitting desk. “What about the Coke?” he said.

“We need more money,” Brenda said, and Blaine started to cry. Hearing Blaine cry made Porter start up again in louder tones. “Boys,” Brenda said. “Please. Just wait a second.” Was it any surprise that Nantucket had the world’s most expensive soda machine? She would have to break a twenty for one lousy quarter, but that made perfect sense. That was how her day was going.

And of course Didi, at the admitting desk, was now deep in conversation with someone else, a guy her age. Brenda tried to wave the twenty over the guy’s shoulder. Didi would hear the kids crying, she would sense urgency. But no—Didi was oblivious, she was completely focused on this other person, who was wearing a hunter green polo shirt and khaki shorts and grass-stained Adidas sneakers. He had a fresh haircut; there were short hair trimmings al over the back of his shirt. He was holding on to one end of a white envelope, and Didi held on to the other end, looking like she might cry.

“This is it,” Haircut Guy said. “And I want it back!”

“I know,” Didi said.

“By the first of July. Not the second. Not the fourth. The first.”

“Righty-o.”

“With interest.”

“What about Friday?” Didi said.

“What about Friday?”

“Zach’s party.”

“Are you going?” Haircut Guy said.

“Yeah.”

“Then I’m staying home.”

“Excuse me,” Brenda said, waving the twenty in the air. It was rude to interrupt, but Brenda couldn’t stand around with two screaming kids while Didi and her friend discussed some kegger. “I need change. For the soda machine.”

Didi wiped a finger under one eye. Her chest heaved. “I don’t have any change,” she snapped. “If you want change you’l have to go upstairs to the cafeteria.”

Oh, no, Brenda thought. No way. “I only need one quarter,” she said. “Please? Do you have a quarter you might just lend me?”

Didi snatched the envelope from her friend’s grasp. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

Haircut Guy turned around. In his outstretched hand was a quarter. “Here,” he said. Then he looked at Brenda. “Hey,” he said. “It’s you.”

Brenda stared at his face for a second. She knew this person, but how? Who was it? One thing was for certain: She had never been so happy to see twenty-five cents in al her life.

Josh walked with Brenda and the kids to the Coke machine even though he heard Didi making noises back at the admitting desk. Blaine held the quarter and Josh lifted him up so that he could feed the machine, then push the button—and they were al silent as the Coke tumbled down the shoot. Even the baby was quiet. Josh took the Coke from the machine. “Shal I do the honors?”

“You’re the guy from the airport,” Brenda said. “The one who brought me my book. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. You got a haircut.”

She looked so astonished that Josh felt embarrassed. He cracked open the can. “Yep,” he said. “I’m Josh.”

“I’m Brenda Lyndon.”

“I know,” he said. “I remember. Dr. Lyndon.”

“I’m not a doctor doctor,” Brenda said. “I’m a doctor of American literature. The most useless kind of doctor there is. We’re here because my sister, Vicki, is having a port instal ed for chemo.”

“Chemo?” Josh said.

“She has lung cancer,” Brenda whispered.

“You’re kidding,” Josh said. But what did he remember about the other sister? Her heavy breathing. “Oh, man.”

Brenda shook her head, then made a motion over the kids’ heads. Blaine said, “Coke! Coke!”

Josh knelt down and helped Blaine with the Coke. Lung cancer? Pregnant? I’m not a doctor doctor. The most miserable-looking people he had ever seen. That’s what Josh had thought, right from the beginning. And no wonder.

“Are you here al summer?” he said. “Because I saw your friend Melanie at the airport a couple of days ago . . .”

“My sister and I are here al summer with the kids,” Brenda said. “The jury’s stil out on Melanie.”

“She seemed real y nice,” Josh said.

“Nice, yes, that she is. Very nice,” Brenda said. “Hey, you don’t know anybody who needs a babysitting job this summer, do you?”

“What kind of babysitting job?”

“Watch the kids twenty-five hours a week. Go to the beach, the playground, throw the bal , build sand castles, take them for ice cream. Twenty dol ars an hour, cash. We need somebody responsible. And I mean rock-solid. You would not believe the weekend we had . . .”