Firespell
Page 22
That stopped me cold. “You know my parents?”
There was a hitch in her expression, a hitch that was quickly covered by the look of arrogant blandness she usually wore. “You were unaware that I was acquainted with your parents?”
All I could do was nod. The only thing my parents told me about St. Sophia’s was that it was an excellent school with great academics, blah blah blah. The fact that my parents knew Foley—yeah. They’d kind of forgotten to mention that.
“I must admit,” Foley said, “I’m surprised.”
That made two of us, I thought.
“St. Sophia’s is an excellent institution, without doubt. But you are far from home and your connections in Sagamore. I’d assumed, frankly, that your parents chose St. Sophia’s on the basis of our relationship.”
She wasn’t just acquainted with my parents—they had a relationship? “How do you know my parents?”
“Well . . . ,” she said, drawing out her one-word response while she traced her fingers along the edges of the folder. The move seemed odd for her—too coy. I figured she was stalling for time. After a long, quiet moment, she glanced up at me. “We had a professional connection,” she finally said. “Similar research interests.”
I frowned. “Research interests? In philosophy?”
“Philosophy,” she flatly repeated.
I nodded, but something in her tone made my stomach drop. “Philosophy,” I said again, as if repeating it would answer the question in her voice. “Are you sure you knew my parents?”
“I am well acquainted with your parents, Ms. Parker. We’re professional colleagues of a sort.” There was caution in her tone, as if she were treading around something, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell me.
I dropped my gaze to the gleaming yellow of my boots. I needed a minute to process all this—the fact that Foley had known my parents, that they’d known her, and that maybe—just maybe—their decision to send me here hadn’t just been an academic choice.
“My parents,” I said, “are teachers. Professors, both of them. They teach philosophy at Hartnett College. It’s in Sagamore.”
Foley frowned. “And they never mentioned their genetic work?”
“Genetic work?” I asked, the confusion obvious in my voice. “What genetic work?”
“Their lab work. Their genetic studies. The longevity studies.”
I was done, I decided—done with this meeting, done listening to this woman’s lies about my parents. Or worse, I was done listening to things I hadn’t known about the people I’d been closest too.
Things they hadn’t told me?
I rose, lifting my books and shouldering my bag. “I need to get back to class.”
Foley arched an eyebrow, but allowed me to rise and gather my things, then head for the door. “Ms. Parker,” she said, and I glanced back. She pulled a small pad of paper from a desk drawer, scribbled something on the top page, and tore off the sheet.
“You’ll need a hall pass to return to class,” she said, handing the paper out to me.
I nodded, walked back, and took the paper from her fingers. But I didn’t look at her again until I was back at the door, note in hand.
“I know my parents,” I told her, as much for her benefit as mine. “I know them.”
All my doubts notwithstanding, I let that stand as the last word, opened the door, and left.
I didn’t remember much of the walk back through one stone corridor after another, through the Great Hall and the passageway to the classroom building. Even the architecture was a blur, my mind occupied with the meeting with Foley, the questions she’d raised.
Had she been confused? Had she read some other file, instead of mine? Had the board of trustees dramatized my background in order to accept me at St. Sophia’s?
Or had my parents been lying to me? Had they kept the true nature of their jobs, their employment, from me? And if so, why hide something like that? Why tell your daughter that you taught philosophy if you had a completely different kind of research agenda?
What had Foley said? Something about longevity and genetics? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark as philosophy. That was science, anatomy, lab work.
I’d been to Hartnett with my parents, had walked through the corridors of the religion and philosophy department, had waved at their colleagues. I’d colored on the floor of my mother’s office on days when my babysitter was sick, and played hide- and-seek in the hallways at night while my parents worked late.
Of course there was one easy way to solve this mystery. When I was clear of the administrative wing, I stepped into an alcove in the main building, a semicircle of stone with a short bench in the middle, and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. It would be late in Germany, but this was an issue that needed resolving.
“HOW IS RESEARCH?” I texted. I sent the message and waited; the reply took only seconds.
“THE ARCHIVES R RAD!” was my father’s time-warped answer. I hadn’t even had time to begin a response when a second message popped onto my screen, this one from my mother. “1ST PAGE IN GERMN JRNL OF PHILO!”
In dorky professor-speak, that meant my parents had secured the first article (a big deal) in some new German philosophy journal.
It also meant there would be a bound journal with my parents’ names on it, the kind I’d seen in our house countless times before. You couldn’t fake that kind of thing. Foley had to be wrong.
There was a hitch in her expression, a hitch that was quickly covered by the look of arrogant blandness she usually wore. “You were unaware that I was acquainted with your parents?”
All I could do was nod. The only thing my parents told me about St. Sophia’s was that it was an excellent school with great academics, blah blah blah. The fact that my parents knew Foley—yeah. They’d kind of forgotten to mention that.
“I must admit,” Foley said, “I’m surprised.”
That made two of us, I thought.
“St. Sophia’s is an excellent institution, without doubt. But you are far from home and your connections in Sagamore. I’d assumed, frankly, that your parents chose St. Sophia’s on the basis of our relationship.”
She wasn’t just acquainted with my parents—they had a relationship? “How do you know my parents?”
“Well . . . ,” she said, drawing out her one-word response while she traced her fingers along the edges of the folder. The move seemed odd for her—too coy. I figured she was stalling for time. After a long, quiet moment, she glanced up at me. “We had a professional connection,” she finally said. “Similar research interests.”
I frowned. “Research interests? In philosophy?”
“Philosophy,” she flatly repeated.
I nodded, but something in her tone made my stomach drop. “Philosophy,” I said again, as if repeating it would answer the question in her voice. “Are you sure you knew my parents?”
“I am well acquainted with your parents, Ms. Parker. We’re professional colleagues of a sort.” There was caution in her tone, as if she were treading around something, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell me.
I dropped my gaze to the gleaming yellow of my boots. I needed a minute to process all this—the fact that Foley had known my parents, that they’d known her, and that maybe—just maybe—their decision to send me here hadn’t just been an academic choice.
“My parents,” I said, “are teachers. Professors, both of them. They teach philosophy at Hartnett College. It’s in Sagamore.”
Foley frowned. “And they never mentioned their genetic work?”
“Genetic work?” I asked, the confusion obvious in my voice. “What genetic work?”
“Their lab work. Their genetic studies. The longevity studies.”
I was done, I decided—done with this meeting, done listening to this woman’s lies about my parents. Or worse, I was done listening to things I hadn’t known about the people I’d been closest too.
Things they hadn’t told me?
I rose, lifting my books and shouldering my bag. “I need to get back to class.”
Foley arched an eyebrow, but allowed me to rise and gather my things, then head for the door. “Ms. Parker,” she said, and I glanced back. She pulled a small pad of paper from a desk drawer, scribbled something on the top page, and tore off the sheet.
“You’ll need a hall pass to return to class,” she said, handing the paper out to me.
I nodded, walked back, and took the paper from her fingers. But I didn’t look at her again until I was back at the door, note in hand.
“I know my parents,” I told her, as much for her benefit as mine. “I know them.”
All my doubts notwithstanding, I let that stand as the last word, opened the door, and left.
I didn’t remember much of the walk back through one stone corridor after another, through the Great Hall and the passageway to the classroom building. Even the architecture was a blur, my mind occupied with the meeting with Foley, the questions she’d raised.
Had she been confused? Had she read some other file, instead of mine? Had the board of trustees dramatized my background in order to accept me at St. Sophia’s?
Or had my parents been lying to me? Had they kept the true nature of their jobs, their employment, from me? And if so, why hide something like that? Why tell your daughter that you taught philosophy if you had a completely different kind of research agenda?
What had Foley said? Something about longevity and genetics? That wasn’t even in the same ballpark as philosophy. That was science, anatomy, lab work.
I’d been to Hartnett with my parents, had walked through the corridors of the religion and philosophy department, had waved at their colleagues. I’d colored on the floor of my mother’s office on days when my babysitter was sick, and played hide- and-seek in the hallways at night while my parents worked late.
Of course there was one easy way to solve this mystery. When I was clear of the administrative wing, I stepped into an alcove in the main building, a semicircle of stone with a short bench in the middle, and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. It would be late in Germany, but this was an issue that needed resolving.
“HOW IS RESEARCH?” I texted. I sent the message and waited; the reply took only seconds.
“THE ARCHIVES R RAD!” was my father’s time-warped answer. I hadn’t even had time to begin a response when a second message popped onto my screen, this one from my mother. “1ST PAGE IN GERMN JRNL OF PHILO!”
In dorky professor-speak, that meant my parents had secured the first article (a big deal) in some new German philosophy journal.
It also meant there would be a bound journal with my parents’ names on it, the kind I’d seen in our house countless times before. You couldn’t fake that kind of thing. Foley had to be wrong.
