The library at St. Joan’s was a deep stone cavern, eerily narrow and tall, with walls of books leaning up into the dimness overhead. The only light came from a distant clerestory of leaded Gothic windows tucked under the wooden beams holding up the roof and the green glass lamps dotting the wooden library tables. As a result, people liked to go in there to sleep. Deena was bent over her physics textbook at the library table across from me, scratching the part in her baby dreads with the end of her pencil. I arranged my books, including my new copy of The Crucible, into a protective wall around my half of the table. Between us, a green-shaded desk lamp buzzed every so often, its brass pull chain hanging exactly where a procrastinating student might most want to play with it, and so I was rolling it between my fingers. The word processing program on my laptop was open to a new document. The page was blank. Cursor flashing.
