Read Online Been There, Done That by Carol Snow - Free Book Online Page A

pack it in, admit defeat. But Tim insisted we give it one more shot, so we headed back to the college. In the middle of the college green, he suddenly stopped. He put his hands on his hips and looked around, pivoting slowly.
    I finally surrendered to my curiosity. “Where are we going?”
    “I have no idea.” He said it proudly, savoring the challenge. “Okay, let’s think. Admissions office?”
    I looked at the imposing brick building. “Everyone who works there is in the system.”
    “Student Union?”
    “Staffed by kids, mostly. They might have information, but they’d be too likely to gab to their friends. Plus, there’s hardly anyone there since it’s summer.”
    “French Department? History Department?”
    “What would be the point? Faculty’s gone for the summer. There’s no one there but the janitors.” He smiled at me, waiting. “Right!” I sounded too girlish for my tastes. I lowered my voice. “They have to clean up after those scummy kids, probably make lousy money. I don’t know how much the ones who clean the academic buildings would know, though. We’d probably learn more from the janitors who work in the dorms.” For a brief moment, I basked in my genius. Then I looked at Tim’s pleased, crinkly eyes. With a shock, I realized he was beginning to develop crow’s feet. Then I realized that he’d been leading me through his own thought processes, teaching me against my will. For once, I was only one step behind him instead of the usual two. At the moment, that seemed like progress.
    We picked Nickerson House because it was the closest. From the name, I expected something stately and lush. Instead, it was a looming brick box set on grass trimmed too short. “Why do institutional buildings always look so, well, institutional?” I asked Tim as we climbed the concrete steps. “You just know the halls are going to be painted puke green or dingy yellow.” We’d reached the front door. It was enormous and painted a shiny brown. Tim pulled the handle. It was locked. I said, “A building like this, it’s so impersonal. A kid away from home for the first time, he needs something that looks more like home. Doesn’t have to be a house, necessarily, just something small, something unique and inviting. Someplace he can feel safe to become his own person.” I peered inside. “Okay. The walls are white, but it’s that really dingy white, with gray undertones. Depressing.”
    Tim started down the steps. “Let’s try the side door.”
    Along the side of the dorm ran a makeshift dirt path worn into the grass by thousands of sneakers. Waist-high rectangular windows allowed convenient access to thieves and rapists.
    At the end of the building, we came across an iron door painted the same dark brown as the front. It was heavy, but it opened. We stepped inside. The walls here were light yellow, after all. Tim neglected to mention my insight.
    Tim nodded down the hall. “You go this way. I’ll check upstairs.”
    “But what if I find someone? Should I call you?”
    He gave me a look of strained patience. “Surely you can handle this.”
    I glared at him, turned and started down the corridor. I heard him shuffling up the stairs.
    The doors were all open, the rooms being prepped for the new occupants. I slipped inside one to hide. Truly, I wanted Tim to track down a source before I did. I could strike up a conversation with anyone about paint (I was happy to see that the freshly painted rooms were bright white—uninspired, yes, but supremely inoffensive), but I had yet to master a Miss Manners-approved way of asking complete strangers about flesh-for-rent.
    My strategy backfired. Just as I was examining the wood laminate built-in desks, a voice behind me scolded. “Hey! What you doing in here? You’re not allowed in yet.”
    I turned and faced my potential source: a squat woman of about fifty, with frizzy graying hair held back in no particular style with bobby pins. Deeply etched lines in her