Read Online Parallel by Lauren Miller - Free Book Online

me. His shaggy red hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shampoo bottle in quite some time. “You looked like you were having fun last night.”
    “Last night?”
    The guys laugh. “Yeah, it’s all a little foggy, huh?” the other one says. His blond hair is sticking straight up, like it dried while he was upside down.
    Dirty Hair nods at my coffee cup and sack of goodies. “Lemme guess—coffee, water, and a bagel.” I stare at him. “Am I right?” I nod, not sure whether to be frightened or impressed. “Hangover essentials,” he explains. “But you forgot the Advil.”
    “Oh . . . right.” I flash what I hope is a friendly smile, trying not to grimace as I feel my stomach churn. Standing this close to them and their beer-emanating pores is making me nauseous.
    “They’re out of Advil,” the blond one says, pointing to the empty box. “Man, something must be up with the barometric pressure. Everyone I’ve talked to has a headache.” He nods at the line of people waiting to pay. All of them are clutching travel packs of pain relievers. “You want some Tylenol?” he asks me.
    “Uh, no. I’m okay, actually. But thanks.” Blond Spikes just shrugs.
    “So, what’re you up to today?” Dirty Hair asks, alcohol heavy on his breath. I seriously might puke. Right now.
    “Uh, you know . . . nothing much. Hey, gotta run.” I don’t bother to wait for a response. Rude, maybe, but I figure a hasty exit is less socially scarring than dumping the contents of my stomach on their suede loafers.
    A few minutes later, I’m flashing my ID card to the security guard at the entrance of Sterling Memorial Library, which I recognize from the photograph Marissa gave me. It looks more like a Gothic church than a library. The exterior is impressive, but the interior is breathtaking. The main entrance, adorned with symbols and writings in various ancient languages, opens into a cathedral-like nave with vaulted aisles, clerestoried lighting, and too many stained-glass windows to count. I head toward the circulation desk, which, fitting with the cathedral theme, looks like an altar. The librarian looks up as I approach.
    “Hello there,” she says. “May I help you?”
    “Hi . . . I’m, uh—”
    She politely cuts me off. “A freshman.” I look as clueless as I feel, apparently. “Freshmen are the only students who come to the library during shopping period,” she explains with a kind smile. “Is this your first time to SML?” I nod. She reaches under the desk and pulls out a library map. “Then you’ll probably need one of these,” she says, sliding the map across the desk. “Library policies are on the back.”
    I scan the map. “Where’s the best place for me to go?”
    “Depends on how much privacy you want,” she replies. “There are five reading rooms on this level, a couple more scattered throughout the rest of the main building, and half a dozen study carrels on each level of the stacks.”
    “The stacks?”
    The librarian points to the map in my hands. “Our fifteen floors of books. If you’re looking for privacy, that’s your best bet.”
    “And how do I . . .”
    She turns to her computer and types a few keys. “All I’ll need is your ID card to reserve a carrel,” she tells me. I hand it to her. She scans the bar code, then gives it back to me. “All set. Carrel 3M-06.” She leans over and draws a red X on my library map, then points to her left, to another security guard station. “Just show the guard your ID.”
    “Carrel,” I soon learn, is the library’s euphemism for the ridiculously tiny cubicles with plastic sliding doors that line the interior walls of the building. While I’m waiting for my laptop to boot up, I close my eyes and go over the last twenty-four hours in my mind, attempting to recall every detail of last night’s events. Could Bret have slipped me something? But why would he drug me and take me to Yale? And if I just got here last night, how does Marissa have a