Free Autofocus by Lauren Gibaldi Page A

UNCONQUERED .
    I walk behind it and stare up at the brick stadium reaching toward the sky. It’s so intimidating, so vast. The doors are right in front of me. Heart racing, I breathe in, taking in this last moment. Inside might be information I never dreamt of having. Or, it could be nothing at all.
    It’s weird; I’ve spent a lifetime not knowing anything more than my mother’s name, and today, things might change.
    Air-conditioning hits me as soon as I walk in, and I’m greeted by a roped-off line in front of an information desk.
    â€œHi,” a girl with a face full of freckles says, waving me to the desk.
    â€œHey.” I’m suddenly nervous. I was expecting an older person to take pity on me, not someone close to my age. “Um. This is the registrar, right?”
    â€œYep! Can I help you with something?” she asks. She has long blond hair and bright blue eyes, with matching blue feather earrings. Before her is a computer that looks older than me.
    I take a deep breath. “I was wondering if I could get some information about someone who went here a while ago.”
    â€œUm, we don’t give out personal information . . .” the girl says, furrowing her forehead and looking to call up the next person in line. I look back and realize I’m still the only one here. Good.
    â€œRight, I know, it’s just . . .” I fade out. “Okay, so, seventeen years ago a girl named Claire Fullman went here. She was a freshman then. She died that year. She was also my mother.” The girl’s mouth drops open a little. Then, almost instantly, her face changes to that same sympathetic gaze I get every time I mention this. “I never knew her, and was adopted. I’m trying to . . . find out about her now. I’m about to start college, and I just want to know what kind of person she was, you know? I want to know something about her, because all I have right now is that she went here.”
    â€œThat’s it?” she asks sympathetically, and I can see that my story actually affected her, made her feel.
    â€œYeah,” I say, shrugging. “I was just hoping for more. So I was wondering if you could possibly find her schedule from seventeen years ago, and at least let me know if any of her teachers still work here. Because maybe he or she might remember her, and then I’ll have one more fact about her.”
    The girl bites her lip, and then asks, “What about your father?”
    â€œI never knew him. He left, I think,” I say stoically, and she lowers her head again.
    She leans toward me and drops her voice to a whisper. “My cousin is adopted, too. She’s doing the same thing you’re doing right now, trying to find her mom. But her mom is still alive. I’m not sure which is better, really.”
    â€œMe either,” I admit, knowing I’ve thought this same question countless times before.
    â€œI can’t image how hard it must be,” she muses, absentmindedly tapping the desk. My heart is racing, wondering if I proved something, anything. She snaps out of it and looks at me, as if coming to a decision. She whispers again. “Here’s the thing, I’m not really supposed to do something like that; it’s an invasion of privacy. But since she’s no longer alive . . . and since you’re her daughter . . . I mean, it can’t hurt anyone, right?”
    â€œRight!” I excitedly whisper back, and suddenly I love this girl.
    â€œRight. Okay. Let me see what I can find.” She types into her ancient computer, and I wait anxiously for something,anything. She frowns, types again, and asks, “Claire Fullman, right?” and I nod in response, heart pounding. She did go here? I’m not just on a wild-goose chase. “Okay, hmm, well, let’s see,” she says, “hold on.”
    She gets off her chair and picks up a piece of paper from the printer, and then puts it on the