Free Autofocus by Lauren Gibaldi Page B

counter in front of me. There are four classes listed, four teachers listed. “Here’s her schedule for, it seems, her first and only semester.”
    â€œI thought she went here for a year?” I ask, and the girl sadly shakes her head.
    â€œUnfortunately, three of these teachers are no longer here. Some were TAs, um, teacher assistants, so they just graduated. And then one professor retired.”
    I nod.
    â€œBut the good news is that one professor is still here. It looks like she was a TA back then, and now she’s a professor in the English department. She’s really awesome, too—I had her last year. Do you have a map?”
    My spirit lifts with every word she says—one professor is still here. One professor might know my mom. This is amazing . I shake the thoughts and quickly get the map out of my bag.
    â€œOkay, we’re here,” she says, pointing to the stadium on the southeast corner of the map. “Professor Stark teaches in the Williams Building, all the way over here.” She points to a building on the top northeast corner. “It’s a bit of a walk, but just stay on the outer rim of campus, and you’ll hit the back of it. Hold on,” she says, typing something else in hercomputer. “Okay, she teaches in room 216. If she’s not there, her office is room 210.”
    â€œThank youso much” is all I can mumble out, my heart soaring with excitement and nerves. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
    â€œI do.” She shrugs. “I hope someone helps my cousin, too, you know?” she asks, and I grin at her. I back out of the room, paper and map in hand, and greet the warm sun once again. And this time I don’t find the unconquered statue intimidating, but instead, empowering.

EIGHT
    The Williams Building looks like every other redbrick building on campus. The only thing that sets it apart is the grouping of students loudly debating a Shakespeare play near the front door.
    I go inside and head up the stairs to the second floor. A guy looks at me and instantly I feel out of place, as if he knows I’m still a high school student and not in college. I look down and continue my way up the stairs.
    The building is much nicer than the dorm. The hallways are white, but the doors are old, wooden, and open, leading into well-lit classrooms. I pass a few rooms of conversation and hear people reading aloud and chatting and waiting for classes to start.
    Professor Stark’s classroom is the third one on the right.I don’t know if she had this classroom so many years ago, but I still feel antsy, standing here, where my mother might have once stood. Heart pounding, I take a deep breath in, close my eyes, and then open them, looking into the small window on the door.
    The room is empty.
    Just to be sure, I knock lightly and wait. Nothing. I turn around and look at the map for the professor’s office number. When I look up it’s right there, across the hall from me. I wait for a gap in students, and then walk over. Peering inside the window, I see a woman sitting at a desk, reading from a book. I knock lightly.
    â€œCome in,” she calls, and I bite my lip as I open the door. “Can I help you?” she asks, taking her glasses off. The woman—Professor Stark, I’m assuming—is older, in her forties, and wearing a tan cardigan over a white button-down shirt. She’s sitting at a brown wooden desk that’s covered in papers and books. A picture of the Globe Theatre is on the wall behind her. If my mom had an office, it would look just like this.
    â€œHi, um, are you Professor Stark?”
    â€œI am. What can I help you with?” she asks, eyes darting back and forth between me and the book before her. Of course I’m bothering her. Of course she realizes I’m not one of her students. I must look like a baby.
    â€œI was, um, wondering if you possibly remember my mother,” I