Free Kimberly Stuart by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch Page B

afternoon, I’d also happened upon a cavernous and greasy cafeteria that I vowed to avoid at all costs, a small café to provide nourishment for those of us not interested in heart disease, and the campus mail drop. My overall impression of the students was favorable. Most were very friendly, so much so that in New York, they would make people nervous. But here, friendly seemed to be the norm. An abundance of smiles and affable greetings occurred on the sidewalks, even in the face of bitter winter cold. I’m afraid I simply couldn’t reciprocate the chipper attitude; it took me awhile to even realize people kept saying hello to me . Perhaps when the weather warmed I’d be better disposed to banter out in the elements.

    â€œHow was your first day?” Ms. Ellsworth locked the office door behind her and walked with me to the front doors.
    â€œFine,” I said. Trying to be nice to so many foreign people in one day had worn me out, and I was dreading the long ride out to the farm. I didn’t know how long I could listen to stories of wallpaper before my tongue rebelled. I patted my iPod, nestled deep within the pocket of my coat and longed for a technological escape route. “Thank you for offering to drive me home this evening, but what will we do until I get a room at the hotel? I’d assumed I could walk from the rental house, but since that fell through—” I stopped talking as we were assaulted by a gust of painfully cold air. I could feel the small bit of moisture on my eyelashes freeze as we toddled out into the dark. Neither of us spoke again until we were both settled, panting and red-nosed, in Ellsworth’s blue Camry.
    Ms. Ellsworth started the engine and set about scraping her windows. I shivered in the front seat, watching her and longing for a cab, or even the subway. Anonymous travel had so many merits, a significant one being I never had to sit freezing while a vehicle warmed its frozen self to functioning.
    Ellsworth jumped back into the car. “Good gracious,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “It’s a cold one!”
    â€œSo about my transportation to and from campus,” I said.
    â€œYes, right. We have located a lovely little Honda Civic for you. A professor emeritus, Dr. Wheatley, spends her winters in Australia studying aboriginal music. She plays a mean didgeridoo herself. Are you fond of the didgeridoo?” She hunched over her fleece-covered steering wheel as we crawled past student housing and into town.
    â€œNot exactly.” I fingered my iPod and wished for this conversation to be over. “And I don’t remember how to drive.”
    She laughed. “Oh, you’re a hoot. It’s only been a few days! But it is a five-speed, so that might take some getting used to.”
    â€œMs. Ellsworth, most New Yorkers don’t drive. Many don’t ever get a license. It’s simply not feasible for everyone to have their own gas-guzzling pickup or SUV on the crowded streets of Manhattan.”
    Ms. Ellsworth sniffed. Surely she wasn’t offended by SUV bashing. She was driving a Camry, for the love.
    I continued. “I do, in fact, know how to drive because I grew up in Connecticut and got my license during high school. But then I went to college, moved to New York, and never had the need to renew it. So,” I said, sighing, “I’m trying to tell you that I appreciate the didgeridoo player’s Honda, but I won’t be able to use it.”
    â€œI see,” Ms. Ellsworth said, nodding slowly. She turned at the feed store and we picked up speed on the dark highway. A semitruck passed us. The Camry trembled in its wake.
    We were silent for a few moments before I heard the muffled ring of my cell phone. I fished it out of my bag and answered.
    â€œHello.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.
    â€œSadie, it’s Avi.”
    â€œHi,” I said, rubbing my temples. I