Thanks for the Memories Read Free

juvenile laughter at the innuendo.
    “Everybody, please.” Dr. Fields claps her hands, trying desperately to get attention. “Blood for Life Week is all about education as much as donation. It’s all well and good that we can have a laugh and a joke, but at this time I think it’s important to note the fact that someone’s life, be it woman, man, or child, could be depending on you right now.”
    How quickly silence falls upon the class. Even Justin stops talking to himself.
    C h a p t e r 2
    r o f e s s o r H i t c h c o c k . ” D r . F i e l d s a p p r o a c h e s JusP tin, who is arranging his notes at the podium while the students take a five-minute break.
    “Please call me Justin, Doctor.”
    “Please call me Sarah.” She holds out her hand.
    “Nice to meet you, Sarah.”
    “I just want to make sure we’ll see each other later?”
    “Later?”
    “Yes, later. As in . . . after your lecture.” She smiles. Is she flirting? It’s been so long, how am I supposed to tell?
    Speak, Justin, speak.
    “Great. A date would be great.”
    She purses her lips to hide a grin. “Okay, I’ll meet you at the main entrance at six, and I’ll bring you across myself.”
    “Bring me across where?”
    “To where we’ve got the blood drive set up. It’s beside the rugby pitch, but I’d prefer to bring you over myself.”
    “The blood drive . . .” He’s immediately flooded with dread.
    “Ah, I don’t think that—”
    1 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
    “And then we’ll go for a drink after?”
    “You know what? I’m just getting over the flu, so I don’t think I’m eligible for donating.” He parts his hands and shrugs.
    “Are you on antibiotics?”
    “No, but that’s a good idea, Sarah. Maybe I should be . . .” He rubs his throat.
    “Oh, I think you’ll be okay.” She laughs.
    “No, you see, I’ve been around some pretty infectious diseases lately. Malaria, smallpox, the whole lot. I was in a very tropical area.” He remembers the list of contraindications. “And my brother, Al? Yeah, he’s a leper.” Lame, lame, lame.
    “Really.” She lifts an eyebrow, and though he fights it with all his will, he cracks a smile. “How long ago did you leave the States?”
    Think hard, this could be a trick question. “I moved to London three months ago,” he finally answers truthfully.
    “Oh, lucky for you. If it was two months, you wouldn’t be eligible.”
    “Now hold on, let me think . . .” He scratches his chin and randomly mumbles months of the year aloud. “Maybe it was two months ago. If I work backward from when I arrived . . .” He trails off while counting his fingers and staring off into the distance with a concentrated frown.
    “Are you afraid, Professor Hitchcock?” She smiles.
    “Afraid? No!” He throws his head back and guffaws. “But did I mention I have malaria?” He sighs at her failure to take him seriously. “Well, I’m all out of ideas.”
    “I’ll see you at the entrance at six. Oh, and don’t forget to eat beforehand.”
    “Of course, because I’ll be ravenous before my date with a giant homicidal needle,” he grumbles as he watches her leave. The students begin filing back into the room, and he tries to hide the smile of pleasure on his face, mixed as it is. Finally the class is his.
    t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 1 5
    Okay, my little twittering friends. It’s payback time. They’re not yet all seated when he begins.
    “Art,” he announces to the lecture hall, and he hears the sounds of pencils and notepads being extracted from bags, loud zips and buckles, tin pencil cases rattling; all new for the first day. Squeaky-clean and untarnished. Shame the same cannot be said for the students. “The products of human creativity.” He doesn’t stall to allow them time to catch up. In fact, it’s time to have a little fun. His speech speeds up.
    “The creation of beautiful or significant things.” He paces as he speaks, still hearing zipping sounds